Cut Out (11 page)

“Long story,” Riley muttered, his mind flashing back to a rapidly flooding tunnel beneath the streets of Chicago and Giannini pulling him along to safety.

Lisa gestured at his uniform. “What do you do in the army?”

That was a question civilians often asked and was actually hard to answer. “I’m in the Special Forces.” At her blank look, Riley amplified his answer. “The Green Berets.”

“Oh.” She waited a second and then repeated her question. “But what do you do?”

“Right now I teach at the school where we train new soldiers for the Special Forces.”

Her next question was more to the point. “Why does Donna think you can protect me?”

Riley’s face was a blank. “I’ve had some training and experience that might be applicable.”

“Applicable?” Lisa persisted.

“You’re safe,” Riley assured her. “We’re not being followed, and no one knows you’re here with me except for Giannini—and she surely isn’t going to tell anyone.” Riley pulled up in front of his townhouse. “End of the road.”

He let her in and pointed out the shower and the bedroom. “I’ve got to check on some things. You get cleaned up and get some sleep.

“There’s a sweat suit that should fit you in the second drawer of the dresser. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Riley sat at the kitchen bar downstairs and considered everything he’d been told, then he picked up the phone and dialed Giannini’s work number. She answered right away.

“Donna, it’s Dave.”

“Did you get her?”

“Yeah. She’s safe and sound. Taking a shower as we speak.”

“What’s going on, Dave?”

As succinctly as possible, Dave related Lisa’s story.

Giannini concurred with Lisa’s assumptions. “They must have tracked Jill Fastone down there, or she gave them the information. I checked the file on the Torrentino case, Dave. Fastone was involved with Michael Torrentino for several years. I find it very hard to believe that she just happened to dump the biggest mobster in Chicago for some married real estate developer. They used her to draw Philip Cobb into the organization. They needed someone clean and from the outside to launder money for them, and they must have used his affair to keep him on a leash.”

“Then Fastone set him up,” Riley said.

“Must have.” Giannini paused. “There was something funny about the case files, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some pages were missing and some names were blacked out.”

“Any way you can find out what’s missing?”

Giannini explained about Guyton. “I don’t think that’s an avenue I want to pursue,” she concluded.

“If they got Lisa’s husband, why do they still want to kill her?” Riley pressed.

“To send a message,” Giannini said.

“How are they sending a message when no one knows about the hit?”

“Oh, you can be sure the word will get out on the street. It’s the new wave—something the mob learned from the Colombians: families are no longer safe. They’ll keep after Lisa until she’s either dead or out of their reach somehow.”

Riley pulled the 9mm out of the shoulder holster and laid it on the countertop. “We need to get her back under the protection of the feds.”

“I can’t believe those idiots left them alone and unguarded in that motel,” Giannini said.

“I can understand it,” Riley said. Lisa had repeated to him what Donnelly had told them just before departing. “They have to have some sort of cut-out at the local level to prevent compromise inside their own organization. If Lisa’s husband hadn’t gotten in contact with his girlfriend, they’d have been all right. The screwup wasn’t on the feds’ end—it was Philip Cobb’s.”

“Are you going to call the number she was given?” Giannini asked.

Riley ran a finger along the blackened metal of the gun barrel. “Not right away. Let the assholes sweat a little first. If their people showed up at the rest area, they must have come across the result of the fight. I’ll call them first thing tomorrow.” He frowned. “Funny thing, though. There was nothing on the news this morning or in the local paper. You’d think two dead people on the interstate would make the news.”

“Maybe the feds clamped down on it when they were notified,” Giannini said. “Another pile of shit swept under the rug. You should know about that.”

“Yeah,” Riley agreed. “Or it simply might have happened too late to make the morning paper.”

“I’ll get in contact with Lisa’s brother and let him know she’s all right.”

“Okay.”

“And Dave—”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Riley put down the phone, then punched in the number for Moon Hall—the guest quarters for military personnel on Fort Bragg—and rang through to Hammer’s room.

The voice that answered sounded quite happy. “Tony’s funeral home. You stab ’em, we slab ’em.”

“Hammer?”

“Yo!”

“This is Dave Riley.”

“What’s up, Chief?”

“What have they got you doing tomorrow?”

“Shooting ice cream and eating marbles.” There was a pause, then Hammer’s voice turned serious. “Not much, Chief. Why? You have something for me?”

“Yeah, but it’s not exactly official work. I can cover for you at the company. I’ve got a woman here at my place who needs someone to guard her for a little while. I can do it tonight, but I need to show up at work tomorrow and I was hoping you might be able to come out here and watch over her while I’m at PT.”

“Sure thing, Chief. She good-looking?”

“Her husband just got killed the other night and I think the mob is after her to finish the job.”

All the humor was gone from Hammer’s voice. “What time do you want me at your place?”

“Zero-five-thirty.”

“Roger. I’ll be there. Run a few miles for me, eh, laddie?” Hammer asked no more questions, simply accepting what Riley told him at face value.

Riley hung up the phone and settled down on his couch to think.

Upstairs the tears finally flowed, soaking the sheets. It was all gone— Melissa, her old life, and now Philip. Everything was over. Lisa grabbed the pillow and pulled it tight to her chest, wrapping her arms around it, as sobs racked her body.

Chapter Seven

CHICAGO

30 OCTOBER, 7:45 a.m.

“So what’s up?” Giannini asked as she made her way through Homicide, grabbing her daily morning cup of coffee.

“It ain’t what’s up, it’s what’s down. Permanently down,” Lorenzo cracked. “That’s what we deal with.”

Giannini rolled her eyes. “You stay awake all night thinking that one up?”

Lorenzo was a dud—everyone knew it—and that’s why he was anchored to his desk in Homicide instead of being out on the streets doing a real job. She glanced around. Lorenzo was all alone, which had prompted her first question. “Where is everyone?”

“Out at the filtration plant.”

“What do they have?”

“A body.”

Giannini reeled in her temper. She didn’t need this shit. “Everyone’s gone for one body?”

“A wise-guy hit.”

Giannini could just picture Lorenzo sitting up late at night, practicing impressions of various TV detectives. “Who got killed?” Lorenzo glanced down at his desk.

“Some dame named Fastone.” Giannini slowly put down her coffee mug.

“The filtration plant?” Lorenzo looked puzzled.

“Yeah, but why . . .” His next words were lost as Giannini headed out the door.

FAYETTEVILLE

30 OCTOBER, 8:50 a.m.

Hammer was sitting on the couch, his attention divided between the sliding glass doors leading onto the small patio, and the front door. He heard Lisa Cobb upstairs long before he ever saw her. He listened to the progression from the bedroom to the shower, back to the bedroom, and now down the carpeted stairs.

Seeing him in the living room, Lisa stopped in alarm. “Who are you?”

“Frank Davis, but most people call me Hammer—and no, I don’t do rap. I had this name a long time before that guy showed up. I’m a friend of Dave’s. He asked me to look after you while he went to work. He said he’d be back later this morning to make the phone call he talked to you about. He said there were some things he had to work on before you could make that call.”

“Am I just going to get passed from person to person?” she asked, her body tense. She was wearing a loose set of gray sweats, and she knew she looked only slightly better than she had yesterday. She moved slowly, trying not to aggravate a long bruise up her right side, a result of the car getting rolled.

Hammer gave his most charming smile. “You have to look at the quality of the people who are doing the passing.”

She observed his camouflage fatigues. “You work with Riley?”

“Part-time. I’m a reservist here at Bragg for six weeks of active duty training. As such, I am expendable—which means that no one will miss me at the company this morning. But if Chief Riley isn’t there, he gets missed.”

Lisa poured herself a cup of coffee and seemed to be relaxing a bit. “If you don’t mind me asking, why does everyone call you Hammer?”

“Everyone doesn’t call me Hammer,” Davis replied. “Just those who know me and those I let.” He sighed. “Well, I guess it ain’t no big deal. I was assigned to CCN-North when I was in Fifth Group in Vietnam. That’s Combat Control North—a sort of special outfit that did a bunch of dirty jobs no one else was capable of. We were under MACV-SOG.” He saw her confused look and continued to explain. “That’s Military Assistance Command Vietnam, Studies and Observation Group, which was a fancy way of saying a bunch of guys who did what our government said we didn’t do. Anyway, I ran a few missions with them. Everyone had a nickname. They called me Hammer because I carried a Stoner machine gun that I had ‘borrowed’ from some navy SEALs, and when I fired that thing my teammates said it was like bringing the hammer down on the enemy.”

It didn’t make much sense to Lisa, but she was grateful to talk about anything but her predicament. “Why’d you get out of active duty?”

Hammer enjoyed talking, and the fact that Lisa was good-looking only added to his verbosity. “I left active duty after I got back to the States, but I stayed in the reserves. Then in eighty-nine I went back on active duty for Operation Just Cause—you know, the invasion of Panama. The general running Special Ops down there was one of my old commanders from CCN. So he got me in on some of the door busting when they were tracking people down. I was on the teams that took down Noriega’s number three and five men.” He stated it so calmly and matter-of-factly that Lisa didn’t quite believe him. She wondered what “took down” meant.

“What do you do in your civilian life?” Lisa asked.

Hammer shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait.”

FORT BRAGG

30 OCTOBER, 8:50 a.m.

A four-mile run on the sand paths of the “Mata mile.” Thirty minutes of stomach and arm work. Thirty minutes of katas. Riley felt good, his muscles stretched out and tingling with that slight edge of fatigue brought about by a good workout. He felt good mentally too; he’d finally mastered the final kata, or ritualized form, required of the third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. He would be taking the test in two weeks and felt ready.

He pulled the band around the top of his jungle boot and slipped the bottom of his fatigue pants underneath, securing it. Standing, he checked himself in the mirror—good to go. He left the shower room and looked in on his company in 1st Battalion’s offices. The commander and sergeant major were out at Mackall, listening to briefbacks from the student class as they prepared for a strategic reconnaissance mission—Team 2’s area. Riley left a few instructions with the senior sergeant on his team and then headed downstairs to 2d Battalion’s area.

The third floor was a replica of the fourth—a large open room crisscrossed with blue partitions. His first stop was F Company, which ran the counterterrorist training. Riley spent several minutes talking with a sergeant he knew there and received a few pieces of specialized equipment. After thanking the man, he asked where the Operations and Intelligence (O & I) committee was located in the labyrinth of cubicles. The sergeant gestured vaguely toward the rear of the room. “Somewhere back there, Chief. And take care of that equipment—it’s my ass if they find out I lent it to you.”

Riley had to ask twice more for the O & I committee, surprised that people who worked every day within fifty feet of each other had no idea where the others were. Finally finding the right place, he had to ask again to track down the correct person. “Sergeant Major Alexander around?”

“Two cubicles over, Chief.”