Poison Justice

There was sputtering, Guardino making a gagging noise, then he blurted out the awful truth.

And Cabriano went cold inside. Say Guardino was telling the truth, and he would find out for himself later, then his world was being threatened like no gang war he’d ever heard of. Whoever the nameless hitter he was a professional, though Cabriano could not really define just what a professional was. The bastard was either lucky, nuts, stupid or a combination of all three. Clearly, though, he had more to fear now than just the Feds. He hadn’t given the Colombians reason—yet—to want to send him a message, though he knew they were in town, keeping close tabs on his movements and business.

“Boss? You—you there?” Guardino asked.

“Where are you?”

“I am at Bleeney’s. Shit, I needed a few stiff ones after—”

“Go home.”

“What’s that?”

“You got shit in your ears? Go home. Wait there. I will deal with you shortly.”

Guardino was bleating how sorry he was again, but Cabriano cut him off. Let him sweat, and if his account didn’t wash with what would be a full police investigation, complete with visits from detectives digging even deeper into his business…

He called Frankie “The Tube.” Ten rings later, The Tube was growling into his ear about did he know what time it was. Cabriano told him to get his ass out of bed, go over to the lot and look inside the trunk of the Caddie. He punched off before his lieutenant could start asking a bunch of questions and ignored the worried look from his accountant as he blew through the door. At the edge of the catwalk, he hollered down, “Look alive!”

He was about to relate the possibility they might be hit when he glimpsed something blur on a flaming jagged line across the warehouse. Before he could determine its direction, Cabriano nearly jumped out of his cashmere coat when one of the pallets blossomed into a fireball.

PEARY KNEW THE FUTURE was now. There had been pressure enough on two fronts for some time, the Mob boss wanting it done one way, the spooks with other ideas. Since both sides simply wanted the disk first, Marelli dead second, he decided to split the difference, opting against waiting until the spook crew arrived, to go ahead and take matters into his own hands.

Meaning he’d do it his way. Either way he’d pick up his money from both ends.

He slipped on the black leather gloves and keyed open the trunk to his Crown Victoria. With a few deep intakes of the cold mountain air, and feeling the eyes of Markinson and Jenkins boring into the side of his head, he unzipped the nylon bag. The first backup piece he hauled out was a Ruger Mini-14. He handed the rifle and 20-shot box of .223 rounds to Markinson. The old U.S.M-1 carbine semiauto with 30-round box went to Jenkins. Peary took the Mossberg 500 shotgun for himself and racked home the first 12-gauge round. He glanced at those who had been selected along with him for the job. Their faces were nearly invisible in the darkness, but he could sense the raw anger and disdain over what they were about to do.

In life a man made choices along the way. Sometimes they were the wrong ones, but no human being, he reasoned, got out of this world unscarred, claiming a strain-free soul. Whatever his choices, a man accepted the consequences of his actions. For the three of them it was pretty much the usual transgressions that had landed them in the Mob-spook abyss. Filmed while cheating on the wife. Accepting bribes. Mounting gambling debts. And Markinson and Jenkins even had two murders-for-hire under their belts. The confusing part for Peary was how the spooks knew so much more about them than Cabriano, but he figured Big Brother worked in ways more mysterious than a pack of hoodlums with all of maybe a couple of high school educations between them. It was as if the spooks knew long ago this day was coming, had properly planned to prevent what was for Marelli a piss poor performance.

And Peary had his own ace in the hole.

He looked at the lodge at the end of the dirt drive, aware that everyone inside but Grevey was moments away from being cashiered out. Riot gun in hand, leading his fellow assassins toward the lodge, Peary plucked the TAC radio off his belt.

BOLAN KNEW THE Justice Department had its sights set on the Cabriano–Cali Cartel connection for some time. The government was sure New York’s premier Mob Family was soon to be so much bad folklore and sensational headlines when they netted the big croc. The trouble was, the castle did not crumble with the arrest of the Old Man, though a deal was offered to him by the government. Instead of burying their heads in the sand, hoping the Fed storm would miraculously blow past them, the crime Family grew stronger, bolder, more prosperous. Fate stepped in to save the younger generation, as Don Michael took all his secrets to the grave. No squealing, not rat deals for him, he went out the old-school way, tough and unrepentant to the bitter end, but Bolan would never give that type of adversary points for honor among thieves.