Parker 01 - The Mark (27 page)

T
he cold wind snapped and bit Michael DiForio’s face as he stepped off the curb. An aide he’d never met stepped into an ankle-deep puddle as he opened the door to the Oldsmobile. Fucking new guys, DiForio thought. All utterly worthless.

They’d had to take on extra help after Barnes massacred four men in that run-down building on 80th Street. The new faces only added to the disharmony, only made their family weaker. And over the last few weeks, Michael’s family barely had the strength to continue.

In the last three weeks, nearly all of DiForio’s protection had ceased communication, fell off the face of the damn earth. Most had simply stopped responding to phone calls, others would whisper
stop calling
and hang up. That’s why the new faces. That’s why the whole thing had gone up in smoke.

According to a Lieutenant at the 53rd Precinct, several weeks after Henry Parker’s vindication on three counts of first-degree murder, every officer, politician and newsman on the DiForio payroll received a mysterious package in the mail. Inside each package was a reprint of a photograph that Michael recognized as the handiwork of the late Hans Gustofson. Accompanying these photos was a letter, warning that unless all illegal activities were ceased immediately, the pictures in question would be released to the press.

Half the cops were scared shitless. The others all had a “change of heart.” The photo album had disappeared completely. And countless hours and dollars had been thrown out the window.

We can’t work for you anymore, Michael. We swore an oath to the city.

Goddamn fucking saints going back on their word after they’d already taken Michael for thousands. Cut him off, just like that. That goddamn Parker was behind it. He had to be.

Michael’s first order of business was to find Henry Parker and end him. The kid had ruined so much, Michael wasn’t sure how much was salvageable. Regardless, vengeance had to be dealt, and swiftly. Michael had to regain control.

Blanket slid into the backseat next to DiForio. A portly driver who reeked of fried onions got behind the wheel. Blanket gestured to the new man, who gave Michael a nervous nod.

“Boss, this is Kenny. Kenny’ll be driving you for the time being until we take on more help.” DiForio gave Kenny a quick nod, nothing more.

Kenny turned the ignition and began to ease out of the driveway. He braked abruptly, then started up again, sending Michael lurching forward. Kenny clearly hadn’t done much driving outside of the pizza truck or wherever they’d found his sorry ass. Kenny pulled out of the complex, zipping along at four miles an hour, like a teenager afraid to piss off his driving instructor.

Henry Parker. A twenty-four-year-old kid, had all but ruined him.

The album was gone. Gustofson and Fredrickson were dead, as was Shelton Barnes. Leonard Denton, a reliable soldier for years, was dead. Luis and Christine Guzman were in protective custody. So many soldiers dead. The rest deserting like rats from a ship.

DiForio had known all along about Denton’s history, figured sooner or later it would catch up to him. Talk about shitty timing, even if he wanted to take out Parker right now—which he did, oh, God, how he did—goddamn video surveillance was on him like the clap on a prostitute.

The papers didn’t mention a funeral for the third man, didn’t even identify the man’s name. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t worth a funeral. And for the second time, Michael DiForio had killed Shelton Barnes. And this time, he wasn’t coming back.

“Hey, Ken, whatever the fuck your name is, you want to step on it?”

“Ken’s new, Mike,” Blanket replied. “You’ll get used to him.”

“I’ll be late for my own fucking funeral the way he drives. Hey, Ken, you see that movie about a bomb on the bus? You go a mile an hour under fifty the rest of the way and I’ll cut your fucking ears off.”

Ken nodded. The mood he was in, Michael just might keep his word.

Ken pressed his foot down on the gas and DiForio watched the speedometer climb to five, then ten, fifteen. At least Ken listened. It was a start.

As the car passed through the wrought-iron gates, a tremendous explosion shattered the air, and the car erupted into an enormous, golden fireball he detonation knocked down dozens of pedestrians, shattering windows up to three blocks away.

Orange flames shot into the sky as the fuselage caught fire, sending the car’s chassis ten feet into the air. Molten debris rained across the street.

When the car crashed to earth, black smoke pouring from the windows, people gathered around the smoldering wreckage, whispering in hushed tones, hands over their mouths to stifle the horror. Cell phones were taken out, 911 immediately inundated with horrified callers. Most simply watched the car burn, gasping at the charred corpses inside. Wondering who’d fallen victim to such a ghastly fate.

Slowly one man began to make his way through the crowd. He was tall and his skin was pale. Thin, like he’d recently lost a tremendous amount of weight. His cheeks were sunken and he wore dark sunglasses, a thick black overcoat wrapped around his gaunt frame. He walked with a slight limp and held his right arm in a sling. The man stepped forward, carefully winding his way through the gaping onlookers. As he approached the twisted mass of destruction, the man removed something from his breast pocket. It was a picture, worn and tattered and smeared with red.

He pressed his lips to the photograph, then set it on the ground by the burning wreckage, just a few feet from the charred bodies inside.

Standing back up, the man coughed into his fist, and said two words.

For Anne.