“Drop your weapon and get on your belly,” came the roar from Sheriff Jack Blake, “unless you want to try your luck with that saddle gun against my M4. Let me give you a clue. You’ll lose!”
Sterling Garth didn’t need additional information. He tossed the rifle away, held up his hands, and fell flat onto the ground.
Jordan listened for a few seconds but heard no more shots coming from behind the thicket. He stood up and walked toward Blake, shotgun still at the ready.
“About time you got here,” Jordan said. “Your men and I about had the mess all cleared up.”
“Where’s Hackett?” the sheriff asked.
“I told him to stay with Kelli and the women. Didn’t want them to be alone in case some of those guys made it past us. I’ll go check on him now.”
“I’ll see what the damage out here is,” Blake said. “I’ve already called for as many ambulances as we can get. They should start arriving any minute.”
The sheriff tossed a lever action rifle onto the porch.
“Looks like a knock off of an 1866 Yellowboy Trapper,” he said. “.45 long colt. It was an improvement on the Henry repeating rifle and forerunner of the 1873 Winchester that became so popular.”
“Why would they use rifles like this? Seems like they would have wanted something at least semiautomatic,” Jordan asked, puzzled.
“Somebody hired country boys for this job. A lot of people around here favor this type of rifle. I had a deputy who carried one in her car because she couldn’t hit the barn with a handgun.”
Upstairs in Betty’s room, Hackett heard the front door open. He was facing the women, his snubnosed revolver in his hand, cocked, when Jordan announced himself.
Jordan was surprised at the way Hackett had positioned himself but said nothing.
“It’s all over,” he said. “You can put that thing away.”
Hackett nodded, releasing the hammer gently and sliding the small weapon into its holster.
“One of my men guarding the drive took a shot to the hand,” Blake reported when Baron and Hackett joined him on the porch. “Not serious. Enough to get him a few weeks off and a commendation. Both my guys in the barn are ok. But one of the guys at the old warehouse took a serious shot to the head. He’s still alive. Hope he makes it. He’s a good man.”
“What about our visitors?” Jordan asked.
“Oh, them,” Blake snorted. “They didn’t fare so well. The two who hit the front are in bad shape. One got a leg shattered. He won’t ever walk normally again. The man with him was shot in the neck. Serious wound. He’s alive but in bad shape.”
“I took out one of the guys who came through the pasture,” Jordan said. “He’s over there, between the house and the cabin. I don’t doubt he’s dead. He took two twelve gauge double aught buck magnums to the belly.”
“Yeah, he’s gone. Painful way to go. One of my guys in the barn put a bullet through the other one’s thigh,” the sheriff reported.
“The shooter who came through the woods gave up, didn’t he?” Jordan pointed out.
“Yeah, Sterling Garth,” Jack said. “The dead man is his younger brother, Mackie. The oldest Garth boy, Stuart, led the assault. Sterling was smart enough to figure out a lever action rifle was no match for a fully automatic M4. He took the diplomatic way out and surrendered. Over at the old warehouse behind the trees his partner was hit in a knee, another one who’ll be limping.”
Hackett listened. He said nothing.
Blake, Baron, and Hackett left the care of the wounded to the arriving EMTs and ambulances. The dead man was quickly and quietly enclosed in a body bag and spirited away. Blake’s deputies took the assailants into custody as their wounds were tended.
The three men went upstairs to Betty’s room where Kelli was being comforted by her grandmothers.
“Are the bad men gone, Sheriff Jack?” she asked, in her trembling, little girl voice.
“Yes, sweetheart, they’re gone,” Blake said kindly. “They won’t ever bother you again.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. Kelli immediately threw herself on him, her little arms going around his neck. He held her, comforting her.
“You’re safe, sweetheart. I promise you are.”
August 2nd
It was a rainy day in Anchorage. But the rain dampened no one’s mood.
The day started with the alarming call from Jordan Baron in which he reported the attack on the Pines. Darcey’s fright quickly turned to relief. She was comforted more when Jack Blake got on the phone to assure her the protectors of her family had broken completely their enemy’s ability to launch future attacks.
Now Darcey was in Trent’s hospital room, accompanied for the first time by Christopher, Nancy, and Robert. Trent was still very weak. He was speaking now though his voice was low and scratchy.
He was sitting up and sporting his new black hat. Darcey’s request to Robert to find the hat was a good call. She knew her husband well. He was a good man but his pride would never allow him to appear in public with his head wrapped in gauze. A black hat was another story entirely.
Robert and Christopher had brought Trent up to date on all they had learned and everything that had happened.
“So, Robert, is this nightmare over?” Trent croaked.
“It’s over for the ladies in Louisiana,” Robert replied. “Whoever Segal found to attack the Pines won’t try it again. He can’t even if he wants to. They lost all six soldiers sent to do the job. Worse for them, all but one are still alive. One surrendered without firing a shot. Some of them will talk to save themselves as best they can.”
“Do you think they can lay a trail to Greco’s door?” Trent remembered the former Mafioso from San Francisco.
“I don’t know yet,” Robert said. “But we’re not going let up on Mr. Greco, or Segal, or whatever he wants to call himself. I do think James and Jordan can return home. Sheriff Blake and his crew have proved themselves perfectly capable of protecting the Pines.”
“But let’s not make the mistake of thinking the danger is over up here,” Christopher added.
“I agree,” Robert said. “Segal is still on the loose and we don’t know where. He flew to Juneau last week and spent a few days working on his restaurant. He had a young woman with him. Yesterday he was seen leaving the harbor on his boat. The young woman was on board. He’s somewhere on the water in Southeast now.”
Segal was riding at anchor in a small cove near the shore of Chichagof Island. He had been in a rage since he received a phone call a few minutes earlier. Fiona was staying away from him as much as possible on a thirty-five foot boat.
The phone call was from his contact in Louisiana, reporting on the disastrous attempt to storm the farm where Marshall’s family had taken refuge. Segal at times screamed into the phone. Fiona couldn’t help but overhear his side of the conversation.
“Do I have nothing but fools working for me?” he shouted at one point. “I didn’t tell you to launch a full-scale attack on the farm. One of your men is dead, four others wounded, and one surrendered without firing a shot. Your men shot two cops. Two! Do you know what happens when you shoot a cop? All of you involved in this disaster better get as far away from that place as you can. Cops don’t give up when they’re after somebody who shot one of their own. Those men shot two! And you can bet they’ll give you up to save themselves.”
Fiona knew the original plan had been for the two of them to have a special dinner at a seaside café near where they were anchored. She knew Segal had gone to a lot of trouble to set up what he thought would be a romantic evening ending with more wine on the boat and, no doubt, with the two of them together in the large bed in the bow cabin.
Fiona had her own plan. It was now midafternoon. There were several hours of daylight remaining. She had made a phone call herself earlier in the day. Now she occasionally glanced at the sky.
Her phone was set on silent. She felt the vibration and read the text. It was time to put her plan
into action. She went inside the boat’s cabin and to the small bar. Opening a bottle of sparkling wine and retrieving a container of orange juice from the small refrigerator, she quickly made two mimosas.
Segal ended the call and tossed the phone across the deck. He was staring out to sea. Furious. Everything he had built was now threatened because of the incompetence of those fools in Louisiana. Fiona picked up his phone and slipped it into her pocket.
In the distance a single engine airplane on floats was flying through the clear Southeast sky. Segal paid no attention. It was a common sight.
“You need to relax, Mr. Segal,” Fiona cooed, handing him the champagne flute.
He felt himself relax a little as he accepted the drink from the smiling, sexy young woman. At least his plan for her seemed to be working.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Fiona,” he said as he took a sip. “It’s nice to have at least one person around me who can think.”
He put his arm around her and leaned to kiss her. She diplomatically avoided the contact by clinking her glass to his.
“Salute, Pietro!” she said, offering the traditional Italian toast, as she drained her glass.
“Salute,” Segal replied, finishing his own cocktail.
Something suddenly didn’t seem right. What was it? Did she say “Salute!”? He hadn’t heard anyone say that since Don Rossi died. Did she call him Pietro? He hadn’t been called Pietro since the day he killed Don Rossi.
He felt suddenly drowsy.
“You put something in my drink,” he accused her.
“How clever of you to figure that out,” she said, with a sneer, “and so quickly.”
The small aircraft was coming closer.
“What…what…” he stammered, struggling to keep his eyes open.
“Oh, just a little Rohypnol. Actually quite a lot of Rohypnol. You’re going to take a little nap,” she said, “though I can’t promise you’ll feel better when you awaken.”
Segal tried to stand but couldn’t hold his balance. He tumbled to the deck.
The last thing he saw was the girl pulling the red and black striped wig from her head and shaking loose her dark brown natural hair.
The last sounds he heard were the laughter of the girl and an airplane engine.
The young woman left Pietro Greco to lie where he fell as she watched the Cessna 185 touch down gently on the water. The pilot cut the single engine and let the craft’s momentum carry it on toward the boat.
The door on the pilot’s side opened. Cameron McGraw climbed out to stand on the pontoon. The woman tossed him a line that she had already tied off on one of the boat’s stern cleats. The pilot tied the other end to a strut on the port pontoon before leaping onto the deck.
The young woman put his arms around his neck, hugging him. He kissed her cheek.
“How’s my favorite niece?” he asked.
She looked down at Greco lying on the deck.
“Doing fine, Uncle Jess,” she said. “Just fine.”
Dr. Shannon shooed Trent’s visitors away after two hours.
“He’s still weak,” she told them. “We have to be careful not to wear him out. At the rate he’s improving, it won’t be long before you have him home.”
Back at the penthouse, Robert opened two bottles of Mumm’s Napa Brut Prestige, Trent’s favorite wine. Gathered in the large family room, with a comfortable blaze in the fireplace, they toasted the survival of their recovering friend.
Darcey had found some huge artichokes at one of the farmers’ markets scattered around the city. She served them with either mayonnaise or melted butter, or a combination of both.
It felt like the most peaceful evening they had enjoyed in a long time. They weren’t so foolish as to think it would last.
The man known in Alaska as Jim Segal awoke screaming in pain. He was lying on a bench in the boat’s cabin. He was alone. His arms were spread-eagled, hands tied to bolts that had been screwed into the bulkhead behind him.
The unbearable pain came from his right hand. The hand missing its forefinger. A rough bandage had been applied to stop the bleeding.
Someone entered the cabin. Segal was surprised to see a woman who looked like Fiona but with dark brown hair. The black and red hair was a wig now lying on the boat’s small dining table. Lying next to a twenty-four inch bolt cutter and a finger. His finger! He moaned in shock. In pain.
Then reality veered completely out of control when Cameron McGraw stepped into the cabin.
“McGraw!” Greco cried out. “What are you doing here? Untie me!”
McGraw smiled.
“His name’s not McGraw, Pietro,” the young woman said. “His name is Jess Bell. He’s my uncle. My mother’s brother.”
“What’s that got to do with me? He was recommended to me!”
“Looks like you don’t have as many friends as you thought, Pietro,” the woman said.
“And why do you keep calling me Pietro? My name is Jim. Jim Segal.”
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Pietro?” the young woman said, obviously amused. She had dreamed about this moment for so long it was almost as though she was repeating a memorized speech. But there was far too much emotion attached for it to be a rote performance.”
“I never saw you before you showed up at my restaurant looking for a job,” the miserable, bound man said.
The young woman laughed.
“Not so, Pietro,” she said. “But to be fair, the last time you saw me I was a skinny teenager with acne. I’ve grown up, you see.”
His hand throbbed with pain, making it difficult for him to focus on what was happening. He tried to understand what she was saying.
“My name isn’t Fiona Robinson, Pietro. My name is Jessica. Jessica Rossi.”
Greco almost passed out from the pain in his hand and the shock of her words.
“Rossi?” he managed to stammer. “Jessica Rossi? You’re his daughter?”
“Yes, Pietro. Jonathan Rossi, Don Rossi, to whom you swore allegiance, was my father. Don Rossi who you betrayed. The same man you murdered. And this,” she said, picking up the severed digit, “is the finger that pulled the trigger.”
Greco moaned in agony.
“You rode high for a long time, Pietro,” she continued. “First in San Francisco as your Don’s underboss and consigliere. Lately you’ve made a good start on building an empire in Alaska using money you stole from my father. Now the time has come for your journey to end. Now is the time for you to pay the price for betraying your Don.”
As she spoke, she picked up a clamp. A tongue clamp.
An hour later, the Cessna 185 lifted off the water. The boat was left to drift with the tide.
It was quiet on board.
In Fairview, Jayne Colombo was again entering Dennis Caine’s rundown apartment building. The building’s exterior was raw and weathered with peeling paint. The landlord, whoever that might be, wasn’t investing any money in upkeep.
Caine’s apartment was as trashy inside as was the outside of the building. Jayne didn’t really care. She didn’t have to live there. She was only interested in the ability of these three people to effectively carry out her instructions.
She still hadn’t decided what she would order them to do. That depended on Segal and what he did next. He hadn’t confided in her in so many things. She was uncertain whether Trent Marshall was alive or dead. She wasn’t sure who the people around Marshall’s wife were. She only knew Segal wasn’t being straight with her and she had to be prepared to protect herself.
She had called this evening’s meeting to learn what her new team had in the way of weapons. Her own MAC 10 machine pistol was readily available in the oversized bag she always carried.
She again accepted Caine’s offer of a beer, only to make her seem like part of the group.
She went straight to the point.
“So what do you guys have for guns?”
Dennis reached behind him and drew a small Beretta, w
hich he laid on the table.
“Beretta 92 compact,” he said, proudly. “Best features of a Beretta but smaller. Nine millimeter. Magazine holds ten rounds. Easy to hide. Plenty of kill power.”
Jayne nodded. She wasn’t an expert on guns but she knew Beretta made good weapons.
She looked at Brooke.
“What about you? You have a gun?”
Brooke reached for the long gun leaning against the wall near where she sat. She laid a lightweight weapon on the table.
“.22 long rifle, .410 gauge, over and under,” she said, describing the weapon. “It breaks down to fit in a bag like the one you’re carrying.”
Jayne was not impressed.
“Not much power in that,” she said.
“If you’re quiet and get close, it’s deadly and doesn’t make a lot of noise,” Brooke replied, her cold eyes boring directly into Jayne’s. “I’m quiet. I get close.”
That was an explanation Jayne could understand.
J.B., the oldest of the three, laid a sawed-off double barrel shotgun on the table with the other weapons.
“At my age, I don’t see well. I have to get close, too,” he said, his small mouth stretched into that painful smile, “but I like to make a lot of noise. And this will do it. I find it has a chilling effect on the opposition.”
She had questions about the weapons of choice exhibited by Brooke and J.B. but was convinced they wouldn’t shy from pulling the trigger on whatever target she pointed them toward.
“OK, here’s the first thing I want y’all to do,” she said, laying a picture on the table. She had downloaded it from the Internet. It was a picture of Darcey Anderson taken from the website of her San Francisco design firm. “This woman is staying somewhere in town. I want to know where.”
J.B. was quick to respond.
“That’s a job for me. I’m good at that sort of thing. I’ll find her for you and it won’t take long.”
August 3rd
The boat bobbed and drifted with the tides through the night and into the morning. Pushed back and forth through Icy Strait north of Chichagof Island.
A Shooting at Auke Bay Page 16
