Hitman's Desire: A Bad Boy Romance (12 page)

T
he American Mafia
has been active since the early 20th century. Since that time, the Commission has met every year in an annual Summit. Never twice at the same location. In recent years they’ve held the Summit at numerous luxury hotels on the east and west side. Always in the penthouse suite.

It’s not hard for me to call every luxury hotel that hasn’t been used recently. There are maybe a dozen hotels that fit the criteria. Of those, the penthouse suite is booked in six hotels. I ask to be put through to Charles Luciano.
Lucky
Luciano was the founder of the American mob. In recent years, it’s the codename the Commission has been using to book the Summit under. It’s not a very smart thing to do, but sometimes mob guys go for the obvious.

After a few calls, the operator at the Hampson puts me through to Lucky’s room in the penthouse suite. A gruff voice answers, and I swear it sounds like Paulie the Nose. I can’t hang up, or he might get suspicious. So, I fake an accent and ask if they want extra towels brought up to the room.

“No. Nobody here asked for extra towels, you fucking moron,” Paulie growls.

I know I’ve reached the right place.

I apologize and hang up.

I know the mobs methods of operation. There will be guards in front of the hotel. There will be spotters in the lobby. There will be guards outside the door to the penthouse suite. There will be snipers on nearby rooftops.

There is no getting in or out of the building. There is no time to plant explosives within the suite. And even if I did have that luxury, the room would be swept before any of the bosses entered. This Summit isn’t their first rodeo. They’ve done this kind of thing before. They know how to keep mob bosses safe. The Commission has former Secret Service agents on their security detail. Knocking off a boss isn’t easy, and I’m still not exactly sure how Dominic pulled off the hit on Falco.

Then it dawns on me. I want to kick myself for not putting it together before. The blonde hair found in Falco’s bed—it had to be Veronica’s. He always had a thing for her. It makes perfect sense. She came on to him, got him alone in a room. He did what any guy would’ve done. Veronica is hard to resist. Then, when he’s nice and relaxed, and not suspecting it, she shoots him. With my gun, that she stole from my apartment. My fingerprints are all over the shell casings. It’s the only explanation. I’ve got hundreds of guns. I didn’t even know it was missing for weeks. I suspected she may have taken it. But I’ve had dozens of women in and out of my apartment. It could have been anyone of them. I didn’t sweat it—all of my guns are unregistered. There’s no way it could come back to me, or so I thought. It’s hard to get a gun in New York City. I don’t blame a pretty girl for wanting to carry one. Maybe that’s why I let it slide. Either way, I’m an idiot. She set me up.

I call ahead and book the penthouse suite at the Thackston Plaza on 5th Avenue under a fake name. It’s across the park from the Hampson. But it’s got a clear view of the penthouse suite. It’s 880 yards across the park—well within my kill zone using the Winchester Magnum.

We pull into the main drive of the Thackston. It’s crowded with cabs picking up, and dropping off, visitors. The trick is going to be getting these weapons up to the room. I can’t just walk through the lobby with a sniper rifle and an RPG.

A bell hop is helping a cabbie load luggage onto a gold stainless bellman’s cart, with a red carpeted base. The cabbie is just dumping bags in the drive. The bell hop scurries from the trunk to the cart. The couple has a ton of baggage. It’s probably just an overnight trip. The couple saunters into the lobby, leaving the two behind to struggle with the luggage. I hop out of the town car and snatch a Louis Vuitton garment bag from the rack while the bell hop is preoccupied.

I duck back into the town car and toss all the clothing from the garment bag on the floor. Then I stuff in the sniper rifle and the RPG, and zip the bag up. Problem solved.

The penthouse suite is on the 67th floor. The Hampson is on the 52nd. It gives me a nice elevated shot. I push through the room and step onto the terrace. The night air is crisp and breezy. The city lights dance and flicker. It really is a spectacular view. I unzip the garment bag and pull out the Winchester Magnum. I put on the quick-attach suppressor. This should give me the ability to squeeze off several rounds without attracting attention to myself. The neighbors won’t likely hear a thing.

The bullet, however, will break the sound barrier. And that’s where the loud crack comes from. But it will be hard to tell exactly where the bullet originated. With the speed of these bullets, my target will be hit before they hear the crack—as long as my aim is accurate.

I aim the rifle and peer through the scope.

I’ve got a perfect view of the main lobby doors of the Hampson, and a clear shot to the terrace of the penthouse suite on the 52nd floor. Two sliding glass doors open onto the terrace. I can see into the living area through the floor to ceiling windows. None of the bosses have arrived yet. A few members of their advance team mingle about. I’m going to have to wait until all four bosses are in the suite. I can’t pick them off at the front door, otherwise I’ll only get one shot.

I might be able to get off two rounds before anyone realizes what’s going on at the Summit. It will be chaos within the Hampson’s penthouse suite. And I’ll have mere seconds to drop two more mob bosses. That’s four perfect shots in less than 10 seconds at almost 1000 yards.

When Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK, he got off 3 rounds in less than 6 seconds with an old bolt action rifle—a 6.5 mm Carcano. Though the Warren commission disputes the ability of Oswald to have accurately fired 3 shots in that timeframe.

I’m not going to say four shots in 10 seconds is impossible. But it would be a miracle. And I’m not the kind of guy miracles happen for. This really isn’t the type of work that you can ask for divine assistance with. But then again, these are all bad men.

But so am I.

I scan rooftops near the Hampson and find two mob snipers. They are focused on the street in front of the main lobby. They haven’t even considered the possibility that someone across Central Park is going to be sniping at the Commission.

I finally get a call from Dominic telling me the location of the Summit. I assume he’s already been in contact with Louis. Dominic knows where I am. He reiterates the dire necessity of my mission and reminds me of the consequences of failure. Louis hovers over my shoulder, presumably to make sure I complete the task at hand. He’s an intimidating fellow.

After a few minutes, the bosses start arriving. The first is Big Nicky Capello. His entourage is like the presidential motorcade. A black Cadillac SUV leads the way, followed by Nick’s limousine. Another black Cadillac SUV brings up the rear. Armed bodyguards jump out like Secret Service agents and escort Nick into the lobby.

Big Nick is a tiny guy with a huge temper and a short fuse. To say he’s 5’4” would be stretching it. I’ve seen him beat the shit out of guys twice his size. Nick knows no fear. But he’s incredibly self-conscious about his height. Don’t ever joke about his size. Giovanni the Chin got into an argument with him one time, made a joke about which dwarf he was, sneezy or dopey? Needless to say, Nick wasn’t amused. And the Chin ended up with his own balls in his mouth. I’ve always gotten along with Nick. But he’d have me killed in a heartbeat to suit his needs.

Tommy Bones arrives next, in much the same fashion. He’s got a white limousine, guarded by two H2 Hummers. He got his nickname in the early days from a necklace he made out of the bones of pinky fingers that he had severed. His first job for the mob was collecting payments from deadbeats who were late on their loans. It didn’t take long before everybody was paying on time. I could never figure why guys would borrow money from the mob. At 20% a week, it doesn’t take long to rack up an unsurmountable debt. Usually someone gets themselves in a bind and borrows money from a loan shark to pay the debt. Then they have to take out another loan from another loan shark to cover the first one. They may be able to buy themselves a couple of extra weeks of time, but these deadbeats all end up in the same place—at the bottom of the river, or on Tommy Bones’s necklace.

Benny the Butcher arrives next. To look at him, you’d never guess he was a cold-blooded killer. He has a round, affable face. At first glance, it seems like he’s the nicest guy in the world. He always has a smile, even when he comes to kill you. Back in the day, he was the guy everybody went to when they needed help disposing bodies. He runs a butcher shop, known for its fine cuts of meat. Today, it’s mostly a source for laundering money. When Benny says he’s going to turn you into a sirloin steak and eat you, he means it.

The last gangster to arrive is Meatball Sonny. He’s a big round guy, with a big round face that’s rough and scarred from acne. He looks like a giant meatball. He files into the Hampson with his entourage. A few moments later the suite is brimming with the most important members of the mob.

It’ showtime.

N
obody is going
to miss any of these scumbags. I’m doing the world a favor. But I still think four shots in 10 seconds is going to be tough. Even for me. I set down the Winchester Magnum. It’s not the right tool for the job. I pick up the rocket propelled grenade launcher—the RPG-37. It’s got a maximum range of 900 meters. The Hampson is just barely in range.

I sling the launcher over my shoulder and take aim through the optical site. This is going to make a helluva boom. The blast should take out everyone in the suite. Through the optical site, I take aim at the penthouse at the Hampson. The room is packed. I can see Big Nick, Meatball Sonny, Tommy Bones, and Benny the Butcher.

I never used to feel any kind of emotion when doing a job. But things are different now. I have someone to protect.

I squeeze the trigger. Propellant rockets the grenade from the launcher. It streaks across the park in a cloud of white smoke. It hisses and rips through the air, slamming into the penthouse suite. The explosion lights up the night sky—a brilliant flash of orange and red. The armor piercing, antitank round, incinerates the luxury suite. Windows shatter. Glass sprays from atop the building, trickling down to the street like flakes of glitter. Chunks of concrete and debris blast out in all directions. Every inch of the room is engulfed in flames.

I see a lone survivor scurry across the terrace in flames, then fall to his death over the edge. His flaming body plummets to the ground.

The head of the most ruthless criminal organization in the world has just been cut off. The families will be in chaos. There will be a power vacuum. And Dominic will step into power, controlling all of the five families. He will become the most powerful gangster in history.

Unless I do something about it.

If I know Dominic, he’ll be close by. He would want a front row seat to a spectacle of this size. I set down the RPG launcher and pick up the Winchester Magnum. Through the scope, I scan the roof tops again. And just as I suspect, I see Dominic smiling and laughing with one of the snipers. He’s not going to be laughing for long.

I put the crosshairs on his head. I take a deep breath and hold it. Just as I’m about to squeeze the trigger, I hear the hammer cock back on Louis’s pistol.

“Dominic says goodbye.”

It seems Dominic has given this behemoth orders to kill me after the job has been completed.

The next few moments happen in slow motion.

Louis’s fat finger squeezes the trigger. The hammer strikes the firing pin, and the bullet blasts out of the barrel. But I twist just in time and push the barrel from against my head. The bullet rockets past my ear. Smoke and gunpowder fill my nostrils. With lightning speed, I strip the pistol from Louis’s hand. But it’s not a clean move, and the weapon tumbles away over the ledge of the terrace. It plummets to the ground below, and I hear it discharge once again.

I rise up and kick the big behemoth in the balls. He must not have any, because that doesn’t seem to hurt him. With his massive bowling ball of a fist, he backhands me. My body flies across the terrace and smacks into the ground.

I’m dazed for a second from the massive blow. My lip is split and swollen. I can taste the metallic flavor of blood in my mouth. My chest feels like someone stabbed a knife in it. The stitches from my wound are definitely torn. I don’t think I’ve ever been hit that hard in my entire life. And I have a sneaking suspicion that Louis can hit even harder.

I only have a few minutes to take out Dominic. He won’t stay on that rooftop forever. And if I don’t kill him now, Lord knows what will happen to Scarlett.

Louis stomps toward me like an elephant. I feel the ground shake beneath his feet. I grab for my Glock 17, but it’s not there. It’s lying on the tile several feet away. It must have fallen from my holster during my involuntary flight across the balcony. I scurry across the ground for it.

But the elephant is on top of me. He winds his leg back, then kicks his full weight into my ribs. His boot finds my wound. I hear my ribs snap. Air rushes from my lungs. The pain is a 20 on a 10 scale. My body flops across the tile.

I push the sensation of pain into a dark corner of my mind and ignore it. This is what I’m built for. To fight through pain. To show no fear. To kill.

I gasp for breath and spring to my feet. My legs feel like jello. I feel my warm blood trickling down my abdomen. My chest is on fire. It’s almost impossible to inhale.

The walking mountain of a man scoops my Glock from the tile. He swings the barrel around toward me. He may be bigger than I am, but I’m faster. He’s a towering, lumbering giant. I sprint toward him and grab the barrel of my gun, pushing it up to the sky. The muzzle flashes, and a bullet rips into the night air. I slam my palm against his forearm and grab the gun, bending his wrist backward. The force snaps his finger, and I strip the gun clean.

But he swings around his meaty hand crushing my jaw. Blood spews from my mouth as my head whips to the side. A jolt of electricity shoots down my spine. My body is flung to the edge of the terrace. I clutch onto the railing, my momentum almost carrying me over. It’s a long way down—67 stories. People look like tiny ants. Matchbox cars drive through the streets.

Before I can push away from the ledge, the big elephant grabs my legs and flips me over the railing. My life flashes before my eyes. Like a cartwheel, I flop over the ledge. But I manage to hang on by my fingertips. One hand gripping the ledge, the other still clutching my Glock. My feet dangle in the air. Ending up as a stain on the sidewalk is not something I’m looking forward to.

The big mammoth appears towering over me. He lifts a potted plant from the terrace over his head. He’s ready to smash it against my fingertips. I swing the Glock up and take aim at his neanderthal head.

BAM!

Like a mellon, his head vaporizes in a haze of blood. The heavy potted plant plummets. I swerve aside as it passes. Several seconds later it shatters into bits on the sidewalk. The big elephant tumbles over me, toppling end over end. He smashes into a parked car at the curb below. Metal crumples, and glass shatters. The car’s alarm sounds. Its headlights flash.

I toss the Glock onto the terrace, then swing my hand up and grip the rail. Then I pull myself up and over. I’ve gone beyond pain now. My body is numb. I rush to the .300 Win Mag. My eyes peer through the scope. I pray that Dominic is still there.

But he’s gone.

I quickly scan the rooftop. Dominic emerges from behind an HVAC unit. He’s walking toward the roof access door. I line his skull up in the crosshairs. I take another deep breath and hold it. I’ve got to be rock solid perfect. I can’t tremble, shake, or twitch. The shot is almost 1000 yards, at a moving target. I’ve made a kill shot at this distance before, but never when so much was on the line. I’m exhausted from fighting Louis. My heart is racing. My hand is trembling.

I steady myself and focus.

Dominic is almost to the door. I may never get another opportunity like this.

I settle and smoothly pull the trigger.

With the suppressor on the end of the barrel, the rifle makes little more than a click when I pull the trigger. The bullet rips through the air with a crack, breaking the sound barrier.

An instant later, Dominic’s head explodes like a pumpkin bashed with a sledgehammer. His lifeless body flops to the ground. I exhale and smile. It’s been a long time since I took out someone at this distance. It’s good to know I’ve still got it. It’s even better to know he can’t harm Scarlett.

Soon, the sound of sirens echo off the buildings. The night sky fills with the patter of helicopters. Police and news crews gather around the Hampson.

I gather up the spent shell casings. Then I stuff the Winchester Magnum, and the rocket launcher, back into the garment bag, and I leave the penthouse suite at the Thackston behind.