Ultimate Betrayal (8 page)

Toney hadn’t thought Bishop’s face could turn any redder, but he was wrong. He wouldn’t tell Bishop he’d let his imbecile partner, Jim Francis, handle the job alone, while he screwed a U.S. Senator’s daughter. He should have known better. Toney didn’t know why Bishop wanted David Hood dead, nor did he care. He vowed to never again let anything in a skirt distract him from business. After all, what other alumnus of the Federal Corrections System had such a good deal? He’d done jobs for Bishop for years. And if this tight-assed, power-hungry, megalomaniacal white man wanted him to eliminate the whole NAACP hierarchy next, that would be okay with him.

“Mr. Bishop,” Toney quietly said, “I let you down and I’m sorry. I promised you I’d take care of this matter and I’ll do just that. No more screwups. I give you my word.”

Bishop’s features eased; the crimson faded from his face. He lowered himself back into a chair and said in a tone that matched Toney’s, “I’ll hold you to it. Of that you can be certain. Now get the hell out of here and finish the job!”

Toney opened the motel room door and turned to look back at Bishop, to give him a reassuring smile. Bishop pointed a finger at Toney, who shut the door.

“Get rid of that useless piece of shit,” Bishop said. “Now!”

“I don’t think—”

“You don’t think I know you were with Senator Swift’s daughter, Amanda, while your partner blew the shit out of the Hood house. That idiot is dangerous. He has a flair for the dramatic and no sense. That’s a bad combination. Get rid of him!”

Toney nodded and left the room. He realized he now had two problems: Get rid of Jim Francis; finish the Hood job.

Bishop seemed anchored to the motel room chair, overwhelmed with anger laced with fear. He thought about how far he’d come and how far he could fall if his past became known. Hood was the last of the men who served in his Afghanistan unit—the only man alive who might know about what he and Robert Campbell had done. As far as he was concerned, Hood was a pissant. A small businessman who had neither the skills nor the resources to go up against a powerful man. If Toney performed, Hood would be an insignificant casualty no one would miss. In the general scheme of things, a thousand Hoods would always be sacrificed so leaders could prosper. That was the natural order of the universe.

“This has been one stressful morning,” Toney said after he and Jim Francis climbed into Toney’s white, supercharged Acura. “I could use a hit.”

“Ooh, that sounds just right, my man. You always know just what Jimbo needs. Let’s go down to that bar out by National, find your pimp friend. What’s his name . . . Speedo? Yeah, that’s it, Speedo. He always got the best shit.”

Toney had watched Francis become a stone-cold drug addict with a narcotics consumption rate that grew while his tolerance for the stuff increased. The wiry, leather-skinned thirty-year-old who looked fifty due to his insatiable appetite for drugs, booze, and junk food was now a liability Toney couldn’t afford. He drove to a bar near National Airport, went inside, bought a bag of pure heroin, returned to his car, and gave the drugs to Francis. While Toney drove to a nearby park and stopped near a giant oak tree, Francis prepared his drug cocktail and injected the hot shot into the inside of his forearm.

Toney knew Francis trusted him, that it would never cross the man’s mind his friend would give him a lethal dose of pure heroin—not even when he turned feverish and the tremors started. By the time Francis started to convulse, Toney realized the end was near. He stepped out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, easily lifted Francis’s wiry, emaciated body from the front seat, and placed him on a park bench. Fascinated with death, he watched while the convulsions continued and Francis vomited. Then he saw a quarter mile down the path a city parks department garbage truck collect trash from a receptacle. He returned to his car and pulled away. In his rear view mirror he saw Francis’s body topple sideways on the bench. “One down and one to go,” he murmured, while he turned up the radio volume and listened to Dinah Washington sing the last few lines of
As We Say Goodbye
.

APRIL 15

CHAPTER 10

Clouds over the cemetery on Bethesda’s north side were so thick and dark it seemed like the middle of the night instead of 11 a.m. The dreary day matched David’s mood. He’d wanted the funeral to take place as quickly as possible, with only family members in attendance. With his Carmela, Heather, and Kyle buried, he would then focus on what he needed more than anything: A deep, “old country” brand of retribution. His father, Peter, understood and so did Gino Bartolucci. The two warhorses lent him silent support as they stood on either side of him at the burial service.

His father had essentially tolerated him since his brother Tommy was killed. The old man never said so, but David always felt his father blamed him for Tommy’s death. That presumed blame had weighed on David for over twenty years. It wasn’t until he had married and Heather and Kyle were born that he and his father had reconciled—sort of.

At sixty, Peter Hood stood ramrod-straight, lean as an athlete. A lifetime in construction had hardened his body and toughened an already steely temperament. He was a silent, reassuring presence. Something icy in his dark eyes discouraged any of Carmela’s family members from even attempting conversation. He spoke only to his son.

After the service, he put his hands on David’s shoulders and said, “I’m with you.” While he continued to stare at David with tear-filled eyes, he added, “We need to find out who took my babies.”

David had seen his father so emotionally distraught twice before: when Tommy died and when David’s mother died. But now there was anger in his father’s voice and David needed his father’s anger more than any other emotion.

Gino Bartolucci and his wife, Rosa, hugged David after the service and then Gino pulled Peter aside.

“Peter, I know you never liked it when David worked for me. And you were upset about him marrying into my family. But I love your son like my own. He’ll need both of us now. You think maybe we can put our differences aside and work together to help him?”

“Gino, I’ve always believed in doing things the right way, the law-abiding way. When you took the mob route, we became strangers to one another. But I never had a problem with David marrying Carmela. I loved her like she was my own child. And I’ve always appreciated your affection for David.” He paused. “But maybe you were right and I was wrong. What has a lifetime of respect for law and order brought me? A son murdered years ago by street punks, and now the loss of a daughter-in-law I truly loved and the grandchildren who owned my heart.” Peter put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and nodded. “Call me when you’re ready.”

The Bartoluccis left the cemetery in a limousine with two bodyguards. Gino had not spoken one word to anyone other than Peter and David at or after the service. While Rosa quietly wept and fingered her rosary, Gino stared at the monotonous scenery they sped through without seeing a thing. He focused on one thought: Had one of his enemies killed Carmela, Heather, and Kyle? Payback against him for something he’d done in the past? He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. Had he been responsible for the bombing?

David drove with Peter from the cemetery in the armored black Lincoln Towncar Warren Masters had delivered to him at the Corona Motel. The vehicle was equipped with bulletproof glass, body armor, and mechanical systems upgraded for rapid evasion maneuvers. It had a small metal locker installed on the floor within easy reach for the driver. The locker held three fully loaded and licensed weapons: an Uzi machine gun, a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol, and a Colt .45 pistol.

Montrose Toney had polished off a 32-ounce Big Gulp while he watched David Hood bury his family. He had a perfect view from the front seat of the stolen Camaro, parked on a hill that overlooked the cemetery. He noticed when Hood and an older man left the cemetery in a black sedan. He started the Chevy, smiled, and said, “Come to Papa, baby. Come to Papa.”

From three vehicles back, Toney watched the Lincoln as it wound its way through city streets. He had no idea where Hood was headed, but he was a patient man and knew his opportunity would present itself sooner or later. The Lincoln pulled onto the I-95 on-ramp. Toney liked that. Drivers on the freeway were more likely to concentrate on traffic in general than on any specific vehicle. Besides, his target was a businessman, not a killer. The guy didn’t have a chance. He chuckled when it began to rain. The rain offered cover of a sort. Things are workin’ out, he thought.

“What will you do now?” Peter asked.

David shot a glance at his father. “I’ll find the bastard who killed my family. And then I’ll kill him.”

Peter sighed. “That’s a slippery slope, son. It always is when someone takes the law into their own hands.”

“You might be right, Dad. But that changes nothing.”

David saw his father slide down in his seat and stretch his legs. He knew the old man was right. But it made no difference. Tommy’s killer had never been brought to justice. That would not happen with the man who had murdered Carmela, Heather, and Kyle.

The droning hum of the car tires filled the Lincoln. David drove as he always did—on the alert. Because he assumed he had been the target of the attack that killed his family, he was now especially alert. Because of the rain, the sparse traffic moved more slowly than usual. Spray flew from the vehicles in front of the Lincoln and splattered against its windshield. David cranked up the windshield wiper speed. He looked in the rear view mirror and tapped his brakes a couple times to signal the asshole in the Camaro directly behind him to back off.

“Sonofabitch!” David said.

“What’s wrong?” Peter said.

“There’s a red Camaro on my ass.”

David flipped on his turn signal and moved to the lane on the right. The Camaro mirrored his maneuver. The lane opened up in front of the Lincoln.

“Why don’t we check it out, Dad?” He accelerated from fifty-five to seventy-five miles per hour and looked in his mirror. The red Camaro was now about three car lengths back.

David felt a surge of adrenaline. He rapped his knuckles on the weapons locker and told his father, “Take out a pistol. I need to find an exit.”

Based on a sign on the side of the highway, the nearest exit was seven miles north. He abruptly increased his speed to ninety miles an hour, shifted back to the middle lane, and aimed the Lincoln straight ahead. The Camaro followed.

The two cars hurtled down the road. They jockeyed from one lane to the next. David couldn’t put any distance between them and the Chevy. Soon their pursuer moved to the far left lane, abreast of the Lincoln. Both vehicles blasted down the freeway and sprayed torrents of water from the rain-drenched roadway in their slipstreams. David laid heavily on the Lincoln’s horn to sweep slower-moving vehicles out of the way.

Peter shouted, “Brake now! Now!”

David hit the brakes. The Lincoln skidded on the rain-slick pavement and fishtailed right, then left, and right again. The Camaro rocketed past. Car horns blared and tires screeched all around them. David hit the gas, straightened the car, and accelerated after the Camaro.

Toney, now two hundred yards farther down the highway, frantically looked for Hood in his rear view mirror. He saw the Lincoln skid and fishtail in the middle of the wet road. Then it picked up speed and closed the distance between them.

Peter lowered his window and switched the 9mm pistol off safe. David kept the Lincoln just feet off the Camaro’s bumper. “I’ve got a clear shot,” Peter shouted.

Suddenly, the Camaro switched lanes, sideswiped another vehicle, and raced ahead again until it vanished in the heavy rain.

David took the next exit and drove east to US 1, and then north. In Dorsey, Maryland, he stopped outside a diner and took a minute to calm down. His head hurt and his hands shook as he came off the adrenaline high. His stomach ached as though an acid tap had been turned on there.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” Peter said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought maybe the explosion was a mistake. I mean, maybe someone got the wrong house. But that sonofabitch in the Camaro was after you. You must have done something bad to someone.”

“It’s always my fault. Right, Dad? Tommy’s death. Mom losing it. All my fault.”

“Ancient history, David. Just because you feel guilty, don’t blame me.”

“You made me feel like I was nothing from the time I was twelve years old. If it hadn’t been for Gino Bartolucci, I wouldn’t have had anyone to talk to.”

Peter’s mouth dropped open and his eyes misted. “I didn’t blame you for Tommy’s death. I blamed myself. A father’s supposed to be able to protect his children.”

David glared at his father. “How the hell do you think I feel?”

“I know exactly how you feel. I didn’t know how to get past Tommy’s murder. I never blamed you; you’ve got to believe me. I know I didn’t give you the support you needed. And I resented Gino for being there for you.” He paused a couple seconds. “I’ve always been proud of you, son. And I’ve always loved you. Perhaps I can’t make up for the past, but I’ll do my best to try.”

“Let’s go inside,” David said.

David didn’t think he could eat, but he followed his father into the diner. He watched Peter eat a hamburger while he sipped at a cup of bad coffee, which only aggravated his already-sour stomach. When the waitress cleared their plates, David looked at his father. “What you said in the car, about doing something awful to someone that would make him want to kill me. I can’t think of a damn thing I’ve ever done that would drive someone to want to commit murder. Even guys my company caught breaking cyber laws, and who went to prison, wouldn’t retaliate by committing murder. I’ve thought a lot about it. The whole thing makes no sense.”

Peter appeared to think about that for a while. “Maybe the explosion and that maniac in the Camaro were payback for something Gino did.”