Chapter 27
“You know, the common custom in the English speaking world is to respond with a thank you after someone does you a favor,” Gionelli stated over the phone. He heard breathing from the other end, but no voice. “I’m sorry, does the cat have your tongue, or should I say dog?”
Whiteside sneered to himself at Gionelli’s attempt at black humor. He appreciated the end of the pursuit, but his anger progressed from a controlled simmer to rolling boil. Whiteside bit his bottom lip and repressed the words that tried to climb out of his gut and escape from his mouth into the cell phone. He quietly counted to ten before proceeding with his answer.
“We’re meeting immediately, and you’re coming to me. Anything other than that and I’m leaving this dog to wander the fields with the cows, and you’ll never see me again unless I choose to let you see me. Is that understood?”
Gionelli knew this was no veiled threat concerning the St. Bernard and the last tidbit was clearly meant to threaten him. He felt genuine concern. The U.S. government spent considerable time and money creating a highly trained black operatives field agent, and despite all of their work, Whiteside’s personality disorders always lay just below the surface, ready to erupt. For all he really knew, those dark tendencies spewed out over the years, and the government covered his trail. But Whiteside freelanced now, and the resources of the government were no longer at his disposal. If he slipped up, Uncle Sam would not be there to clean up the mess. Still, Gionelli knew he should exercise great caution.
“Of course,” he replied in monotone. He separated his emotions from his words, trying to calm his hired henchman. “I’ll come to you, wherever you want, and we’ll conclude our business.”
Gionelli cast his gaze on the passenger seat, the Glock .40 pistol, a silencer, and an array of Glock .40 barrels. He never understood why people used “throw down” guns when all they needed was a replacement gun barrel. The striations in a different barrel would not match the striations carved onto the round fired from the original barrel. In other words, no ballistics expert could match the gun used in a crime if the barrel and the recovered round did not match.
“Everything will work out fine, and you’ll be safe,” Gionelli lied. “Please let me know where you want to meet, and we’ll put this operation to rest.”
Whiteside calculated everything that transpired during this little caper, Gionelli’s robotic compliance, and years of training and field operations in conditions far more complicated and messy. He immediately sniffed out a set up, but he had the upper hand; Gionelli agreed to let him choose the meeting location. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. It was an illogical choice, but he knew if Gionelli agreed, something unwelcome definitely waited for him on the other end. Did Gionelli really think he could play him that easily?
“If the dog’s returned, people will forget about everything. We’re going back to Pine Valley. You can retrieve the microchip there. Meet me at the county baseball stadium parking lot. It’s a few blocks from O’Fallon’s house. They’ll find the dog and think he just wandered off and got a small cut on his neck. My presence at the house will get dismissed as an attempted burglary.” He knew Schwartz was a different story, but he had a plan for that, too.
Gionelli’s heart skipped a beat when Whiteside said Pine Valley. That’s the last place Gionelli wanted to go. He wanted some place secluded and certainly not anywhere near Schwartz. He wanted to scream into the phone, but repressed the urge. He must remain calm and allow Whiteside to dictate the moves for now. He took a deep breath and tapped the steering wheel.
“Wherever you say,” Gionelli replied. “I’m just south of the airport. I’ll be down to your location in about fifty minutes. It shouldn’t take long, and everything will be squared away.” Again he peeked at the passenger seat and his “tools of the trade” that innocently sat across from him. Yes, squared away for sure, he thought to himself.
Even though he suspected as much, Whiteside’s heart momentarily sank into the pit of his stomach at Gionelli’s immediate compliance. This indeed was the end of their professional relationship and quite possibly a completely new chapter in his life, depending on how his plan unfolded. He was flying by the seat of his pants, but somehow felt in control, despite the unpredictable nature of the situation. What would have caused him great consternation several hours ago produced no more than a flicker on his emotional equilibrium. He almost felt excited.
“Excellent,” Whiteside droned into the cell phone before pushing the end button. He glanced into the backseat and saw the St. Bernard stirring. “Getting rid of you and Gionelli will most definitely be an excellent end to this cluster fuck.” As he reached for the door handle, a voice cut through the dark and froze him in his tracks.
“It ain’t exactly been a bowl of cherries for me, either.”
The Bernie Factor Page 33
