The Mafia Trilogy Page 22

  “No.”

  Darwin looked at Rosina and then back at the old man. “No? That’s it, just no.”

  “This ain’t no full serve. I fill my truck,” he said as he tapped his chest. “Fuck off.”

  Enough is enough.

  The clerk yelled behind them. “I’m calling the police.”

  Darwin snuck a glance at the clerk. He held a phone to his ear.

  Darwin reached in, grabbed the handle of the gas pump, drove his right foot down into the back of the old guy’s knee and yanked the hose at the same time. The old guy shouted profanities as he fell to the side, letting go of the pump.

  “Sorry, didn’t see you there,” Darwin said as he held down the lever on the handle, shooting gas out onto the hot cement.

  “What are you doing?” The clerk sounded insane as he yelled from twenty feet away. “You can’t do that. Stop!”

  With the lever pushed all the way up, the nozzle shot gas out where the blue Impala had been moments before. Then he turned and sprayed the lower legs of the old guy.

  “Be careful you don’t get burned when I light this gas station on fire,” Darwin said to the old guy and winked.

  No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  Rosina leaned in close. “You’re not really going to burn anything, are you?”

  Darwin shook his head.

  A new car entered the gas station. Darwin looked quick to make sure it wasn’t the cops.

  He tossed the hose onto the cement, grabbed Rosina’s hand and ran around to the front of the pickup as the old guy tried to get to his feet.

  The keys were in the ignition.

  After helping Rosina up, he jumped in, gunned the engine and slammed it into drive.

  “Hey!” the old man shouted behind them.

  They hit the highway and accelerated to ten miles over the speed limit.

  “Holy shit,” Rosina said. “What just happened? Did we just steal a car?”

  “Yeah, I think we did. It kinda got out of hand.”

  Rosina opened the bag and handed Darwin a sandwich. “Well, at least we got the sandwiches and Cokes. There’s that.”

  He looked over at her. “You’re right, baby. There’s that.”

  They drove in silence, both lost in their own thoughts while they ate. Rosina opened a Coke and they shared the first one.

  Rosina turned the air-conditioning dial to full. “You know, cops are going to be looking for this pickup real soon.”

  “I know,” Darwin said as he wiped egg salad off his lip. “We’ll find some old road to pull into and wait until dark. Maybe change the plates or something.”

  “What are we now? Criminals on the run? Bandits? Bonnie and Clyde? That’s not us. We were attacked at the safe house. Why can’t we just dump this thing and call the police?”

  “Because,” he looked sideways at her. “I have a feeling it was feds that hit us.”

  “You said earlier that that was one of two possibilities. Now you think it was them? What made you change your mind?”

  “They were experienced in ways feds would be.”

  “And you don’t think the Mafia has guys like that?”

  “I’m sure they do, but I still feel we were hit by feds. Call it a hunch. Feds go on hunches all the time. I’m gonna go with mine.”

  “There’s another problem,” Rosina said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We can’t hide out until dark. You know what happens to you in the dark. That won’t work.”

  Darwin thought about it for a minute. “You're right.”

  “I vote we find a cheap motel that’ll let us stay for cash. Use that twenty you got off the Impala guy. We do that within the next ten to fifteen minutes and ditch this truck along another road to send them looking the wrong way. We walk back to the motel and we’re safe for the night. No one would know where we are. Sound good?”

  Darwin snorted. “Sounds like you’ve done this kind of thing before.”

  “What does that mean?” She sounded wounded.

  “It means, I love your intelligence. What you just came up with, my love, is a great idea.”

  They drove on until both sandwiches and both Cokes were gone. Less than a half hour north on 301, Darwin saw the sign for a small town called Nahunta. Five minutes later they were through it to the other side where they saw a small motel on the right called Sleep On Inn.

  “Perfect,” Darwin said. “If it’s more than twenty, I’ll give the clerk a story and offer to do dishes.” He smiled. “Let’s check in first and I’ll leave you behind in the room. I’ll go and dump the truck, okay?”

  “No way. I’m not being left alone. We go everywhere together.”

  “Normally, I’d agree. But once I dump this pickup, we can’t both be walking back to the motel. The cops are looking for a young couple. They’ll have our descriptions. If it’s just me, they may not take a second look. Also, it’s fucking hot. I can take my shirt off and all they’ll see is a white-skinned Canadian boy walking along the road in a pair of fucked-up shorts. They won’t look at me and say, ‘There’s the guy that just robbed a Mobil gas station and stole a pickup truck.’”

  As he pulled into the front of the motel, Rosina nodded her agreement.

  “Okay, but you have to come back. You can’t get caught by anybody because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t worry, baby. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  At least I hope not.

  Chapter 2

  Carson Dodge pulled up to the front gate of the safe house and laid on his horn. A throng of reporters and media vans looked like they’d been spread out and layered on thick as one would spread lard on toast.

  He rolled his window down, the heat hitting his face like he’d opened an oven door. “Get the fuck out of the way. FBI coming through.”

  Men and women picked up tripods and camera cases and slowly drifted to one side or the other, taking their time.

  Carson smacked his horn again and shouted to no one in particular, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  He grabbed his radio. “Who’s in charge of keeping the media back and out of the way at the gate?”

  Special Agent Rudy Earlton responded. “We have a guy down there. A rookie from the local police force. Don’t remember his name.”

  “He just lost part of his ass,” Carson said and let the transmit button go.

  He drove through the small opening the reporters offered and stopped on the other side of the gate. The rookie stood off to the side, examining his fingernails.

  Carson got out, left his car door open and walked toward the rookie.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Yeah?” the rookie asked, biting his thumbnail. “What’s up?”

  Carson had been a Bureau man since his twenties. When he lost his left thumb in an accident at the firing range, the FBI stood by him. When he came back after spending four months in India and had lost most of his eyesight in his left eye, the Bureau looked the other way. No new eye exams, no tests. If it didn’t affect his job, no one cared. That’s how much respect they had for him and his career arrests. In his late forties, he had already tagged and singlehandedly bagged four of America’s Most Wanted.

  Carson removed his trademark sunglasses and held up his left hand. “You see my thumb here?”

  The rookie shook his head.

  “Do you know how I lost it?”

  “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

  Carson pulled out his badge with his right hand, keeping his left in the air.

  “Oh, shit, sorry.” The rookie stood to his full height.

  Carson put the badge away and asked, “Do you know how I lost it?”

  “Uhm, sorry sir, lost what?”

  “My thumb, asshole.”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  Carson could see his badge alone had changed the attitude and posture of the rookie, but he was too pissed off to stop there.

  “Do you want a promotion one day?”
/>   “Yessir.”

  “Do you like being a cop?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Then listen to what I have to say.”

  The rookie nodded, his eyes wider than before.

  “Way back when I started at the Bureau, about your age, I was minding a gate like this one. Not paying attention, like you. My boss came over, pulled his weapon out to scare me into doing my job better and it fired by accident. I lost my thumb. I felt I deserved it so neither one of us said shit about the accident. I got promoted soon enough and now look at me—I’m the lead guy on this Darwin and Rosina Kostas case. So, I will ask you again. Do you want a promotion?”

  “Uhm, yes … but, I …”

  Carson pulled his sidearm out and held it at his side so none of the reporter’s cameras would snap it.

  “Hold out your thumb then.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are. I can hear it in your voice.” Carson leaned closer until his nose was an inch from the rookie’s. “Did you know the men who died here today?”

  “No.”

  “They were good men. All of them. I knew each man by their God-given names and I know their wives. I’m the guy that gets to drive to each of their homes and tell their wives that their husbands are dead. Two of these men have kids.”

  “Yessir.”

  Carson could see the rookie was on the verge of tears.

  “Mind that fucking gate. Keep the reporters back. Allow official traffic only. Do not fuck with me on this. I am way too pissed off to tolerate any kind of shit. Either set your gun and badge on the pavement and walk away, or do your job. If I come back down here and things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be, you will lose both thumbs. Are we clear?”

  He slipped his weapon back into its holster as the rookie nodded faster than a bobble-head figure on the dashboard of a race car.

  “Good,” Carson said.

  He backed away, glanced at the line of reporters, smiled for whichever camera might be rolling, and got back into his car.

  In his mirror, on the drive up to the house, he saw the rookie cop standing in the middle of the lane, shooing reporters back to keep an opening clear.

  Two ambulances were parked in front of the safe house along with six police cars and a police van. The only other unmarked car was Rudy’s. Carson parked behind it and got out. He removed his suit jacket, not caring how big the sweat stains were under his arms. It was a very hot day and his men were dead. Men he’d worked with over the years. Comrades. No one would have the nerve to say anything to him or to even give his wet shirt a second glance. Not today. They wouldn’t dare.

  He walked by one of the ambulances and lifted the blanket off the face of the man on the stretcher.

  “John Simmons. You guys know how he died?”

  “We can’t confirm what caused his death until the autopsy, but it looks like he was strangled with a belt or something like a belt,” the guy to his right said.

  “A belt,” Carson repeated as he let go of the blanket.

  “Yeah, same with those two guys. But not until they fought with someone. All three were beat up bad. They look like they were tortured first.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “We found one guy in the kitchen. He had just eaten breakfast by the look of things. Stab wound to the neck and cheek.”

  “The cheek? Who the fuck does that?”

  The ambulance attendant shrugged. “It’s not as bad as the last guy.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We found the fifth victim in the woods a little way from the gate. He also had a fight, but not a lot of bruising which indicates the fight didn’t go on long. The thing about the last guy was he had a pen jammed into the side of his neck just below the ear. It even looks like it was his own pen because of the ink stains on his shirt.”

  “Darwin’s trademark,” Carson said under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. Finish up here,” Carson said and walked away.

  He couldn’t believe it. How the hell could a little pudgy boy from Canada take out five decorated federal officers? To beat the three on duty the way he did and strangle them with a belt was unconscionable. To stab one in the kitchen and use a pen to kill another was crazy.

  Just like he tried to do with a pencil to that guy in Rome.

  Everyone had heard about Darwin Kostas and his fight with the Fuccini Family. Everyone at the Bureau bugged Greg Stinsen about it constantly. How he should hire Darwin to go after the bad guys. Clean up the city. Greg always insisted that Darwin was harmless and that he just got lucky.

  Yeah, right, and the people who deserve it the most win the lottery all the time.

  No way what Darwin did in Rome and Toronto was luck. He was a killing machine, plain and simple. The evidence lay on stretchers on the property where Darwin and his wife had been living in secrecy. Only four agents knew where the safe house was, excluding the rotation of agents who acted as guards for the Kostas, and two of them were dead now. Nick Johnson and Lee Michaels worked with Greg and Carson, and they were pivotal in making the safe house safe.

  And Darwin repays them as any psychopath would.

  Carson entered the front door of the house and walked the length of the front hall until he reached the kitchen where he saw Rudy and a crime scene team.

  Cameras flashed and men sifted through items on the floor while Rudy talked on his cell phone. Carson caught Rudy’s eye.

  “Okay … yeah … I got to go. Get back to me with that report.” Rudy slapped his phone shut and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “This is a clusterfuck, isn’t it?”

  “Fill me in. What have you got?”

  Rudy picked up a notebook that had been on the kitchen counter and flipped back four pages. “Looks like the three men on duty, Simmons, Ouellette, and Baron, were attacked by the same aggressor in a similar manner. We can tell by how all three men were beaten systematically without putting up much of a fight. I have a theory.” Rudy raised his right finger in the air.

  Rudy’s theories drove Carson nuts, but today he was all ears. He needed to listen and digest everything. Talking and acting would get him in trouble on a day when five of his friends, FBI men, were executed. He waited for Rudy to continue.

  “I think the three men on duty were held at gunpoint as they were beaten. Or at least there was something preventing them from fighting back. These weren’t men who would go down that easily. It also looks like they were beaten so bad that whatever they were strangled with only sped up their deaths. Not even one of them has a bruised knuckle or a shred of skin under their nails. That means they didn’t fight back when being strangled either.”

  “What about the other two?” Carson asked as he moved a few feet into the living room to make way for a CSI photographer.

  Rudy stepped ahead of him and sat down on one of the dining room chairs. Carson followed suit. To his credit, Rudy didn’t look at Carson’s shirt with the stained underarms.

  “The other two were murdered with a different MO. Nick Johnson had eaten breakfast and was stabbed in the kitchen. He had his gun in his hand, but the safety was still on. He still had french toast in his mouth when he died. Whoever attacked him was seriously fast and good at what they do. Either that or extremely angry. The kind of rage that sets men apart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The stabber hit so fast that he had no real aim. He used a kitchen knife from the set on the counter. His first jab went in Nick’s cheek and the second one in the side of his throat. That was the killing blow. A first look at the blood splatter pattern indicates Nick was sitting at the kitchen table minding his own business when he was hit. That’s fucked up.”

  “What about Lee? What have you got on him?”

  Rudy flipped another page. “Lee Michaels was found on the property out by the woods. It was like he was doing a security check of the perimeter. He got a bunch of blows in, which by the way, makes him the on
ly one to have scuffled with his attacker. His hands were seriously bruised and covered in blood. But somehow, whoever he beat to a pulp got a hold of his pen and jammed it into his neck like he was trying to do an amateur tracheotomy and missed the whole point about it helping someone breathe and not hear better.”