Ded Reckoning (39 page)

"Thank you.  It's our family's own."

"Oh, that's right.  The winery.  Yeah, beautiful place.  Oh man, as much as I like wine, I'd be hard-pressed to leave the vineyards."  He puts his glass on the coffee table, stands.   "Well, it's late.  Real late.  I need to be going.  Get some sleep myself."

"Yes.  Yes, I understand."  Maria clasps her hands in front of herself, wringing them gently.  "Brad, could you stay a little longer.  I'm a little stressed out, and frankly, scared out of my wits."

"Okay, but no more of this wine.  I'll fall in love ... with it, I mean."

"One more, and I appreciate your remarks, but Dee is younger.  And not by hours."

"Could of fooled me."

"Really?"

 

 

Back in Hunter's room and not necessarily cooled sufficiently from the dancing and the hand-holding walk back, he says, "We can speak in English here if you'd like.  Be easier perhaps."

"Yes, that it will.  Can I get comfortable?"

"Comfortable?  How comfortable?"

"Just want to take my jacket off, and slip out of these shoes.  Is that a problem?"

"No.  Fine.  Want something to drink?  I have some
Pellegrino
and some ice, I think."  He looks into the bucket.  "Yep, got some.  It's refreshing."

"That would be wonderful, then before you, we, get started on the background and the plans, why don't you tell me something about yourself. Perhaps starting with your full name if you have one."

Hunter laughs.  Pours two glasses of the
Pellegrino
over ice, says as he hands one to her, "Be better with a twist of lime, or perhaps, lemon, but," he shrugs.

She says, "Lemon.  Twist of lemon.  Always.  Now sit, and tell me about Hunter whoever."

Hunter sits and does.  The routine stuff.  Parents, school, military, and his job now.  When finished, he refreshes himself with more than a sip of his drink and says, "Now you."

"Remember, lemon.  It will be important."  She laughs and as Hunter starts to speak, she   puts her finger to her lips, "Shssss."   And continues.

"My full name is Marnee Kaslar.  I'm single.  Are you?"

Hunter is taken back for a moment, then, "Yes.  Always.  And not committed."

"Nor am I married, or was, or in a relationship now or ever.  But not a virgin."  She pauses.  Hunter starts to speak.  She giggles quietly, then becomes dreadfully serious.  "My mother is Italian, my father an Italian Jew.    All of us were taken to Campagna concentration camp in 1941.  We were released later and both my parents became a part of the Assisi Underground in Italy.  We left for Israel in 1949.  I have no siblings."

Hunter says, "Jews in Italy. I knew of course.  The Assisi Underground is famous.  But Italians in
Eretz Yisrael
... the 'Land of Israel' is actually something.  Wow."

"There is your Hebrew again.  I am impressed.  Well, certainly a minority.  In fact, minority is a grossly derisory word, but we were Jews so we are part of the seventy percent or better.  Most all the others are Arabs.  We lived in Ein Kerem; that was within Jerusalem's municipal boundaries.  Right now, as you know, the Palestinians are launching wave after wave of attacks, and have been for several years.  We, the Mossad, are responding with our assassination campaign.  Hence, for me, Pisces.  A Palestinian paid assassin.  Of my uncle.   My father died a few years ago in one of their attacks.  My mother has returned to her family home and family business, near the Amalfi coast.  Her parents, my grandparents are old and need help.  Family help.  They are vastly wealthy both in life and material riches."

Hunter chokes on his sip of
Pellegrino
.  He thinks.  
Omens.  Omens.  Omens
.

Marnee raises her eyebrows with the gagging, but continues.  "I stayed in Israel, in service of my country.  I have been doing this for eight years, after three years in the Army.   All of us are drafted at eighteen.  Women are only required to do two or three years in the Army, and no reserve duty.  I was chosen for the Mossad because of my service in the Army.  But, I need to go home, to Italy.  To help my mother and grandparents run the business and the orchards.  So, it is to be hoped this is my last assignment.  And that's me in a lemon twist."

"Lemon twist?  Oh, yeah.  Lemons.  What's with the lemons?"  A light bulb comes on.

Before it turns to full bright, Marnee says, "Lemon orchards.  And among other things, Limoncello ... the best.  And I apologize for my Italian earlier.  It should be better but perhaps too, too long in Israel and elsewhere."

"Well, we have a lot in common.  Italian heritage.  Military.  The service.  And I suspect, the mission.  So let's talk of it, what we know, and how we do it.  As a team.  Okay with that?"

"I am, but if possible, let's get it done before my help arrives, and any others.  Is that possible?"

"I believe so.  I know the villa.  Have been inside, and I have it juiced so I have a means to do it immediately if necessary.  Preferably wait for "his majesty" to return which I believe will be tomorrow morning.  I believe he will have a woman, or women with him.  That will be tricky and a deciding factor.  Rocco is here.  The help, and there are currently three, live aboard.  In separate quarters.  There is no security at this moment other than a casual stroll around the grounds after dark.  If Pisces does return tomorrow morning, I plan to enter the villa late tomorrow night, actually early morning, and terminate both Rocco and Pisces.  Pisces first.  Then set the timer, and leave town, and country."

"What of the house staff?"

"They'll be in the quarters.  Won't hear anything until the house blows.  They'll live through some broken windows and smoke."

"What about the woman or women?"

"If we can't work out something quickly to get them out of the house beforehand, then they become collateral damage."

He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs.  Stares at Marnee.  The several moments of silence seems longer.  Both take a long, slow drink of their iced mineral water.

Marnee asks, "Are you sure Pisces is arriving tomorrow?"

"That's my hunch."

"This is a guess!"

"No.  Not really.  Actually, a hunch is a guess that has certainty.  And, in the morning we're going to the harbor below to watch the hunch become a reality.  I'm sure that's why Rocco DeStefano came home today.  And he will be at the harbor to meet and greet his boss.  It will be so."  

"And after, how do we leave?  The ... the country you said."

"I think you'll like the idea.   We sail to the Isle of Capri and nestle in with the rest of the rich and not so famous."  He stares at her for a moment.  Waiting.  Then adds, "I have a boat.  A yacht ... launch.  Purchased it the first day here.  Why are you staring?"  She smiles.  Hunter adds, "It has more than one cabin."  Her grin fades.  He continues, "Well, it's a long trip ... three days or more.  They'll be watchin' the planes, trains and ferries but not for a wealthy, young couple cruising on a yacht."  

"Why Capri?"

"Because I have unfinished business there.  You can leave immediately if you choose, or wait.  Or take a chopper or ferry to Naples on from there."  He grins, "That's if you can drag yourself away from me."

Marnee stands, stretches and wiggles her toes.  Faces Hunter.  "It's a deal.  We'll do it.  I want it to hurt, Pisces.  Both actually."

"I understand, and I would also, but we have no time for hurting.  Just a double-tap and go.  I have one item to pick-up.  If women are there and involved we knock 'em out and drop 'em in the garage.  We will be in masks and hoods.  No voice commands or chatter.  Just swift and silent.  If that can't be accomplished, then they are done.  Then I'll set the timer.  Only the house goes up.  We'll be down the hill, in the harbor and gone by the time the authorities, especially here, put anything together.  We'll be on the boat and long gone."

She nods, strolls to the balcony, opens the doors and steps outside.  Takes in a deep breath.  Says over her shoulder, "I'll have to think about the boat and Capri."  Feels Hunter come up behind her.  Asks over her other shoulder , "How old are you, Hunter.  Thirty-eight?"

"Yeah.  You?"

"A few less footsteps."  She takes in a deep breath.  "Not a lifetime but that's a long time on a boat together.  Just the two of us."  She leans back and feels Hunter inch forward.  Marnee whispers, "I want a life."  She sighs, "After this."

"Me too.  A life.  Not this nor the one before."

Marnee turns slowly into Hunter.  Arms at her side.  Staring into his eyes.  "Maybe this is our moment.  Our omen.  I sense it.  Feel it," and slides her arms up his chest and around his neck, and engages his lips with hers.  There is no resistance.  Only heightening eagerness.

They release, stand staring at each other.  Hunter says, "Where do people like us go, and what do we do?  Is there a place in this world for us to live?  Not reside.  Live."

"We go to my mother's.  We grow more lemons.  And we make Limoncello, some apricot brandy on the side and love the remainder of the time."

Hunter leads her from the balcony.  "You got a date."

"Our second, and to make sure it happens, let us go over the details of this Op, and the layout of the villa ... outside and especially inside.  Weapons. Options.  Okay?"

"Good, let's do it."  Claps his hands and in an order sounding voice, "Then some sleep so we're fresh for tomorrow."

"If you insist but sometime between now and the boat ...  and the apricots, ... and the lemons, brandy, and Limoncello ...I would like a sample."

"There are no samples.  Only appetizers and entrees."  She smiles, big.  "But there are tastes."

CHAPTER 29

 

"Accuracy is relative:  most combat shooting

standards will be more dependent on

'pucker factor' than the inherit accuracy of the gun."

 

"And use a gun that works EVERY TIME!"  

A gunslinger's rule

 

The Shanahan lads park the car at Muldoon's garage as planned and immediately hoof it to the Metro Pub so that they can report to Colin Muldoon since he's not home and can only be at the pub, as usual.  Late or not.  It's a good hike so when they arrive they are a bit flushed in the cheek, and more than a tad thirsty.

The elder Muldoon and his son, the Pit Bull, Conor, are waiting at their usual table at the far end of the pub.  There are only a few lights on near the table and behind the bar.    The Muldoons are relieving their thirst of course.  Danny and Sean pull up chairs and sit at the table facing the Muldoons with their backs to the now empty pub.  It's a half-hour after closing time and all the regulars and the normally few strays are gone as is the help except for the barkeep.  It's open only for the Muldoons as a favor or because the elder of the two has declared it so.  As soon as Danny and Sean arrive at the table, so do their pints which means there was advance word.  The two lads care less and take several swigs to satisfy their thirst from the hike and the hurried trip.

When all is settled, quiet, except for the breathing of the overweight Muldoons, Colin, the old man, leans across the table and asks, "Did it get done or not, lads?"

Danny responds. "Apparently done, but not by the two of us.  It was a combat zone."

"And what does 'apparently' mean, lad?  I've seen the TV, you know.  It mentioned an American lass and the gent with her.  Was that him, the filthy bastard that done Paddy in?"

"We think."

"YOU THINK!" explodes the old man, beet colored and spitting saliva and foam from his pint.

While this exchange is going on, two men, masked and hooded, right arms hanging at their side, each clasping a well-used, nicked up, slightly rusted S&W .38 with silencer and hollow-point rounds, move into the pub unnoticed, and for damned sure unannounced.  The barkeep is gone, in the back, tending the business of closing.

Then the son, Conor, also red-faced, hisses, "You two pig-shit Irishmen are worthless.  You couldn't spell Irish if I spotted ya four letters."  He spits on the floor over his right shoulder, and continuing while he spits, chokes, "Ya would fook-up a wet dream."  He pounds his ham-like fist on the table.

Danny begins to stand and respond to the Muldoons when a hand from behind pulls him back in his seat.  Another on Sean's shoulder holding him in place.

Standing on each side of the Shanahans, the two men raise their pistols.  Both fire, two shots.   The double-taps go into the bridge of the nose and forehead of each Muldoon.  Colin and Conor, slam backward over their chairs and onto the pub floor.  One of the masked men says, "Stay put until we leave or you'll get the same."  The other says, "The old man ordered your brother killed. And he had the other one he sent killed as well.  Now, go home.  Take up a different vocation.  Grow potatoes.  This isn't for you or for what's left of your family, and family to be."

The two men turn and hurry, not at a run, but rather, long, quick strides, carrying them out of the pub, right arms at their side.   Unnoticed they drop their weapons between tables and quietly open the pub entrance door.  Close it without a sound and are gone into the darkness of the streets of Londonderry, all in less than thirty seconds.

Danny and Sean sit, stunned and following orders for what seems a millennium.  Not moving.  Not saying a word.  Not even a whisper to one another.  Then after several moments the barkeep returns and shouts, "Hey, you louts are goin' to have 'ta leave.  Me ole' lady will have a chunk of me arse ... What in the name of ... Oh, Jesus, Joseph and Mary, what happened here?  Did ya have to kill these two Neanderthals?"

"No, dear Jesus, no.  Two men just snuck up behind us and shot 'em both dead as doornails."

"Oh, Jesus, Danny me lad.  Oh, Mother of God.  Saints be with ... what the Hades is ..."

Danny is on his feet, in the barkeep's face.  "Listen, Donohue.  Call the police.  AND, we weren't here.  NOT HERE.  You were in the back closing and came out and found this. Understand?  Do it.  I tell you on my dear father's grave, and on my mum's heart, all we know is that we were here talking to the Muldoons when two men came in, shot these two, and told us to stay put or we'd be dead."  Sean is now beside his brother.  The complexion of their faces and the vacuity of their eyes explain the veracity of their words.  "These two men were not Irishmen.  Nor Brits.   All you need to say is that you were in back cleaning up, didn't hear or see a thing, and came out and found this.  Agreed?  WE weren't here.  So don't fook-up and mention how many, or that they didn't have accents.  You didn't see anything but these two drinkin' late again."