Bad Behavior (27 page)

“All
right!”
Ben scooted toward the car door.

“Hold it!” Joe commanded. “
I’m
going in.
You’re
staying in the car.”

“What?” Ben shrieked.

“Hang on,” Jerry held up his hand. “If you’re going in, I’m going in. Ben will stay in the car by himself.”

Joe shook his head. “Officer Stone, you don’t need to do this. This isn’t your battle.”

“The hell it’s not. If one of my parolees is in there, I’m not sitting out here twiddling my thumbs.”

“I’m not either!” Ben hollered. “I’m the one who knows how to get to the crypt!”

“Then you’re going to tell us everything,” Joe countered. “There’s no way you’re going in there.”

“This is bullshit!”

Joe looked nonplussed. “This isn’t some cops-and-robbers TV show, Ben. The bodyguards have guns. And if they catch us in there, they’re going to know right away this isn’t a friendly family visit.”

“But I can convince them I’m just jackin’ my style, you know, all epic chill.”

Jerry and Joe exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Jerry, don’t let him do this to me,” Ben pleaded.

“That’s Officer Stone to you, punk. Shut your trap and listen to the commander or I’ll slap the cuffs back on you.”

Jerry’s threat didn’t seem to have much of an effect on Ben. Defiantly lacing his arms in front of him, Ben challenged, “You’re never going to find the crypt without me.”

“You’re right. We won’t as long as you keep stalling. Now start talking.”

When Ben hesitated, the commander exploded. “Start talking
now,
mister, or you’ll be doing push-ups all night long!”

Jerry found himself sitting up straighter at the booming, authoritative voice, and the whites of Ben’s widened eyes became visible. Nervously he began spilling information.

After listening to a few minutes of detailed instructions from the rebuked sixteen-year-old, Joe reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks, Ben. I know you want to get in there and save Sophie, but Grant specifically asked me to keep you safe. It’d destroy your uncle if anything happened to you.”

Ben looked down, quiet.

“Stay here in the car, okay?”

He reluctantly nodded.

Jerry and Joe slunk out of the vehicle and stealthily made their way to the Barberi compound. Both wore faces of stone, belying their pounding hearts.

“I don’t suppose parole officers carry guns?” Joe whispered as they neared the gate.

“Some do—not me, though. I don’t suppose Naval officers do either?”

“No, sir. It’s a good thing we’re equally qualified then.”

Jerry gave a smirk as he reached up to punch in the security code Ben provided. “Yeah…equally qualified to get shot.”

As the gate creaked open, he looked at his partner in crime. “I should’ve handcuffed that kid to the car.”

***

The elation he’d previously overheard had faded, and now the passengers in the car grew silent. Grant shifted in the darkness of the trunk and fought the urge to kick out a taillight and signal for help. He didn’t feel so brave now that he knew the good guys were no longer with him.

Feeling the hard briefcase by his knee, he tried to listen intently to pick up any clues about where they were heading. His entire plan would be shot to hell if the FBI missed out on busting the illegal money exchange. He heard indistinguishable city sounds for several minutes, and then the hum of the road changed pitch, becoming higher, almost like the tires were singing. It sounded like they were crossing over metal grating…possibly a bridge…a drawbridge?

Grant’s eyes darted around the blackness—were they crossing the Chicago River? The same river he’d traversed all summer long in Roger’s ship?

C’mon, think!
Chicago had the most moving bridges of any city in the world—how many moving bridges were there? He started mentally checking them off from west to east: Franklin, Wells, LaSalle, Clark, Dearborn… He felt the car slow and turn left, and a hush descended around them as honks and road noises were no longer detectable. Were they in a parking garage? His mind frantically searched for buildings near the river, trying to recall each architectural wonder he’d described to ship passengers.

Remembering he was still wired, Grant urgently whispered, “We just crossed a bridge, uh, and now w-we’re in a parking garage, I think. It could be…Trump Tower, maybe?”

His weight shifted round and round before he realized the car must be ascending some sort of spiral parking ramp. A round building? What round structures were on the riverbank?

Grant sucked in a huge breath and excitedly whispered “Marina City!” He hoped he didn’t say it too loudly. “I think we’re in Marina City,” he continued more somberly, visions of the funky, honeycomb towers filling his mind.

Foreigners loved the towers, a distinctive Chicago landmark. Would Serbian-born gubernatorial candidate Darko Jovanovich happen to have a residence at Marina City?

The illumination of red lights combined with the jerk of the brake, and Grant heard a male voice with some sort of Latino accent outside the car: “Welcome to the East Tower. We’ll park your car for you.”

“We’re in the East Tower,” Grant informed whoever was listening.

“We don’t want valet,” the Mafia driver gruffly replied, and the car inched forward.

“Sir!” the valet called out. “You must valet here. We don’t want your car falling into the river now, do we?”

“Fuck you, Diego” came the snarling reply. “Move your asscheek-ohs or they’re gonna have tread marks all over them.”

Apparently the valet got out of the way because the car resumed its forward motion. Grant figured it might be hard to explain his presence to the valet. After parking, someone quickly popped the trunk to release him.

As he climbed out, Grant asked, “Are we in Marina City?”

Tank delivered a swift uppercut to the abdomen, nearly doubling him over, but Grant maintained his hold on the briefcase.

“No questions,” Tank threatened.

Grant hid his smile. He had his answer.

***

Joe found it hard to believe they’d not been confronted by bodyguards yet. Maybe Grant was right about the Barberi family faltering. The commander’s throat was dry, and each corner they crept past accelerated his heartbeat, but Jerry detected none of this apprehension.
Fake it till you make it,
Joe’s superiors had always taught him, and that philosophy had gotten him through more than one treacherous situation during Vietnam. He moved forward confidently yet quietly as he mentally rehearsed the directions Ben had provided.

He came upon the basement door and winced as it creaked open. Jerry defensively scanned around them, but all was silent.

“Let’s do this,” Joe whispered, taking the lead down the darkened, carpeted staircase.

They turned to the right and headed toward the wine cellar, carefully entering the cool, dark stacks. Expensive bottles of Chianti and cabernet stared back at them. They counted ten paces along the left interior wall, which left them standing before two stacked wine casks. The men worked together to slide the top cask to the right, heaving the heavy container, which made a grating noise against the lower cask.

Standing stock-still, ever-vigilant, both waited several moments before proceeding, feeling for a small keypad on the base of the cask. “You ready?” Joe asked, and Jerry nodded, stepping to the right and assuming a centered fighting stance. Turning back to the keypad, Joe told himself, “Carlo’s birth date,” and punched in 0-5-1-5-7-6.

There was a slight rumbling as the wall slid open, and brightness poured into the cavernous wine cellar. Jerry rushed forward into the now-accessible room with Joe hot on his tail, and they screeched to a halt upon seeing a large man resting his pock-marked face on blindfolded Sophie’s shoulder as both slumped over in side-by-side chairs.

Sensing movement, the bodyguard lifted his head and appeared dumbfounded to find two men near the entrance of the soundproofed room. His beady eyes darted to a side table, and Jerry and Joe followed his gaze to a Glock 23 gleaming in the fluorescent lighting.

With a roar, the bodyguard leaped up and lunged for the gun at the exact moment Jerry careened toward the table. Unfortunately for the larger man, Jerry reached his destination first and snapped up to standing, pointing the weapon at the bodyguard.

“Stop right there!” Jerry ordered. “Police! Don’t you fucking move.”

Alarmed that Sophie hadn’t stirred at all, Joe narrowed his blue eyes at the big man. The bodyguard’s attention was so riveted to the muzzle of his own gun that he failed to detect a rush of movement to his left. Joe’s body slammed into his, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

The attack stole all air from the bodyguard’s lungs, and he was defenseless as Joe’s steel fist smashed into his nose, immediately creating a bloody mess. He groaned as relentless punches peppered his face and chest.

Seeing scarlet, Joe felt like he was outside his body, and he observed himself whaling on a man who weakly raised his arms to deflect the repeated blows. Years of repressed rage against the Barberi family flowed from Joe’s fists, and the only thing that stopped him was Jerry hollering “Commander!” while hauling him off of the bodyguard.

Joe somehow found himself back on his feet, panting from exertion, his hands covered in blood. Jerry had a firm grasp on his arm, and they gazed down at the untidy, unmoving heap lying at their feet.

“Let’s get Sophie out of here,” Jerry urged, and Joe nodded, coming out of his haze and rushing over to take her pulse.

“She’s just unconscious.” He breathed out in relief after locating her faint but steady heartbeat.

“Taylor!” Jerry hissed in her ear while loosening her bindings, receiving only a woozy groan in return.

Once she was free, Joe bent down and hooked her arm around his neck, while Jerry pocketed the handgun and did the same with her other arm. They quickly carried her out of the room, the tips of her high-heeled boots dragging on the carpeted floor. Stepping into the wine cellar, Jerry held onto Sophie’s slumping body while Joe swiftly entered the code and watched the door slide shut, becoming hidden in the wall once again.

“Give me the gun,” Joe demanded, and Jerry handed him the weapon.

The commander crashed the butt of the Glock into the keypad console with a loud crack, which had both men scanning the basement for any movement. Joe’s third try was the charm, leaving the keypad smashed and disabled—he hoped.

By the time Joe had risen again, Jerry had scooped Sophie into his arms, her head flopping limply.

“You sure you can carry her?” Joe asked.

“You take point with the gun, and I’ll be right behind you,” Jerry promised, squeezing her protectively.

They crept up the stairs, and Joe could hear Jerry grunting softly with exertion behind him. Once they reached the main floor, Joe tightened his hold on the weapon and peered out into the foyer, miraculously failing to detect any bodyguards. They kept moving speedily and soundlessly, and both felt sheer elation when they emerged into the compound courtyard. It had been almost too easy. If Enzo did indeed make it out of prison, he certainly wouldn’t be pleased to learn how weak his empire had become.

Joe punched in the pass code, and the exterior gate swung open. Jerry stepped in front of the metal bars to hold the door open with his back.

“Hold on,” Joe whispered, using his shirttails to grasp the gun with one hand and wipe away the fingerprints with the other. Tossing the gun into the bushes inside the gate, he glanced at Jerry’s strained face and leaned forward to scoop up Sophie. “Let me take her. Go.”

Ben had popped out of the vehicle and hopped all around Joe as he approached the car, almost impeding his progress. “Ohmigod!” he gasped. “You got her! Is she okay? Why are her eyes closed?”

Joe ignored the rapid-fire questions until he’d maneuvered Sophie into the backseat and scooted in next to her.

“Front seat!” Jerry shouted at Ben as he scrambled into the driver’s seat.

Bewildered, Ben slid into the passenger seat but instantly turned around, his eyes glued to the beautiful woman slouched unnaturally in the back.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” Joe implored.

“I’m on it.” Jerry sped away, flinging his cell phone into Ben’s grasp and barking, “Call Marilyn! She’s in my contacts.”

As Ben located the number, a wave of fear swept over Joe. What if Tank and Mario found out Sophie had been freed before Grant completed the drop? His nephew would be a dead man.
Find Grant,
he silently implored the FBI.
Find my boy.

***

As Grant jostled along the circular interior hallway, he noticed his hand was throbbing as it gripped the briefcase handle. He’d seen Tank eye the briefcase covetously, and he wondered if he’d try to make a move for the money before it exchanged hands. Grant hoped Tank was too afraid of Enzo to pull such a stunt.

Attempting to figure out a way to notify the task force about their exact location, Grant feigned curiosity at each apartment door they passed. “Fifteen oh-five…fifteen oh-six—”

The muzzle of Tank’s gun slammed into his ribs, and he inhaled sharply. Tank leaned in and hissed, “We already know college boy can count. Shut the fuck up.”

They arrived at apartment 1510, and Tank knocked softly. Tension rippled through the three men while they waited for an answer. In a quiet, menacing tone, Tank instructed, “They need to think everything’s copacetic with the family. Go along or the girl gets it.” As if Grant needed a reminder.

A man with jet-black hair and Slavic features opened the door, peering at them suspiciously. “You’re late,” he said.

Tank shrugged. “Had some trouble losing a tail.”

A storm cloud crossed his dark complexion. “You sure you lost them?”

“Of course,” Tank scoffed. “You letting us in or what?”

Still appearing mistrustful, the man opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow the tall trio into the apartment. Grant knew every Marina City apartment had a balcony, but in this residence velvet curtains were pulled closed over the wall of sliding glass doors. If they were in the East Tower, he wondered what view hid behind the rich, dark-red curtains—perhaps the river? The Hancock Building?