by Erik Carter
He entered the number.
And pressed SEND.
Chapter Fifteen
Tanner adjusted his helmet, and as he did, he could feel sweat on his scalp. A drop slipped out of his hair, over his forehead, around his eye. The elbow pads, too, were frustrating him, and he adjusted them simultaneously by grinding them into the armrests on either side of his seat.
The interior of the SWAT vehicle was as squarish and bolted as the exterior. The passenger seat where Tanner sat was a series of stitched-together blocks of hard-as-rock cushions. The dash in front of him was a long plane of plastic and metal. The ceiling was riveted rectangles.
The truck sat in the darkness beneath the I-110 overpass. The city beyond was quiet—an empty and forgotten area, with a deserted high school and its equally deserted parking lot to the right and an abandoned pair of two-story brick industrial buildings to the left. No people and no traffic, aside from that rumbling on the interstate highway overhead. A plastic bag fluttered by, urban tumbleweed.
“Eyes peeled, boys,” Tanner said. “We’re looking for a black semi with a green trailer, ‘Garrison Power Tools’ in plain, block letters across the side.”
He hadn’t turned when he’d said it. Aside from the driver to his left, there were four SWAT-gear-clad guys in the bench seats in the back. They were all looking to him for leadership, but he could feel one particular pair of eyes staring at him—those coming from the first position on the bench right behind him.
Dammit.
He turned around, found Pace looking at him. With that smug grin. Even with the strap of his helmet secured tightly around his jaw, Pace’s face had a strong yet irksome quality.
“Now or never, huh?” Pace said.
Tanner’s eyes lingered on the self-satisfied son of a bitch for a moment, but before he could reply, his cellular phone rang.
The green-colored screen showed: 555-432-8913.
He immediately pressed END to terminate the incoming call, then turned back to Pace. “That was Rowe. He’s in position.”
He moved his thumb to the green rubber SEND button and left it there, hovering a quarter inch above, ready. As he looked down, he saw that the thumb was shaking.
Pace noticed too. His eyes flicked to the phone then back to Tanner, his cocky mug growing a bit cockier.
“Rowe called us, and now you’re gonna call him when we see the truck,” Pace said. “Then we ‘arrest’ him.”
“That’s right. He’ll stick to the back, as far away from the others as possible, and we’ll cut in before the Farone men can reach the Roja shipment.”
Pace shook his grinning head. “Why now? Why’d you wait so long? His girl is gonna give us everything we need to put away her brother and the rest of the Farones. You coulda gotten Rowe out of there weeks ago.”
Tanner was starting to understand why the FBI had chosen Pace as the consultant for this assignment. When Tanner had made the request, he’d assumed the Bureau would send someone from the local Pensacola office or possibly one of the nearby field offices in New Orleans or Atlanta. But Pace had come all the way from Kansas City. As annoying as the guy was, he was perceptive and he saw things for what the were. He asked the right questions.
“For the Rojas, that’s why,” Tanner said. “Our two-for-one. There had been word that something like this was going to happen with the Farones’ rivals. Jake got us to this point where we can dismantle both gangs at once.”
Pace shrugged. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. Seems like you’ve left the guy out to dry. You said we’re gonna cut in before the Farone men can reach the truck, but if you’re so sure this operation is safe, why’d you put us in this shit?” He tapped his black armored vest. “Seems to me you’re using Rowe as bait.”
Tanner shot him a look. “Rowe coordinated all of this. He’s a damn hero.” He paused. “And he knew the risks.”
Chapter Sixteen
Burton took a step into the rotting room, and two figures swept out of the darkness from either side of the doorway. Suited behemoths, shaved heads, one with a goatee, both towering over Burton.
He came to a stop, unalarmed. He’d known the men would be there, so he slowly lifted his arms as they patted him top to bottom. When they found him clean, one of them waved him on, and he crunched through the debris to the man at the windows.
Roja didn’t turn to face him, just continued to look through the grimy glass to the outside world below. A fraction of a smile played at the corner of his lips.
He was a short, stocky man, whose overall presence reminded Burton a bit of Glover, though Roja’s stoutness was of a softer variety—round cheeks with a burly beard and thick, doughy forearms. He wore a dark canvas jacket and oversized jeans with pockets that drooped beneath his ass cheeks. The baggy clothing further squashed his proportions.
Beyond the window lay the decrepit, poorly lit parking lot, then the street, then the alley—a narrow, single-car-width path that led between two darkened industrial buildings. A trio of cars sat in the alley.
Burton knew the vehicles well. He knew who owned each of them. And he knew that there were people in each of the vehicles, despite the fact that none of the vehicles’ lights were on.
“That’s all the Farone faithful, funneled right where I promised.” Burton said. “Satisfied?”
Roja finally turned to him. “Elated.”
He waved a hand without taking his eyes off Burton. One of the suited men approached, handed Burton a metal briefcase.
Burton popped it open. Stacks of cash. A quick visual approximation told him Roja had kept his end of the bargain. He wouldn’t count it. Not yet. He was showing Roja that he trusted him. It was another real-world lesson in diplomacy. International diplomacy. Something Burton was going to need to utilize frequently in the near future.
Roja’s smile grew wider, but there was a dark flash of speculation across his eyes. “My empty truck arrives; the Farone men make their move; my men mow them down; and then you and I have a newfound agreement, all the old strife forgotten.”
“Entirely forgotten, Mr. Roja,” Burton said. “In fact, it’ll be dead and buried. Your beef was with the Farone family. After tonight, you’ll be dealing with a new group: the Burton gang.”
Very diplomatic. More real-world experience.
Roja nodded his approval, hesitancy fading from his eyes, grin remaining. He returned his attention to the window.
And Burton headed for the door.
Roja turned. “Aren’t you going to stay for the fireworks?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Burton said. “I have a family matter to attend to.”
Chapter Seventeen
The alley was unnaturally quiet. The air was still, lifeless, and humidity had made it palpably thick. Time seemed to have slowed.
And there was a situation.
Jake leaned forward in his seat, looked outside. In front of Charlie’s Taurus were the two other cars that had been there when they arrived. None of the other cars had shown up.
He grabbed his cellular phone, which he’d placed in the cup holder clipped to the dash, one of those cheap, plastic, aftermarket jobs. He pressed the button on the top of the phone, and the LCD screen illuminated pale green, displaying the time as 6:22.
The springs in the driver-side seat squeaked as Charlie turned in his direction. “What’s the matter, Pete?”
Jake hadn’t realized he was frowning at the phone, but Charlie had perceived his tension. Like Jake, Charlie was good at reading people.
“Only half an hour to go,” Jake said and pointed through the windshield. “In these three cars we’ve got all the Farone faithful. But none of Burton’s men have shown up.”
Charlie gave a small, wobbling smile. “Well, there’s still time.” He glanced outside, to the left, to the right, back to the left. His long bangs swung with his quick movements. “There’s plenty of time, don’t ya think?” A nervous chuckle.
Jake peered out his window, leaning down so that he
could look up the side of the wall, its red bricks glistening with moisture, its windows darkened.
“Yeah,” Jake said quietly. “There’s still time.”
Chapter Eighteen
Burton rapped a knuckle on the doorframe of the office, which was nestled in the far corner of the Farone mansion, another room of deep brown wood, from the coffered ceiling to the polished floor. A massive desk sat in the center of the room atop a sprawling rug.
Sylvester looked up from his position seated behind the desk.
And there it was—that goofy-ass smile of his.
It had a simple purity that was off-putting when you knew the sort of demented things the man enjoyed. Always smiling. You never knew whether the guy was pondering pinball—a hobby he adored—or surreptitiously jacking himself off to the memory of a man’s screams of agony.
Freak.
Because of his slithering qualities and his sinister nature, Sylvester had often been labeled a snake. But to Burton, he was a salamander. A long, thin body with spindly appendages. Jerky head movements. Wide eyes and thick, smacking lips. And unlike a snake, which was dry, Sylvester always looked moist. Slimy.
The salamander slithered up from the tall, plush leather chair and waved Burton in with a wet smile.
As Burton entered the room, he took off his jacket, laid it across the tufted chair opposite the desk, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Sylvester stood and went to the front of the desk, where he met Burton with a handshake.
“Burton. What brings you by, buddy boy?” He glanced at the clock behind the desk. “There’s not much time left before you need to be at Wagner.”
“I came to bury the hatchet.”
Sylvester rubbed his chin “How do you mean?”
“It’s no secret that your daddy has been a father figure to me. So it would only make sense why there are rumors that I’m planning on taking over the family.”
Sylvester smiled wider, waved it off, put a hand on Burton’s shoulder. “Burton, I—”
Burton reached into his back pocket. “And I want you to know that the rumors are true.” He pulled a small knife from its leather sheath and plunged it into Sylvester’s chest.
A screeching wheeze. Sylvester’s eyes went wide.
“Every word of the rumors is true.”
A few sputtering, bloody shrieks.
“Not so much burying a hatchet as burying a knife, I suppose.”
Gurgling. Wide eyes.
“Is this gruesome enough for you, ‘buddy boy?’” Burton said, pressing harder against the knife. Sylvester gasped. “Are you liking this, you goddamn freak?”
A jolt, and Sylvester’s body stiffened. Then went limp. And collapsed in Burton’s arms.
Burton lowered Sylvester into the chair. Salamander arms splayed. Back at an angle, slouching. Eyes and mouth open. A smear of blood on his chest.
As Burton tugged on the knife, it suctioned into Sylvester’s side. He had to give it two tugs to get it out.
His hand bore a sticky, glistening red glove. The knife, too, was entirely coated in blood, hardly even cleanable.
Screw it. Not worth the energy.
He dropped the knife in the trash can by the desk, then used his clean hand to take the sheath from his pocket and dropped it in the can as well.
He went to the office’s tiny half-bath and washed up in the antique porcelain sink. As he lathered off Sylvester’s blood, he watched his reflection. His lips wanted to smile, wanted to relish the victory, and he obliged them a bit by allowing the corners of his mouth to raise slightly.
It was a big step, killing Sylvester, both in terms of his overall plan but also for personal reasons. He’d just eliminated Joey Farone’s biological son. That brought Burton another rung up the ladder of the old man’s good graces. But there was another son—the surrogate son—still higher on the ladder than Burton.
Burton blinked. And came back to himself.
The water rushing over his fingers. His reflected face. The peak of his forehead glistening with a tiny sheen of perspiration.
He couldn’t relish the victory for long. And he certainly couldn’t dwell on the emotional aspect. Much remained to be done that night. On both fronts. Business and personal.
He turned the faucet off, dried his hands, rolled down his sleeves, re-buttoned them.
Back into the office, to the far side of the room where he retrieved his jacket and put it on.
No, tonight’s fun wasn’t over yet. Not even close. He needed to meet with his troops for a moment, then continue to the next step.
He gave his jacket a sharp tug, then reached into each sleeve and pinched the cuffs, pulled them out into view.
A final brush to the front of his jacket. Satisfied, he left the office.
Burton rounded the corner and entered the library.
Cecilia immediately looked up at him from her reclined position on a small sofa. A steaming cup of tea sat on the table beside her. She frowned. Her knees went to her chest. She closed the book she’d been reading, pinching a finger between the pages.
Burton gave her a warm smile. “Whatcha reading, Cecilia?”
She eyed him cautiously. “It’s about accelerationism, the dangers thereof. Technological, social, political.”
Burton stepped closer, smiled broader. “Acceleration? You’re speaking my language. I’m always looking for the next best thing, another opportunity for progress.”
“I’ve heard that about you, yeah.” Her eyes followed him.
“That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. You know, C.C.…” He stopped. “May I call you C.C.? That’s what your little cupcake calls you, isn’t it? I’m gonna call you C.C. You know, C.C., your pop is like the father I never had. But it only occurred to me recently that if Joey Farone is my father, that makes you and Sylvester my siblings. That’s what I’m doing tonight—letting my siblings know how very much they mean to me. I just showed Sylvester, buddy boy, how much I care. Now it’s your turn.”
Cecilia stood, slowly placed the book on the table next to the cup of tea. “What is this?”
Burton continued toward her. “Now, we all know about you and Pete Hudson. Everyone does. Even your senile old man recognizes it. And I don’t think I need to tell you that your dad now favors Pete to me, even after all the years I’ve been with the family. But, I digress. This isn’t about me and your dad. It’s about you and me.”
He stepped closer.
Cecilia backed away. “Stay where you are, Lukas.”
He didn’t comply, continued forward.
Eyes on him, she reached down to the table, avoiding the tea, finding the phone. She lifted the receiver to her ear.
And her face turned pallid.
Lips, eyes opening wider.
“Oh, need to make a call, Cecilia? C.C.? Sis?” Burton said affably. “I guess you haven’t heard. For some darn reason the phone lines stopped working half an hour ago. Almost like someone cut them.”
Cecilia shuddered. She turned around, heading for the door in the back. But she stopped in her tracks.
Glover stepped into the doorway. Approached her slowly. Shit-eating grin on his face.
Cecilia looked between Glover and Burton as they closed in. They were within six feet of her on either side.
She backed to the side, to the sofa, and grabbed the mug of tea off the table, both hands. With a quick jerk, she flung the contents into Glover’s face.
In the split second before Glover’s hands when to his eyes, Burton saw a cloud of steam erupt over his head. His skin instantly pinked. That shit must have been scalding hot.
Glover bent in two, hands covering his face, water dripping off his fingers. He screamed.
Burton laughed.
Cecilia ran past Glover, to the doorway where he’d entered.
But Burton didn’t budge. Just watched.
Cecilia made it to the doorway and halted, her shoes screeching on the hardwood, arms flying up.
Two f
igures casually stepped around either side of the doorway, blocking her path. A white pretty boy with long brown hair and a black pretty boy with big eyes and a square jaw. Cobb and Knox. They slowly entered the room.
Cecilia backpedaled, nearly losing her balance. She looked over her shoulder, eyes meeting Burton’s for a moment.
Burton heard several more sets of footsteps enter from the doorway behind him, the one through which he’d entered. He didn’t turn around.
The men appeared on either side of him, his other troops. Gamble, Hodges, McBride, and Odom.
A video camera mounted on a tripod was in McBride’s fat Irish hands. He went to the back corner of the room, began setting it up.
Cecilia’s eyes met Burton’s again.
“I talked to Pete before he left,” Burton said. “Told him I was going to take my time.”
“Sylvester!”
“Your brother can’t hear you.”
Cecila’s mouth gaped in silent disbelief, gathering Burton’s implication, one that made tears form in her eyes.
Finally.
He’d been waiting on the waterworks, surprised that they hadn’t formed yet. This hippie was gonna be harder to break than he thought.
The troops circled the room, putting on leather gloves, interlacing their fingers to tighten the fits. Odom took a blackjack baton from his pocket.
Cecilia cupped her hand over her mouth. “Saunders!”
Burton tsked. “I’m afraid I sent Saunders on an errand. Won’t be back for at least an hour, probably two.”
The troops closed in on her. She stepped back, her calf smacking into the table, hands quivering.
Burton looked over his shoulder to McBride, in the corner with the camcorder.
“Roll camera,” Burton said.
Chapter Nineteen
Jake checked the time on his cellular phone again.
6:57.
In front of him were the same two cars.
