For Nothing (15 page)

Victor looked down at the black pack of cigarettes in his palm. He didn’t even smoke.

Garducci stashed the cigarettes inside his coat pocket and pul ed his arms around his chest as the biting cold sneaked in underneath his col ar. A shiver found its way along his neck and sent a chil along his back. Midday was ending and the weather was starting to take a turn for the worse.

*

Rafael Rontego was walking pretty damn fast.

He knew that if he stopped to think about what he was doing he just might bail on the situation. It wasn’t that he didn’t think about the best way of accomplishing this new task, it was just that the scenario for success was a little different than the professional jobs the assassin was used to.

Things were getting a little too messy for Rontego. The Pope said that Rafael wouldn‘t be kil ed.

“No one kil s a messenger, Rafael. Why?

‘Cause sooner or later everyone needs to send a message. Deliver ours.”

Rontego knew that although he was a valuable commodity to Ciancetta’s crew, he was stil just that—a commodity. He was a pawn in a very real, very high stakes game of chess. Wel , maybe not a pawn, but no better than a knight.

Stil , he would rather that be the case than to be the king. Every piece on the board wants a chance to take out the king.

So the Don and Christian wanted a message to be sent, so be it. Rafael felt into his pocket as he ran through the crosswalk just in time to dodge a little minivan in a big hurry. Seemed like everyone was in a rush today. The van careened around the corner missing another pedestrian by mere feet, and then disappeared out of sight.

Rafael Rontego dismissed the van as he felt the cool item in his pocket. Rafael smiled. He was getting close now. It was time to stop for a minute and make sure he was prepared. He darted into an al ey and began a check of his inventory.

He leaned against the brick wal of the al ey.

Heart racing. Out of breath. He unbuttoned the shoulder holsters containing his silenced pistols.

shoulder holsters containing his silenced pistols.

Access would need to be easy.

It was cold out, but he was hot. The sweat on his neck embel ished the cold around him, but told of the warmth coming from his nervous system’s response. His palms, dry. His gaze, unflinching. The grayness of his eyes matched the weather that was coming in from across the Canadian border.

Rontego faced the wal and switched the safety off of his pistols. He paused a moment, looking down on the twin set of dice engraved onto the butt of his pistols. Rontego was never one to believe in fate. He believed in carving your own destiny, it mattered not that he had to carve his into the souls of other men. God and fate seemed to often intertwine themselves into Rafael’s line of work.

Wel , maybe it wasn’t the line of work so much as it was Rontego. The social values in which he was surrounded, coupled with the likelihood of, at the very best, an indifferent God, led to Rafael’s choice in decoration of his equalizers. He had been dealt snake eyes from birth.

But Fate? Fortune? Or was it calculated risk?

Fortune was never achieved without risk. Fate—the whole concept was the one of the three which could be tossed to the wayside and stil al ow the other two to flourish.

Click.
Just like that, and Rontego was ready.

He slipped around the corner of the al ey and walked towards his target. As he crossed the street off the busy midday traffic, he looked neither left nor right. His focus was his target. He walked straight towards those ugly green doors. He walked quick and his face was stoic, for once he entered Wizeguyz, the die wil have been cast and fate would take over. What a rush. The gamble of a lifetime.

Victor Garducci paused for a moment outside of Inhaled Imports to col ect his thoughts. He already deduced a few things about his prey over the course of the last couple days. He leaned against the wal of Inhaled Imports.

First of al , he knew that whoever Jack’s kil er was, he was quick on the draw. Jack hadn’t even pul ed his gun against his assailant in a situation where he knew there was imminent danger. Thus he was on high alert, and stil never had time to react.

The murderer, whoever he was, also enjoyed a reputation among the goodfel as on the street of being a hard ass. Yet, for some reason the clerk right across the street didn’t seem to know his name.

That meant either the clerk was oblivious, or the guy was smart enough to keep a low profile. A heavy handed gangster without the braggart ego was a hard thing to find these days.

Victor snapped his head up as he saw an old white minivan squeal around the corner and speed about half a block past Wizeguyz and into a paral el parking spot.

Idiots.

It seemed people were always in a rush to get nowhere.

Perhaps it was a gangster in the old school tradition. Then again, it could be a foreigner. That would explain the peculiar choice of Russian brand cigarettes.

Was the mafia employing Russian hit men to kil cops in Buffalo? No, that didn’t seem right. The Italians were proud of their blood lines. There is no way they would have a Russian latching on to one of their outfits.

Besides, the Russians and the Italians had bad blood of their own. It was pretty much common knowledge among the organized crime units that the brief Russian exploration into Buffalo was snuffed out in the early 80’s. They had to settle for the less glamorous situation across the border.

However, there were some recent footholds as of late established by the Russians as near as Rochester, just a quick car ride down I-90. There was no way the two sides would be cooperating. Not in the risky endeavor of cop kil ing. Besides, Jack would have said something if he was in a situation that crossed Mafia bloodlines.

Alex Vaughn knew he was missing

something. He was close, but not close enough. He knew that this wasn’t a situation that would require a lot in the way of detective skil s. Like most infiltration operations,

the

key

would

be

to

remain

undiscovered for as long as possible. The hard part was always gaining acceptance.

Alex glanced down the block towards the van.

It looked familiar somehow. His mind already scattered, he dismissed the van.

Stay with it Alex, this is a mission of
vengeance in the name of justice
, he thought.

He liked how that sounded. Justifiable vengeance.

He refocused on the evidence he gathered so far. He was already
i n
with the organization, but as much as patience was required, he didn’t have the time to play the waiting game. Unless something happened soon, something big, he would be forced to push things, an act that got undercover cops kil ed. With half a dozen operatives such as Jack being on the wrong side of dirt-covered coffins, this was no time to get revealed before he could accomplish his task.

He pushed his back against the wal , giving himself enough of a push to stand upright. The van was sitting there with the engine stil on and he wanted to get a better look at what the inhabitants might be doing.

He shivered again. His hands were getting cold, and the chil of the wind kept biting at his neck.

Alex hunched his shoulders and snapped his col ar up to shield himself from the harsh Buffalo winds riding the freeze of the Niagara River right through the city streets and across his exposed neck.

He walked steadily, looking at the ground as he contemplated what unfolded and the many different ways the situation might continue to develop. He kicked a rock that’d been thrown up onto the sidewalk by passing cars as he ambled by the building at the end of the block.

Shit.

The light at the crosswalk was about to switch from the ‘walk’ sign to that always annoying hand indicating ‘stop’.

Vaughn picked up his pace so that he could Vaughn picked up his pace so that he could get to the other block paral el to Wizeguyz. As he darted towards the crosswalk, another pedestrian was heading perpendicular to him. Alex never even saw him. The stranger clipped him and with a grunt, kept walking. He was in a hurry, too.

Alex stood there a moment to catch his balance. He glanced over at the pedestrian, but he was already halfway across the street. For some reason, the brass set of bal s on this guy bothered him. It couldn’t go without some sort of notice.

“Nice going asshole.” The guy stopped walking as the sound of Alex’s voice carried over to him. “Next time watch where you’re walking!” The guy paused, his back stil to Alex. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, and then continued on his way across the street.

Figures
, Alex thought.

Seemed like everyone was in a hurry these days. Vaughn walked across the street and was about five paces from the minivan parked across from Wizeguyz. That was when he noticed the path of the stranger who knocked into him just a few moments earlier. The man was heading towards Wizeguyz.

Curious now, Alex slowed down to a stop and leaned against the side of the minivan. He peered around the back of it and watched as the man stood for a moment in front of Wizeguyz.

Who was this guy? Was he one of Falzone’s
crew? Was he a player in the war that was going
on?

Alex hoped that if he
was
a player, he wouldn’t remember the guy’s face who yel ed at him from across the street. That could present some real problems later.

Alex squinted. He wanted to get a look at the man’s face. The hat on his head obscured his view though as the man was looking down at his pocket.

What is this guy fumbling with
, Alex wondered.

The man was stil standing there. He was motionless now.

Alex started to creep between the rear of the minivan and the adjacent car parked behind it.

If I can get a better look, I might be able to
place this guy,
Vaughn mused as he crouched between the automobiles.

The man lifted his head up and started to turn around.

Here we go buddy. Just a little bit more….

Alex begged the man to show himself.

Al at once the van doors in the rear opened up. The front one blocked Alex’s view of Wizeguyz and the rear one cut off Alex’s escape.

Vaughn peered into the van and what he saw startled him. There were four masked men, two of which reached out to grab Alex. There was one way out. Vaughn grabbed the hood of the car behind the van and leaped from his crouched position as hard as his legs could catapult him.

It was too late.

The dual sets of hands from his kidnappers held him just firm enough that his momentum carried him forward, instead of up, blasting his head into the hood of the car rather than up and over. The pain was quick, but it was searing.

He stood up. His forehead felt warm as he faced his enemies. Vaughn reached for his pistol, but his arms didn’t move. He stumbled forward towards the waiting arms of the masked men who helped his descent into the van. Alex knew this feeling. His peripheral vision dimmed and blackness threatened to overtake him. He was laying on his back now. He looked up as several of the masked men leaned over him.

“Damn it,” one of them said. “I hope no one saw us.”

Alex fought against the blackout and for a moment the blackness lifted. Then, al at once, it came back with a vengeance.

“C’mon let’s get out of here,” another of the masked enemies yel ed.

Vaughn tried to lift his head up to push away the impending oblivion. It was a bad idea. The blood rushing to his wound coupled with his distraught equilibrium sent the blackness spiraling as it overtook him. For the first time in a while he wished he were home. He thought of his daughter as the unknown and the oblivion overtook him.

*

Rontego heard the words despite the swirling wind echo in his ears. He didn’t like it. He stopped dead in his tracks when his mind interpreted what dead in his tracks when his mind interpreted what was said.

“Nice going, asshole.”

Who the hel would speak to him that way in this town? In his town? Everybody this side of Route 5 and in al five major families knew the reputation of Rafael Rontego.

Nice going, asshole.

It raked on his every last nerve. He stopped but he didn’t turn around. A civilian would talk to him like that. No time to deal with civilians, though, he was in the middle of a war zone.

The guy said something else, but Rontego continued walking. He was lucky he couldn’t make it out in the wind. He was also lucky that Rafael had a mission on his mind.

The assassin walked across the street. It was almost the time of reckoning and he needed to clear his head. Why couldn’t he get it out of his head what that guy said to him? Maybe it was something in his tone that crawled under his skin. He didn’t sound like a civilian to the hardened street warrior. He shook his head. Let it go. Do what is needed and get out.

Rafael eased up in front of the doors of Wizeguyz. Putrid green. He disliked the place. He disliked even more the little punks that worked for Falzone. The place seemed to attract the younger gang-minded kids. The macho punks who had no clue about the old school values upon which “this thing of ours” was created.