Witness to Death (41 page)

They’d get thousands anywhere in New York on any day of the year.

Callahan watched the SUV slow at a red light that intersected with the West Side Highway. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, put it in park and got out.

Callahan jogged up the middle of the street toward John’s SUV. He figured he had less than a minute before the light turned green. And only fifty yards to cover. He could do it.

No problem.

The aircraft carrier was docked about half a mile away. It wasn’t active anymore, now used as an Air & Space Museum. It was a perfect target, after getting press for being refurbished and then docked in port again. It’d only recently re-opened. The damned thing was going to be mobbed.

He pumped his legs, fire burning up his thighs, the wind pushing into the bruises and cuts on his face. He shut his eyes for a moment and focused only on his breathing. It was like running track in high school; it was like his training at Harvey Point. Focus on the process, not the outside noise.

****

Christine looked in the side view mirror and saw Callahan coming at them, sprinting.

She swore under her breath and turned to John.

“I’m getting out now. Drive to the ship. Pull into the parking lot and put the damned truck in park.”

“I’m supposed to sit in the car,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Slide over and drive,” Christine said. “Twelve minutes and this’ll all be over.”

John nodded, and she got out of the car.

She hoped this was the end.

She’d be rich.

If only.

****

Callahan looked up to find he was only feet from the SUV.

The traffic light turned green, but the SUV did not immediately drive away. Instead the door opened and Christine stepped out, a blade in her hand.

Round two.

In the middle of the West Side Highway.

The SUV pulled away and other cars slammed on their horns, drivers swore and pulled around them. Callahan ignored them, stepped forward and hit Christine flush in the nose with a left jab. She took a few steps backward, but didn’t fall. Instead she stepped forward swiping the knife toward his chest with a backhand motion. Callahan twisted his body, avoiding the slash.

Cars sped by them, braking briefly then leaning on their horns. New Yorkers didn’t even stop for a street fight. Callahan swung a right this time and Christine blocked it, returning a kick to the side of his aching ribs. Callahan went down to one knee.

When he looked up, he saw the SUV making a slow left toward the
Intrepid
. One more right and the SUV would be in the lot.

“That bomb goes off, it’s not going to kill just John. It’s going to kill all of us,” he said.

She punched him hard in the jaw. Callahan went down to one knee, but forced himself back up before she could swing again. Christine came at him with a hard right, but he blocked it and countered with a shot to the stomach. His fist connected with a hard padding.

Was she wearing a vest as well? Another bomb?

He took another swing at her stomach, but Chrstine knocked it away. She hit him in the face with a roundhouse right kick. Callahan staggered a few steps back. A horn beeped, and he felt the car’s breeze as it whipped by.

While he tried to regain his balance, he looked at the SUV, pausing at the corner, waiting for a clear turn. He could run to it, if he could slow Christine. He could still stop this.

Christine took a step backward, looking over her shoulder.

“Are you wearing a bomb too?” Callahan screamed.

Christine didn’t say anything. Facing him, again, she went on the offensive. Two rabbit punches to the nose, before Callahan twisted out of the way and thrust his left foot into her right shin. She hopped on one foot for a moment as if he’d hurt her.

Callahan took a step forward and hit her with a left jab, followed by a right uppercut. She let out a moan and fell on to her back.

More horns.

Taking a step forward, Callahan started to crouch. He thought she was out.

Christine’s eyes snapped over and she shook her head.

A police car, lights flashing swung around the corner toward them. Christine turned back toward him and clenched her fists.

As soon as he got out of the tunnel, Tony Verderese parked the car on 12th Avenue illegally and shook his head. He’d been through too much since the FBI got tough. Watched friends go down. Watched his men get arrested for small things like running numbers, income tax evasion. Watched them get arrested for big things, drug running and gun sales. All the while Donte Maiore hung out in Little Italy like a walking stereotype, raking in money like it was leaves in autumn.

“Stay here,” he said to Michelle.

She tried to mumble through the duct tape. Tony reached over and peeled it off her face.

“I hope this is good,” he said.

“Shoot me,” she said.

Tony shook his head. “That
is
a good one.”

“Kill me. Please. Just get it over with.”

Tony leaned in close to her face. “No. I want you to see it. Afterward, we’ll talk.”

“Please! Let John go. If you kill me, you can let him go.”

Tony smiled. “Day late, dollar short, kiddo.”

He got out of the car and walked around the front. Donte always sat in the little coffee shop on the corner in the morning, smoking a cigar and reading the paper. He’d have the radio on, listening to NPR, trying to get smart. Little good it did him.

Tony preferred phone scams on Z100. At least they didn’t talk down to you.

Plus, they were hilarious.

For a minute, he wondered how Donte ever found the place. Most of the remaining cafes like this were down on Mulberry Street in Little Italy or way uptown. Not midtown. If it wasn’t a Starbucks in midtown, it was a bodega. Yet, somehow Maiore had found this place and held on to it. Maybe he paid the rent to keep it alive.

He pushed the door open, and the little bell rang. Donte Maiore, put the cigar in the ashtray and looked up. He pushed a hand through his slick black hair and smiled. Smiled like he was the king of the world and Tony was here to check his food for poison.

“Hey, what you doing here?” Donte asked, grinning.

“Just came in to visit,” he said, carefully adjusting his gloves.

“You hear this shit?” Donte asked, nodding toward the radio.

“No. What?”
Did the West Side blow up? Are all the cops swarming over there looking for survivors, making the rest of the city a damned criminal picnic?

He pushed back his glove and looked at his watch. Still twelve minutes to go. Too early.

“Some bitch with a knife, and some other asshole are having an all out brawl on the West Side Highway. Two blocks from here, can you believe it? The cops are on their way over there. The news DJ heard it on the police ban. They’re sending a reporter down there. I sent my boys to go get some video. I love this stuff.”

“Oh, really?”

The smell of coffee and cigar smoke was strong, and Tony crinkled his nose as he reached into his jacket pocket. He’d rather the place smelled sweet, like cookies.

“I want the business,” Tony said. “New York should be mine.”

Donte Mairoe didn’t even flinch. They’d been having this conversation for years. It was nothing new.

“Your father gave it to me,” Donte said. “Until I die. You’ll get your chance. Until then, enjoy New Jersey. And by the way, I just saw my doctor. I’m as healthy as a ball player.”

Tony ignored him. No one would even know Donte was dead. No one would care about one more body.

“You know what?” Tony asked. “When I take over, we’re going to be huge. And legit. You see, in ten minutes there’s going to be a terrorist attack. Lots of dirt, lots of rubble. You remember 9/11? The clean-up? You missed out on that one. But not me. When the dust clears and the city needs garbage men to clean up, that’s gonna be my racket.”

“What the hell are you talking about? A terrorist attack? This is why your father didn’t want you in charge. You’re nuts.”

Tony smiled. He pulled the gun out of his pocket, aimed and fired. A small, red hole appeared in Donte Maiore’s head. His body slipped sideways and the chair fell over spilling his body onto the floor.

Tony dropped the gun, turned and walked back to the SUV.

Ten minutes left. Plenty of time to get down there and watch the fireworks.

The two cops got out of their cruiser and started to make their way through oncoming traffic. Christine kept her hands in fists. Her nose was bleeding, and out of the corner of his eye Callahan could see the drops pooling on the recently plowed pavement. A small red puddle, jiggling against the black asphalt. He looked down at them.

The cops were yelling at them to stop, put their hands in the air, and don’t move. All at the same time. But they were still too far away to do anything about it.

“How
fucking
long until the bomb goes off?” Callahan screamed.