Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (88 page)

“I’m Russian. I’m home.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy your return…except…well, there’s one little thing.”

“What?”

“Mashkov’s group? You know the most violent organized crime group in Moscow? Remember how you said I didn’t have the balls to tell them you provided information to help the FBI seize a hundred-million-dollar shipment of heroin, arms and cash out of Brooklyn? Well, you were absolutely right about that. I couldn’t do it.”

Mosin’s mouth curled into a sinister smile.

“Fortunately, Ghost had no problem with it at all. When you speak to them later today, they may claim the FBI told them you turned over the information so we’d release you.”

“When they talk to me?”

“Yes. They somehow managed to intercept the details regarding the time and location of your release from U.S. custody. Ghost promised me not to say anything but…I’m not entirely certain he can be trusted.”

Horror filled Mosin’s eyes. “What did you do? They…they’re gonna fucking slaughter me. I can’t stay here. I can’t…I have to leave. You can’t take me to them. You have to take me back to America.”

“Back to America? Why would I do that? You’re Russian now.”

“I’ll turn myself over to the FBI. I will. Don’t leave me here!”

“Sorry, the FBI gets involved with crimes involving U.S. citizens or, in your case, those possessing U.S. government information—but you no longer fit in either category. Seems you’re no longer in their jurisdiction. Welcome to Moscow.”

Six stood up, walked to the door, and spun around to glare at Mosin. “Who’s your daddy, now?”

Chapter 49

Thursday Evening — New York City

A chill went through Nicky Mumbles’ spine as he listened to the news report. He turned away and covered his mouth. Then blinked in rapid succession. He grabbed the remote control and flipped channels until he could find another.

There his name was again, scrolling across the blue banner along the bottom of the screen.

Bonanno family associate Nicolas “Nicky Mumbles” Muzzatto implicated in the double-slaying of Russian mob bosses, Pavlov and Lev Mashkov. Gun with his fingerprints found at the scene.

His gaze blurred as he sat in disbelief. How could this happen, he asked himself in a repetitive cadence. He paced the bedroom and opened the closet door when it hit him. The money, the gun they robbed from his house.

It was a setup all along.

He reached under his bed, pulled out a black duffle bag, and thought about how he’d torture the motherfucker who did this. As he ran through the list of possibilities, two stuck out in his mind. Had to be them. Fucking Santino smiling in his face, pretending to be loyal. The son of a bitch had it in for him all along. The plan was smart. The Donatos wanted to get rid of him as much as he wanted to kill them. Now they could do so without causing a rift or turning half the family against them. They’d be united more than ever against the Russians. He wondered who thought of it first. Sal or Santino? Musta been Sal. He was one of the smartest bosses of any of the families, even if a pain the ass. Nicky forgot Sal’s imprisonment reflected the stupidity of a few idiots in his family, not Sal himself.

Nicky loaded into his bag a few stacks of bills, his favorite Beretta, and a couple of clips. Then he covered them with underwear and T-shirts, a couple pairs of pants. He picked up his phone. Funny he’d not received a single call from anyone in light of the news reports.

Nobody called to ask him what was going on. The dead silence struck him as strange as seeing his name on the screen. If nobody was asking questions that meant everyone had answers. The traitor against him was in the family. All those backstabbing sons of bitches would pay.

For now, he’d go on the lam. If he knew anything about the Russians, they’d never let this ride. Killing the Mashkovs was like killing two bosses. Even if Max Novikov’s people had no money tied to them, they wouldn’t be happy with both being gunned down like animals in the street.

Nicky checked out the window. His neighborhood was dark and lifeless. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mrs. Cantrell walked her ugly mutt as usual in the front. He decided to go out the back door. Didn’t want her seeing him leave in case the Feds came nosing around and asking questions.

He turned off the TV and the lights and crept outside, careful not to make a sound. He’d walk through the alley to the end of the block where he’d parked his Chrysler and sack out at his stash house in Jersey.

A few steps out of his yard, he heard a voice with a heavy Russian accent.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Nicky froze but didn’t turn around. Just dropped his bag and put his hands up.

“You’ve got this all wrong. It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill ‘em.”

Nicky turned around in slow motion, quivering inside, but keeping a brave face. His weapons were in the bag. He couldn’t pull them out. He looked to the left and right. There was nowhere to run, and he had the sprinting speed of a slug. He had no choice. Just closed his eyes and waited for the bullets to pierce him.

The first ones burned through his knees and legs. The next in his gut, his shirt soaked fast as he crumbled to the ground in anguished pain and cried out. One turned to the other and pulled out a small ax from his interior pocket.

“You know,” one of the men said, his voice grainy and sinister. “In some Middle Eastern countries, when a man commits a crime they cut off the offending limbs. Which part offends you?”

His partner hoisted the axe over his head as Nicky pled for his life and said “All of them.”

The next day they found Nicky. Headless and all of his fingers missing except one. That’s how the NYPD identified him. The remains lying next to him belonged to Misha and Dani.

Chapter 50

Thursday Evening — New York City

North 10
th
Street was quiet when Santino arrived at the meeting. Max Novikov had summoned him despite the tit-for-tat attacks clogging the local news headlines. Law enforcement feared war but Santino knew—one way or the other—the conflict would end today.

He tightened his coat around his neck as he shut his car door. The last time he arrived at Max’s warehouse offices, he was Nicky’s sidekick. This time he was an equal. Nicky Mumbles was dead at the hands of a set of Russian executioners, just as Uncle Sal had planned. Now that his hands were clean, in relative terms, and his family more united than ever, it was time to solidify a deal that could ensure the Bonanno family prospered for years to come. Knuckles, his muscle, stood at his side, ready to help him deal with the devil.

The mountains met them at the door and escorted them inside the area where Max sat at the table waiting, his expression stoic. Judging from the look on Max’s face, Santino began to question the true motivation for the gathering. He wondered whether the reason for the sit-down had anything to do with the Bonanno family future…and began to doubt whether he’d walk out alive. Max had told him that the Mashkovs were more liability than asset, that they’d cost him more money than they earned. But he didn’t appear the least bit thankful.

He appeared ready to kill.

Walking heavy, Santino took a seat and leaned back with a cocksure attitude as if he’d done Max a favor. If Max disagreed with Santino when they started their discussions, he’d concede by the time Santino left through the front door…and on his feet.

“Well, well, well…the great Santino. Captain, right? You’ve been busy since we last met, yes?”

Santino nodded and looked him in the eye. “Bad news travels fast.”

“Or good news,” Max replied, “depending on which side of the ground you’re on.”

“True. True.”

“Am I correct in assuming you’ve heard about the unfortunate demise of my former partners?”

“Yeah. I also heard they hit a top earner in my family, too. Funny how those nasty rumors get started, eh?”

“Funny? Perhaps,” Max pulled a gun from the seat beside him and pointed the barrel at Santino. “A sign of misfortune for you, however. We Russians aren’t famous for our senses of humor.”

He snapped the trigger.

No shot fired.

The gun was empty…and Santino never flinched. Instead, he let out a strained chuckle and said, “And you say Russians don’t have senses of humor.”

Soon the entire room enveloped in depraved laughter. The mountains, Knuckles, and Max, who looked at his puppets and said, “You see? This is why I love this guy. Nerves of fucking steel. You, on the other hand, I say ‘boo’ and you jump. Leave us alone, please.”

His people filed in line and exited the room, then Max pulled a briefcase from beneath the table and opened it on top. “Here’s the other half of your money.”

Santino scanned the contents, lifting several stacks and fanning them out to see the twenties and hundred-dollar bills. “This is beginning to smell a lot like business,” he said, closing the case and sitting it on the floor. “We can discuss the details later.”

They shook hands, and Santino left…with the family back in business. As they prepared to drive back to Bay Ridge, Santino’s phone rang. It was Frankie Z.

“Hey, we got a problem,” Frankie said, his voice lacking its usual upbeat tone. “We
all
got a problem.”

Santino dismissed Swifty’s attempt to start drama; he was full of it. “I’m carrying a briefcase heavy enough to wash all of our troubles away.”

“Well, unless you’re carrying immunity from prosecution, what you’ve got in that brief case don’t mean jack!”

“Prosecution? What the hell are you talkin’ about prosecution?”

“The fucking Feds. They picked up The Razor on racketeering and narcotics charges.”

“What? I told his stupid ass to lay low.”

“Cocksucker doesn’t take instructions very well. They popped him while he was in the middle of boning his goomar. They followed her to the apartment where he was staying.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Well, it gets worse. He’s turning state’s witness. Rolled over like a fucking Labrador retriever begging for treats. Indictments are gonna be falling from the sky like rain. And, given all shit he’s done, and the people he’s whacked, there ain’t a family from here to LA that ain’t gettin’ wet.”

“Mother of God. Uncle Sal just got out. I gotta do something… and fast or he’s goin’ back in.”

Chapter 51

Friday Morning — Scranton Half-Way House

Tony returned to the hotel room just past midnight after driving around for hours, too wired to sleep and too tired to function. Unable to settle down his mind, he took a two-hour drive to Scranton to visit his father. With his emotions swirling over Dante’s death and his own life turning in circles, for the first time in decades he needed his father…and for the first time in decades his father would be there for him.

As they sat in the common area of the fifteen-room shelter developed from a duplex, Tony released his feelings to the person who’d give him the truth with brute honesty.

“I’m confused, Pop,” he said. “What I did yesterday, I never thought I’d do. Now, I feel torn between two worlds and, for the first time in my life, I’m not sure which way to turn.”

His father stood up, patted him on the shoulder, and took a seat in the chair adjacent to his. He leaned forward with his elbows on knees and clasped his fingers together. “Tony, my life is my life. I made my choices, and you made yours. You’ve been a lot of things in your life; indecisive’s never been one of them. You know what you want.”

Tony bit his bottom lip glanced away.

“Listen, whatever you think about this life, it allowed me to take care of my family, my kids. Fed you, kept you clothed, put you through five years of college. I have no shame about what I do or who I am. Did I want you to be a Fed? Hell no. But more than that I didn’t want you to live without honor. I didn’t want you to be a traitor to the life that sustained you for all those years.”

“I have lived my life with honor, and I’ve stayed as far away the family business as I could.”

Sal nodded. “Yep, and now the secret’s out. You never were a rat. Anything else, I can live with…from a distance, of course. But I can live with it.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you drove two hours for me to help you with a decision you’ve already made. Be a man. Honor your decisions. You’re the warrior I raised you to be.”

His father words soothed him like a balm. What he needed to do now, in his career, and in his life, seemed clearer than ever.

“Now that we’ve cleared the air, Santino tells me you’re dating someone.”

“I’m not dating her,” Tony said. “I’m in love with her.”

“Hmph,” he said. “Is ‘at right?”

“I know, right? Who woulda thought it. Me…in love with J.J. But she makes me happy. She’s my choice—nothing indecisive about it.”

“Well, I don’t have to ask whether or not she loves you. From what I hear, she sounds a lot like your mother. But I’ll tell you what I told Santino—in the dark and under the sheets, it’s all pretty much the same. Courage? Loyalty? Protecting your family like her own? And taking shit from Dree without clockin’ her? Women like that are hard to come by…in any color.”

Tony chuckled. His father always had a way of putting things that hit straight to the heart with no chaser. Tony left Scranton with his mind made up to max his credit cards at Tiffany’s and ask J.J. to be his wife. But first he needed sleep.

He had no medicine. No Tylenol PM or other sleep-inducing drugs to help settle his mind, which raced, spiraling into depressing thoughts of Dante. Giving up the struggle, he decided to raid the minibar, mixing a makeshift Long Island Iced tea from coke, vodka, gin, tequila, and rum, and downing it on an empty stomach, which he realized was a mistake as the heat surged through his belly. He was a relative lightweight when it came to hard liquor.

The booze warmed him to the point of sweating. He had begun stripping off his clothes when a knock came at the door. He blinked a few times to clear his blurring vision and stumbled over to answer it, each step less sure than the last.

“J.J.,” he thought to himself. “My future wife.”

He twisted the knob and pulled it open. “Gia?”

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I’ve been sick worrying about how you’re doing.”

“I’m okay,” he said, looking down at his feet and noticing that he was standing in the door in his underwear with no shirt. He closed the door enough to conceal his body behind it.

“I’m fine,” he said. The words didn’t sound slurred in his head, but he could tell from Gia’s expression something had not come out as intended. “Just had a drink so I could get some sleep. You better go. J.J. will be here in a minute.”

“Please,” she said, pressing her hand against the door to keep it from closing. Her eyes were innocent, her voice soothing and sweet. “Let me come in, just for a few minutes…to talk.”

She’s just a friend, he thought. J.J. would be his wife, and he was strong enough to resist her. He pursed his lips as he considered the choice he was about to make.

“Tony, you’re over twice my weight and ten inches taller than me. What am I gonna do, rape you? I just want to talk. There’s no harm in talking, right?”

He felt a pang in his stomach as he pulled the door open to allow her inside. “Okay…just let me throw on some clothes.”