wipe his ass without checking with Dante.
Sullivan got to the shore town of Mantoloking, New Jersey, just before dusk. As he drove across Barnegat Bay, the ocean in the distance looked almost purple – beautiful, if you liked that kind of picture-postcard, Kodak-moment thing. Sullivan rolled up his windows against the salt air. He couldn't wait to do his business, then get the hell out of here.
The town itself lay on an expensive strip of land less than a mile across. Ricci's house, on Ocean Avenue, wasn't real hard to find. He drove past the front gate, parked up the road, and walked back about a fifth of a mile.
It looked like Ricci was doing pretty well for himself. The main house was a big honking Colonial: three stories, brown cedar shakes, all perfectly maintained, and right on the water. Four-bay garage, a guesthouse, hot tub up on the dune. Six million, easy. Just the kind of shiny object modern-day wiseguys dangled in front of their wives to distract them from the day-to-day stealing and killing they did for a living.
And Dante Ricci was a killer; that was what he did best. Hell, he was the new-and-improved Butcher.
Sullivan couldn't see too much of the layout from the front. He imagined most of the house was oriented to the water view in back. But the beach would offer no good cover for him. He'd have to settle in where he was, and take his time.
That wasn't a problem for him. He had whatever it took to do the job, including patience. A snatch of Gaelic ran through his head, something his grandfather James used to say. Coimhead fearg fhear na foighde, or some shit like that. Beware the anger of a patient man.
Just so, Michael Sullivan thought as he waited, perfectly still in the gathering dusk. Just so.
Chapter 69
IT TOOK A WHILE for him to get a sense of the beach house and its immediate surroundings. There wasn't much movement inside, but enough to see that the family was home: Dante, two small kids, and – at least from this distance – what looked to be the hot young wife, a nice Italian blonde.
But no visitors, and no bodyguards out in plain sight. Specifically, no capital F: Family. That meant any firepower in the house would be limited to whatever Dante Ricci kept on hand. Whatever he had, it probably wasn't going to stack up against the 9mm machine gun pistol Sullivan had holstered at his side. Or his scalpel.
Despite the chill in the air, he was perspiring under his jacket, and a patch of sweat had soaked through his T-shirt where the piece hugged his body. The ocean breeze did nothing to cool him down, either. Only his patience held him in check. His professionalism, he liked to think. Traits he had no doubt inherited from his father, the original Butcher, who, if nothing else, had been a patient bastard.
Finally, he moved in toward the beach house. He walked past a shiny black Jaguar sitting on the blond brick parking pad and entered into one of the open garage bays, where a white Jag made bookends with the black one.
Gee, Dante, ostentatious much?
It didn't take long to find something useful in the garage. The Butcher picked up a short-handled sledgehammer from the workbench in the back. He hoisted it and felt its weight. Just about right. Very nice. Jeez, he liked tools. Just like his old man.
He'd have to swing lefty if he wanted to stay gun-ready, but his strike zone was as big as, well, a Jaguar's windshield.
He shouldered the hammer, paralleled his feet, and went all Mark McGwire on the glass.
A high- pitched car alarm started screaming at the first impact, just like he wanted it to.
Sullivan immediately hoofed it out to the front yard, about halfway back to the main road. He stepped just out of sight behind a mature red oak that seemed out of place here – like him. His finger was at the pistol's trigger, but no. No shooting yet. Let Dante think he was some shitbag Jersey Shore burglar. That should bring him running and cursing.
The front screen door flew open seconds later, smacked hard against the wall of the house. Two sets of floodlights flared.
Sullivan squinted against the light. But he could see ol' Dante on the porch – with a pistol in his hand. In swim shorts no less – and flip-flops. Well muscled and in good shape, but so what. What a cocky bastard this guy was.
Mistake.
'Who the hell's there?' the tough guy shouted into the darkness. 'I said, who's out there? You better start running!'
Sullivan smiled. This was Junior's enforcer? The new Butcher? This buffed punk at his beach house? In bathing trunks and plastic shoes?
'Hey, it's just Mike Sullivan!' he called back.
The Butcher stepped into plain view, took a little bow, then sprayed the front porch before Dante saw it coming. In truth, why would he? Who would have the balls to come after a made man at his house? Who could be that crazy?
'That's just for starters!' the Butcher roared as half a dozen shots struck Dante Ricci in the stomach and chest. The mobster dropped to his knees, glared out at Sullivan, then fell over face-first.
Sullivan kept his finger on the trigger and swept the two Jaguars in the garage and driveway. More glass shattered. Neat lines of holes opened along the expensive chassis. That felt pretty good.
When he stopped shooting, he could hear screams coming from inside the beach house. Women, children. He took out the porch floodlights with two quick, controlled bursts.
Then he approached the house, fingering the scalpel. As soon as he got to the body he knew that Dante Ricci was dead as some bloated mackerel washed up on the beach. Still, he rolled the body and slashed the dead man's face a dozen times or so with the sharp blade. 'Nothing personal, Dante. But you're not the new me.'
Then he turned to go. Dante Ricci had gotten the message, and very, very soon, so would Junior Maggione.
Then he heard a voice coming from outside the house. A female.
'You killed him! You bastard! You killed my Dante!'
Sullivan turned back and saw Dante's wife standing there with a gun in her hand. The woman was petite, a pretty bleached blonde, no more than five feet tall.
The wife fired blindly into the dark. She didn't know how to shoot, couldn't even hold a gun right. But she had some hot Maggione blood in her.
'Get back in the house, Cecilia!' Sullivan shouted. 'Or I'll blow your head off!'
'You killed him! You scumbag! You dirty son of a bitch!' She stepped off the porch, moving into the yard.
The woman was crying, blubbering, but coming to get him, the dumb bunny. 'I'm going to kill you, you fucker.' Her next shot exploded a concrete birdbath, only a yard or so to Sullivan's right.
Her crying had turned to a high-pitched wail. It sounded more like an injured animal than anything human.
Then something inside her snapped, and she charged across the driveway. She fired off one more shot before Sullivan put two into her chest. She dropped like she'd run into a wall, then lay there quivering pathetically. He cut her up too.
Once he got inside his car, he felt better, satisfied with himself. He even welcomed the long drive back. Riding along the turnpike, he opened the windows and cranked up the music, singing Bono's words at the top of his lungs as if they were his own.
Chapter 70
