Two minutes later Sean was seated in the Gulfstream holding a scotch on the rocks. She swiveled the chair, looked out, and caught Deputy Munsen staring up at her sourly from the tarmac. Sean touched her glass to the window and smiled.
47
New York, New York
The ebony Lincoln pulled up in front of a six-story building in lower Manhattan. The driver got out, walked around to the passenger's side, and opened the door. Herman Hoffman and four other men climbed out of the vehicle. Herman moved with the confidence of a man who was certain his brittle legs would snap if he dared go any faster.
The driver, a blond with a tattoo of barbed wire wrapping his wrist, used a key to open the building's door. “Thank you, Ralph,” Herman said.
The four men followed Herman inside and stepped into the elevator with him, affording the elderly man more than his share of space.
“I'm bushed,” Herman said. “Could sleep for a week.”
“Yes, sir,” Ralph said. “I expect we all could.”
“First, Ralph, find out why my other team hasn't reported in. If they were captured, we have to get to them immediately. If there were casualties, we need to get them collected. If they didn't get the target-if by some miracle she made it through-we'll have to deal with that immediately. Get me all the intelligence you can compile ASAP.”
Herman looked at the man in the corner wearing a black all-weather coat and matching baseball cap and smiled weakly. “I doubt even the hand of God could have saved the inhabitants of that house if the men made it there. If they didn't make it to the island, we'll deal with fixing that. I can't assess the situation until I have all the information.”
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor and the four other men got out, leaving Herman and Ralph alone in the car.
“You men get some rest and we'll meet later and see what we have left to do, or if we are done.” Herman raised his head slowly and stared at the man in the ball cap until the doors closed.
“Sir?”
Herman opened his eyes to find Ralph kneeling beside the chair where he had dozed off after lunch.
“Sir, sorry, but we have word on the island team. All four were erased and their equipment was captured.”
“I was afraid the sailors would somehow get an alarm out to the Marine base. Damn.”
“That deputy, Massey, killed them.”
“What?” Herman sat up, fully awake now. He had taken a risk, knowing the marines could respond before the team was done, but… “A deputy marshal killed four of my boys? That's impossible. The intelligence is wrong. The SEALs must have caught them in the open.”
“The Devlin woman and the marshal are definitely alive, sir. Our four are confirmed dead.”
“You're absolutely certain?”
“Their fingerprints have already been put through the system. Control picked them up and Fifteen is on the phone, wanting to talk to you.”
“What else?”
“The radar staff was neutralized. The female marshal was, too. They got that far without a problem. But Massey turned it. He took them one by one.”
Herman felt like a great weight was sitting on his chest. “Send the snapshots to the client as planned. We have to find Sean Devlin.”
Herman lifted up the encrypted telephone on the table beside the chair and put it to his ear.
“What the hell is going on?” Herman wasn't surprised that the demanding voice on the other end was icy. Herman had known Fifteen since he'd recruited him twenty-four years earlier. For the past six years his protege controlled all of the dark cells except Herman's. After Herman's death, he would have them all. But until that happened, Herman didn't answer to Fifteen or anyone else.
“Fifteen, how thoughtful of you to call. I need assistance with some light sweeping.”
“I know that,” Fifteen replied. “When were you going to mention this to me?”
“When you had a need to know,” Herman said.
“I presume I have, now that all hell has broken loose. We have to discuss this matter, Herman.”
“I'd be happy to talk with you anytime, Fifteen. Perhaps in a few days.”
“So, this thing-whatever it was-is over, right? You don't plan any more surprises, do you?”
“Very close to being done. I have a couple of loose ends. Nothing for you to worry about. Everything is hunky-dory.” Herman hung up the phone.
“Ralph, we'll need to put some effort into finishing Mrs. Devlin before our client finds out and reacts stupidly.”
48
Atlanta, Georgia
Sam Manelli took his meals alone in his cell. The Justice Department wanted to make sure he didn't have any contact with other inmates, or anyone except his lawyers, who they couldn't bar from the prison. They needn't have worried. No one in the population would have dared approach him without Sam's first instigating that contact. If he had been sentenced to life without parole, perhaps he might have been in real danger. Even Al Capone, once he was in prison, became just a middle-aged mop-pusher who was physically assaulted by more powerful inmates. Only if Manelli was cut off completely from his organization, his money, and his political influence would he be in danger, and everyone knew it.
Occasionally, when Sam was being escorted to the dayroom or the yard to meet one of his high-dollar lawyers, a mob-connected inmate in the prison hallway would meet Sam's eye and nod. Sam might, depending on his mood and who made the gesture, acknowledge this with a lowered chin. Or he might ignore it. Word in the facility was that the feds were inclined to turn their backs and allow Manelli to fall victim to foul play. Inmates knew better: No reward outweighed the hell awaiting the man who lifted a hand against Sam Manelli.
The young guard carrying the tray containing Sam's dinner arrived on the other side of the bars. His appearance distracted Sam from his thoughts, which, these days, centered solely on the murder of Dylan Devlin. Sam was wondering when Dylan would be dead, how he would die, what he would think in his dying moments when he knew Sam had gotten to him. The gangster would have paid any amount to have the rat bastard handed over to him. He daydreamed constantly about the most painful way for Devlin to die. The challenge for Sam was to keep from allowing his temper to cause him to kill what he could keep alive but in amazing pain for days, weeks, even years.
“Hello,” Sam said. He even managed a smile for the guard. He didn't have to be nice to the kid, but what the hell did being friendly hurt?
The guard returned the greeting cordially and slid the tray halfway through the slot in the bars. He was set to receive the second half of twenty-five thousand dollars in cash the day Sam was released. Johnny Russo had, at Sam's instruction, been generous with Sam's money. It was easy to make sure that the men Johnny passed it to were in positions to help.
Sam's father had taught him well, rules Sam had never broken, rules that had always before kept him out of jail. Make the right friends. Buy people who can help you. Information is life, ignorance is death. Never write anything you don't want some D.A. showing a jury. Don't be stingy. Never waste money. Use threats only as a last resort. Never go back on your word. Never apologize, never cry or show any sign of weakness. If you say you'll do a
