The Unsayable Sums
Title: The Unsayable Sums - Part IV
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: ~7,800
Disclaimer: Slavery's still outlawed so no, I don't own them.
WARNINGS: Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh.
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream. Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is. It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Main Post
January, 2009
Logan Airport, Massachusetts
Sterling coughed and smiled apologetically at the couple walking by him, dressed comfortably warm in their calf-length down coats. He looked down at what he thought was an appropriate winter jacket for New England winter and mentally berated himself.
The brutal weather was yet another reason Sterling was not looking forward to the job assigned to him.
“Got a light?”
Sterling looked at the two men standing to the right of him. “Yeah, I do.”
The older of the two strangers pulled out a Dunhill. “Thanks, forgot my lighter.”
Sterling lit the cigarette. “Not a problem.”
“New York really that pissed?” Manzoni asked, eyeing Sterling carefully.
“Afraid so.”
“Shit.” Manzoni took a deep drag of the cigarette before crushing it under his boot. “So, the Connor fag really talked to the Feds?”
Sterling nodded.
“Okay, well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Manzoni gave a jerking nod at his companion. “This is my boy, Jack Contadino. You’ll need his help if you want to get around without a problem. This city’s a fucking maze and that’s no lie.”
“Thank you,” Sterling said. He knew the in-joke only too well: want to hide a body in Boston? Dump it in any of the narrow streets between Cross and Commercial before calling the police. Then sit back and enjoy the free entertainment.
Manzoni seemed to be satisfied with Sterling’s answer and left without a word to Contadino.
“So, what’s your name?” Contadino asked, visibly eager to prove his worth to his boss and to the man standing in front of him.
“Brown.”
Contadino managed to keep the smirk off his face. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to keep an eye out on Padalecki,” Sterling ordered.
Contadino brusquely asked, "Why?"
“In case Connor whispered something more than sweet nothings into his ear,” Sterling replied. The truth was he wanted to lose the fucker. Sterling was only too well aware that Contadino was ordered to spy on him and then report back to Manzoni. He knew he had Lorino’s complete trust but Manzoni wasn’t as fortunate and the man was smart enough to know it.
It was obvious Contadino was clearly unhappy with the order but he was smart enough to do as he was told. Sterling watched the stocky, psycho-eyed kid get into an elevator before moving. He took the stairs to the ground level and caught a shuttle that took him to economy parking. There, he methodically examined two rows worth of cars before he found one that he wanted.
It was a black Chevy Trailblazer with Massachusetts plate, two rear dents, and a roof rack. Its parking ticket was plainly visible on the dashboard. Sterling boosted the car within seven seconds and was approaching the New Hampshire border by the end of the hour.
White Mountains, New Hampshire
Jared peered fretfully over the dashboard before taking another look at his GPS unit. It was close to a whiteout and Highland Road was quickly becoming impassable. Jared was tempted to pull over, call Patrick and cancel his visit before making a u-turn and returning to Boston. Then he remembered Patrick’s trembling voice, pleading for Jared to visit him in Wallingford. Jared wanted to refuse but changed his mind because it gave him the chance to face Patrick and officially end their relationship. Something he was already planning to do after the away game at Seattle next weekend.
Jared sighed and checked his cell. Still no signal.
Not that he was surprised. This particular area was called 'the prettiest dead zone' by the locals for a good reason. Jared sighed in relief when he spotted a familiar rest stop. It was the only one of its kind for the forty-minute drive to Wallingford from Haven, the last town before Highland Road officially cut across the White Mountains.
Jared pulled over and parked his Mercedes, once again kicking himself for trading in his truck for a luxury vehicle that couldn't handle the unpredictable New England weather.
Jared was sprinting towards the family-owned convenience store when he spotted Patrick’s truck. He stared at it in confusion, wondering why Patrick would come out when he had specifically asked Jared to visit him at his apartment. Bewildered, Jared was almost at the door when he noticed it was ajar, allowing snow and wind to freely enter the building. The lizard part of his brain forced him to stop and peek into the store.
What Jared saw froze him to the concrete doorstep.
The cashier was slumped over the counter, his blood wildly flowing across the Formica surface and dripping onto the wooden floor. Across from him and to his right Jared saw Patrick or what was left of his part-time lover.
A large, well-built black man was frisking Patrick’s body, looking for something. Jared didn’t get a look at the killer’s face but that didn’t matter to him as anger quickly swamped his fear. Jared’s body coiled as he got ready to charge in and beat the man to the nearest emergency room, but the same primal instinct that cautioned him earlier kept him immobilized.
It was only a matter of seconds before Jared understood what was wrong. The killer’s gun was in plain sight and it wasn’t a common one. A silencer had been attached to the muzzle and the gun itself looked foreign made. No ordinary robber would have access to such a weapon.
Jared took a cautious step back, his eyes still trained on the killer. His left foot stumbled on an ice patch and Jared had to grab the handrails to prevent himself from tumbling backwards.
The wild motion he made was enough to catch the killer’s attention.
Jared turned and ran. The first bullet whizzed by his head and Jared ducked as he skidded across the icy parking lot and slammed into his car. He was fumbling for his remote when the second bullet tore through the meat of his upper right arm.
Jared screamed and dropped his keyring before sprinting away. He saw specks of ice fly up from the ground in front of him. Realizing he was being shot at, Jared veered sharply into the tree line to his right, hoping it would somehow shield him from the killer. Jared didn’t look back, instead he forced himself to run faster. And even when he hit the woods he didn’t stop. Jared continued to sprint while dodging left and right, keeping up the punishing pace for another five minutes before scrambling behind a large tree.
Jared kept his mouth closed and took shallow breaths through his nose in fear that his breath plumes would be visible even in the storm. When he heard running Jared crouched deeper into the snow mound surrounding the tree. The killer sprinted by him, not realizing his quarry had stopped. Jared watched the man disappear over a hill before packing handful of snow into a firm mass and shoving it onto the bullet wound.
The coolness was actually a welcomed relief and helped to numb the pain. Jared remained in the crouching position while cautiously moving away from the tree. He knew better than to think he could retrace his steps. And even if he could, something told him that the shooter had disabled his car in order to trap him. As the snowfall thickened Jared realized something else: that if the man couldn’t kill him, the storm would.
Sterling was furious with himself. He had no idea how a routine job could turn into such a clusterfuck. Part of it was bad intel, of course, and he would definitely have a talk with Manners when he finished. But he was also a professional, trained to deal with shifting scenarios and unpredictable human behavior, so he should’ve compensated immediately when he realized he had a witness.
And why the fuck was Jared Padalecki here to begin with? He was supposed to be in Boston, living it up with his teammates, not driving through a snowstorm in the dead of nowhere.
Sterling didn’t even bother to check his cell. And even if he did have a signal, whom could he call for backup? That shit-for-brains Contadino was by no means someone Sterling could trust with this job and it was Contadino who was suppose to keep tabs on Padalecki in the first place.
Sterling once more studied his surroundings and noticed in the last ten minutes the snowstorm had actually worsened. He knew Padalecki was hit at least once, probably twice. Calculating the wound and the weather, Sterling gave him twenty minutes, maybe thirty since Padalecki was a professional athlete, before shock set in. Sterling was also sure that unless Padalecki found help within the hour, he wouldn’t survive the night.
Sterling had studied the map of the area surrounding Wallingford and knew this side of the mountain was deserted with the closest human settlement more than forty minutes’ drive from the rest stop. Given little choice Sterling made his way back to the store. It took him fifteen minutes before he broke the tree line. He spotted a new car in the parking lot and quickly dodged behind the store. Sterling heard footsteps and glanced around a corner.
“Hey, I was just inside…”
Sterling grabbed Contadino by his throat and slammed him one-handed into the wall. “You dumb fuck,” Sterling snarled. “Why did you not stop Padalecki from leaving Boston?”
Contadino’s eyes widened in shock. “You told me to follow him, you didn’t say anything else!”
Sterling loosened his hold and stepped back. “Are you really that stupid?”
“Look,” Contadino croaked, “I tried calling you but I kept getting your voicemail, okay? I didn’t know what to do. And what the fuck is the problem anyway?”
“He saw me, you dumb shit,” Sterling said. “Nobody sees me, you understand that?”
“Hold on a second,” Contadino said, “are you going to kill him?”
“What does it look like, fool?!”
“No, no, he’s the goose that’s going to lay the golden egg. You can’t kill him!”
“Listen to me: Padalecki saw me. That means he can identify me, and that means the Feds have a way to connect me to your boss; you get that? Padalecki can’t live, and that’s final. And if you get in my way, I will not hesitate to put you down. Understood?”
Contadino gave a tiny nod, eyes wide with fear. “Okay, okay, so where’s the dead man?”
“In the woods. I hit him but the bastard kept running. He’s not going to survive an hour in this weather but I have to make sure because that’s what I’m paid to do.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Contadino said. “I got a police scanner. We could listen in, if you want.”
“All right, that’s a good plan. We’ll move the cars around back and wait in the store.”
“Fine with me,” Contadino answered. “I’ll move the fag’s car.”
“Be my guest.”
As Contadino made his way to the Mercedes he knew Brown was staring at him, wondering if he could be trusted. He calmly did as he was told and moved the car. However, once he parked the Roadster in the back, Contadino checked his cell. Still no signal.
As he made his way to the front to move his Acura, an idea struck him. There was another way to make sure Padalecki was never connected to Manzoni: kill the assassin.
Contadino felt sweat soak through his undershirt and forced himself to calm down before collecting the police scanner and a backup piece he kept for emergencies. Contadino knew his so-called partner saw him tucking away his Browning so he needed a second gun if he was able to reach Manzoni and receive the go-ahead to smoke the hitman.
I have to play it smart, Contadino thought as he made his way to the store. And be patient.
Carver's Rest, New Hampshire
Jared’s right hand was slowly freezing because of the blood coating it. What’s left of his common sense railed at him to take care of the problem, but he couldn’t force himself to care. He was tired, so tired that the cold had ceased to be a problem some time ago.
Jared checked his watch by moonlight and saw he had wasted whole five minutes taking shelter under a large tree. He looked up at the snow-choked branches and remembered Jack London’s To Build a Fire: a horrific short story that his mother had assigned to all her classes. He had been entranced and shocked by the tale and swore he would never end up in the same situation as the pathetic bastard from the story.
Well, fuck me sideways Jared thought and laughed wildly. Part of Jared wanted to stay where he was and try to build some sort of a shelter but another part kept urging him to get up and continue walking. Where, he hadn’t a clue, but the second voice kept insisting that if he stayed put he wouldn’t survive another twenty minutes.
With a soft groan Jared pulled himself up and started walking. He’d taken ten steps when his caught a scent. For a moment Jared thought he was hallucinating as it was impossible to smell warmth, but his senses would not be denied. He whirled around, looking for something, anything that could give him shelter.
It was the snow that almost made him miss, but he saw to his left a faint trace of white in the air that hinted of something else besides snow. Jared started plodding, thinking of a way to explain his situation without scaring the hell out of the people - if there were people and he wasn’t imagining the smoke because he was losing it.
Jared crested a steep hill and came to a standstill as a homestead came into view. He suddenly burst into tears and fell to his knees twice as he laboriously made his way up the porch, hoping he wouldn’t trip and die only inches away from help. He leaned on the door and banged on it with all the desperation he felt.
Jared heard “who the fuck now,” from inside and only then did he allow himself to feel relief. He heard weird scraping noises from inside the house before the door swung halfway open. For the second time in less than ninety minutes Jared was completely taken back.
The man who opened the door was in a wheelchair with his right leg resting on a board that stuck straight out of the seat. It was obvious he was in some hideous accident as the contraption reminded Jared of Holden’s injuries.
“What the fuck happened to you?” the stranger asked, his eyes wide in disbelief.
“I need help,” Jared said. “I was shot.”
“Jesus Christ, come in!”
The man expertly wheeled himself aside, allowing Jared to enter his warm home.
“Can you walk?” the man asked.
Jared nodded weakly. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Follow me, let me get you something hot to drink.”
Jared docilely followed to the kitchen where the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit him much like the storm did when he had stepped out of his car at the rest stop eons ago. The owner poured him a large mug and added enough sugar to make Jared wonder if he finally met someone who had even a bigger sweet tooth than he did. He gracefully wheeled himself to the microwave where he popped in a mug of water.
“You’re dehydrated. The sugar’s to revive you a bit,” the man explained. “The caffeine isn’t good for you, actually, but I figure you need something to keep you awake. The water’s going to be hot but you need to finish it, okay?”
“Thank you,” Jared said with complete sincerity. “My name is Jared Padalecki.”
"I thought you looked familiar. I’m Jensen Ackles,” the stranger said. “Who the hell shot you?”
“I stopped at the store on Highland Road. A black man shot the cashier and a friend of mine and tried to kill me when I took off,” Jared babbled, his voice rising with hysteria. “He was fucking huge and the gun he had was something you'd see in the movies. He chased me in this storm but I managed to get away.”
“Fuck, I know the owner,” Jensen whispered. “The cashier, was he a blond kid?”
Jared paused to think. “I didn’t see the guy’s face but yeah, he had long blond hair.”
“That’s Evan, he’s the owner’s son,” Jensen said. “We need to call the police.”
“You have a land line?”
“Yeah, and it works. My satellite phone’s broken though. I tried it earlier but got nothing.”
Jensen reached for an old-fashioned wall phone and dialed. Jared felt himself thaw further when he heard the dial tone.
“Steve? Is that you? You’re not going to believe this but I have Jared Padalecki … yeah, that one, in my house. He just came from Laramie’s store. He says a black gunman killed Evan and his friend then chased him and managed to shoot him too. No, Padalecki’s friend, not Evan’s.”
Jared stared blankly at Jensen and realized the shock from the gunshot was starting to overwhelm him. Now that he was at rest, his adrenalin was no longer spicing up his blood. Jared closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. It felt so good to finally stop he never wanted to start up again.
“Okay, we’ll be here,” Jensen said. “Good luck, Steve.”
“You know the police captain?” Jared asked.
“No, Steve is his sergeant. The captain’s off at some conference in Orlando this week.”
“Lucky me.”
“You are lucky. Hey, buddy, finish your drinks. I’m going to get my first aid kit.”
Jared stood up straight. “I’ll go with you.”
Jensen recognized abandonment issues when he saw them. “Sure, it’s right down the hall.”
Jensen found his first aid kit and a new U.T. sweatshirt jammed under two large toolboxes. He managed to wrangle them out of the hallway closet but not without bruises.
“I could’ve helped,” Jared said.
“Dude, you can barely stand on your feet,” Jensen said. “C’mon, let’s go back to the kitchen. It’s the warmest part of the house.”
Jensen waited patiently as Jared took off his many layers, wincing in sympathy when Jared took off the last shirt and yelped because the blood glued the fabric to the wound.
Jensen soaked four sterile pads with iodine. “This isn’t going to hurt, much, but you’re free to scream if you feel like it.”
“Too tired to scream,” Jared said. “Too tired to feel actually.”
Jensen cleaned the wound and gave a low whistle as he examined the wound closely. “It’s a through and through - you got lucky.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Trust me, the last thing you want is live ammo jammed inside your body.”
“You sound like you had experience with such things.” Jared teased light-heartedly, surprised that he still retained his sense of humor after everything.
“Personal, no, thank God. But I know people who weren’t so lucky.”
“Are you a cop or something?” Jared asked.
“You think I am?”
“Kind of; you seem familiar with gunshot wounds, you have a fully stocked medical kit that looks like it could be used in a war. And you’re on first-name basis with the local police department.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Are you serious? Published and all that?”
Jensen nodded. “Published two books, writing a third now.”
“Let me guess: detective novels, right?”
“Historical non-fiction, and the only crimes I write about are what human beings do to each other every day.”
“Sounds cheerful.”
“It’s not most of the time, but I love my job. I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything else.”
“Not even for a position in the Celtics?”
Jensen looked up at Jared and grinned. “Not even for that, sorry to say. But it’s a whole different game if we’re talking about the Mavericks.”
“Mavericks?” Jared frowned in confusion. “Why them? They suck.”
“That’s my hometown you’re pissing on.”
“Dallas doesn’t suck,” Jared said quickly.
“But the Mavericks do, I know,” Jensen said, defeat heavily lacing his words. “How’s the arm now?”
Jared cautiously bended it and felt the tightness that comes with wounds. “It’s better, doesn’t hurt as much. What did you put on it?”
“Just a small amount of topical lidocaine. It’s minimum help at best but something’s better than nothing.”
Jared nodded and examined the gauze tightly wrapped around his arm. “I’m impressed. Are all writers as well-rounded as you?”
“I don’t know. I met Stephen King several times. He’s surprisingly normal compared to what comes out of his computer. Poor guy, he has to have bodyguards when he goes out for public get-togethers because he’s got so many crazies gunning after him.”
“And you don’t have over-eager fans loitering around town, looking for a chance to jump you?”
Jensen’s telltale blush told the truth.
Jared was struggling to put on the U.T. sweatshirt when he remembered where he'd heard Jensen’s name. “Oh hell, Tom loves your books. He’s been trying to make me and Justin read them for months now.”
“I gather he’s not successful,” Jensen said dryly.
“Your first book is bigger than my head.” Jared defended himself. “And the second one could be used as a roadblock.”
“Imagine writing that many words and then complain about reading them.”
“Okay, you got me there.”
Jared gave a genuine smile and for a moment Jensen was dazzled by it. It was extraordinary that the man still retained his sense of humor after all he had endured. If Jensen were in his shoes, he would’ve barricaded himself in the bathroom before sucking down bottle after bottle of tequila to steady his nerves.
“Do you want some painkillers?” Jensen asked. “I scored some serious heavies because of my knee.”
Jared shook his head. “No, I have to stay clean.”
“Dude, you’ve been shot. I think the NBA can forgive you if you took one Vicodin pill to help with the pain.”
“I don’t want any but thanks for asking.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“What?” Jared asked.
“You don’t come across as a control freak,” Jensen said with a questioning look.
“My legs alone have been insured for two million dollars,” Jared said. “When people say their body is their temple, they haven’t got a fucking clue what they’re talking about.”
“Advil then?”
“Tylenol?” Jared asked. “They work better for me.”
“It’s in the cabinet next to the refrigerator.”
Jared found them along with six prescription bottles. “How bad is your injury?”
“I had my second surgery two weeks ago. It’s been months since I got hurt but I broke bones and they’re not healing properly.”
“Oh man, that sucks,” Jared said as he popped two Tylenols and washed them down with orange juice. He returned to breakfast table with two bottles of beer. “I thought you might want one.”
“Thanks,” Jensen said. “I’ve been meaning to ask - what are you doing here? Doesn’t Boston have an away game this weekend?”
“I have a friend who lives near here. He called me and asked for my help. He sounded so bad that I had to come up.”
“Was he the one killed?”
Jared jerked a nod and let out a deep sigh. “He was at that rest stop but I don’t know why. I was suppose to meet him at his apartment.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Patrick Connor.” Jared saw Jensen’s face pale dramatically. “You know him?”
“Wallingford’s pretty small town so, yeah, I know him. His father is a real piece of work. He’ll probably bitch nonstop about paying for Patrick’s funeral.”
“Jesus, Pat never said anything about his dad except he has gout.”
“Oh he has that all right,” Jensen said. “He also had a bad gambling habit and a temper. He would’ve lost his business if it hadn’t been for his son. Patrick must have one hell of a talent for numbers.”
“Patrick?” Jared remembered numerous occasions when he had to check the restaurant bill because Patrick couldn’t properly calculate the tip.
“Yeah, didn’t…” Jensen couldn’t finish his sentence as the phone rang.
“It’s me,” Jensen answered. He paused for a moment before looking at Jared. “Okay, will do.”
Jared immediately tensed up and said, “What happened?”
Jensen hung up the receiver and studied his guest with piercing look. “That was Steve. He was at the store and found the bodies. He says it wasn’t a holdup. The cash is still in the drawer and the wallets were left untouched.
“What’s going on, Jared?”
Jared cringed a little at coolness in Jensen’s tone. “I saw the killer, he had this motherfucking huge gun and it ... oh Jesus, how could I forget? It had a silencer.”
“A silencer?” Jensen echoed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, and he was good shot too. I mean I’m not easy to miss but he only had moonlight and he still managed to hit me.”
“That doesn’t sound like a robbery, Jared. That sounds awfully like a hit. I know Evan Laramie’s not into anything that can bring down that much grief so it had to be Patrick.
“Jared, do you have any idea what he wanted to talk to you about?”
Jared shook his head. “No, he said it was an emergency and he really needed to talk to me. He sounded frantic so I came.”
“Frantic or scared?”
Jared couldn’t answer so he just shrugged.
“So, we have to assume Patrick was the target, or…” Jensen faded away as he stared at Jared.
“Or?” Jared prompted.
“Or you are.”
“Me?” Jared squawked. “Who the hell wants to kill me?”
“You’re a professional athlete and a celebrity, Jared. That attracts all kind of psychos.”
“Psychos with day jobs as hitmen?”
Jensen took a long time to answer. “Okay, maybe this guy isn’t some psycho fan, but you had a big part in the Celtics winning last year, and from what I’ve read you guys are doing it again this season. Am I right?”
Jared nodded weakly. “Yeah, we’re having a great year but people don’t kill athletes because they’re doing what they’re paid to do. If that were true ESPN wouldn’t exist.”
“But if something happened to you, what are the chances of the Celtics reaching playoffs again?”
Jared shrugged and looked at his blood-spattered boots. “They’ll have a hard time but it’s not impossible for them to win again.”
Jensen noticed the 'they' in Jared's explanation. “This is not the time to play humble boy from Texas.”
“I honestly don’t know,” Jared replied heatedly. “Gaines was a decent trade and he’s doing pretty damn good for a new kid. Even Tom thinks Jamie’s got serious potential.”
“Okay, maybe that’s a wrong angle then, but there’s someone out there who wants to hurt you bad, and whoever he is, he’s not an amateur.”
“You don’t think he’s gone, do you?” Jared asked.
Jensen shook his head and looked thoughtfully at Jared. “No, I’m afraid not. Maybe you don’t know why this is happening to you, but that guy does, and I think he wants you dead because of it.”
“Are you sure your friend wasn’t pulling your chain?” Police Officer Nathan Donaldson asked as he grabbed his coat and hat. “Writers have a weird sense of humor.”
“No, he was serious about this, Nathan. Grab the satellite phone, the cell’s still out.”
Nathan nodded and dug into Linklater’s personal locker for the only satellite phone in the police department and the entire town of Wallingford.
Steve was almost out the door when his cousin sauntered in. “Hey, Chris,” Steve said. “Look, I’m sorry you came all the way here but I have to go. There’s a real mess at Laramie’s.”
Chris’ loose posture immediately tightened.
“What’s wrong?” Steve asked.
“I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t figure out what. Laramie’s store wasn’t lit when I drove by. I wasn’t going to stop but I’ve never seen it closed before.” Chris saw Steve’s face lose its usual openness. “I’ll go with you.”
Steve knew he shouldn’t allow a civilian to ride with him, much less enter a crime scene, but Chris knew how to handle firearms better than anyone he'd ever met. “Okay, but you take your jeep.”
“Not a problem.”
“Chris, you still have your gun in the car?”
“Why you asking?”
“Just in case,” Steve answered.
Chris stared hard at his friend then said, “Awww shit.”
“And we’re about to walk into it.”
Steve had little problem driving through the storm and was glad to see Chris had no difficulties either. Nathan’s tense position grew more taut they approached Laramie’s store.
“Steve, I got a bad feeling about this,” Nathan said. “If Jensen wasn’t bullshitting, that means Evan’s dead.”
“I know,” Steve said.
“I went to his baptism. Hell, I bought him his first Playboy for his thirteenth birthday. What the fuck am I going to tell Emma and Roger?”
“Don’t think about that right now, Nathan. Just concentrate on what we need to do for the next five minutes.” Steve saw Nathan reach for the switches that would turn on the police lights and stopped him. “We’re going in dark.”
Nathan’s gaze hardened. “You think the killer’s still there, don’t you?”
“Big black guy armed with an elephant gun and who could track a person in this snow storm - tell me, do you know anyone in Wallingford who could have even a passing acquaintance with such a man?”
“Jesus Christ, I should’ve brought Big Mama.”
“Rifles don’t work well in close range, Nathan. You have your backup, right?”
Nathan nodded. “Yeah, switched from ankle to back when I had to start wearing my winter boots.”
“Have extra clips?”
“Just one.”
“Keep it where it’s easy to reach.”
Nathan nervously checked it to make sure it was fully loaded before tucking it inside his jacket. What scared the him the most was how worried his sergeant was. Steve was usually very easy going and able to defuse situations that could explode into lethal violence with just words. But now Steve’s tone was clipped and his words economical. That meant whatever situation they were heading into, Steve had already decided that good manners and civilized behavior were useless. Nathan had been in law enforcement long enough to know nothing good could come out of such thinking.
He didn’t see the store in the darkness and what he didn’t see confirmed his worst fears. The building was unlit and it shouldn’t have been.
“This is officially a FUBAR,” Steve said as he parked the cruiser. “I’ve never seen the store closed save for the holidays.”
“Me neither,” Nathan said. “Do you want me to call for help?”
“Not yet, Jensen said there was one shooter.”
The two officers got out of the car and waited until Chris joined them.
“Do you want me to stay out front?” Chris asked.
Steve nodded. “I don’t see any cars. That means somebody hid them before closing the store.”
“So the son of a bitch is still in there,” Nathan said. He pulled out his gun and took a deep breath.
“We’ll go through the back; see if we can flush the bastard out the front.”
“I’ll be here,” Chris said and caught the worried look on Steve’s face. “Don’t worry, honey, I ain’t no hero.”
Steve grinned and tapped Nathan’s shoulder. Chris quickly lost sight of them as the two men bolted into the night. He slowly made his way to the building, looking at the windows for any telltale sign of movement. Chris knew whoever was in the building could barely see three feet from the window, but they probably had adjusted to their environment and was more aware of what was happening around them than he was.
Chris crouched behind a gas pump, looking around and trying to listen for any identifiable sound aside from the howling wind. He knew human beings made noises that were systematic: footsteps, breathing, they all had rhythm apart from the chaos surrounding him. Once Chris filtered out the wind, he would hopefully be able to pinpoint the noise the killer would make if he tried to escape.
As it turned out, Chris didn’t have to. The lights suddenly turned on in the store and the parking lot. Steve walked out and shouted, “It’s clear!”
Chris didn’t holster his gun out of precaution and took his time entering the building. He saw the cashier first and winced. Then he spotted the second body. The man was facing the ceiling, a neat hole drilled into his left eye socket, another in his throat.
“The shooter came through the front, shot Evan once and then took out Patrick,” Steve said.
“You guys should see this,” Nathan said from the back office.
He pointed at a mug sitting next to a freshly-made pot of coffee. It was only half-full.
“Son of a bitch,” Steve said.
Chris took a cigarette that was lying on top of a computer keyboard and blew gently on the tip. It relit.
“Fuck, we missed him by seconds,” Steve hissed.
“He probably saw the cars,” Chris said, “and took off through the back.”
“Where’s he going in this storm?” Nathan asked.
“Good question,” Steve said. “I’m going to call Jensen and tell him to be careful. This isn’t an ordinary stick-up gone wrong. This is something much, much worse.”
“The bastard probably had a car parked down the road,” Chris added. “This guy has a plan and he’s not done. That’s why he was waiting here, in the dark.”
“But why wait here?” Nathan asked.
“Because it was the most convenient one at the time,” Steve answered. “Which means he’s going to find somewhere else to shack up. Nathan, tell Sharon to call everyone on the emergency list. We’re going to have to start doing door to door to make sure this badass isn’t sitting in someone’s living room, having coffee and smoking cigarettes.”
Steve called Jensen to warn him to be careful while Nathan used the police radio to contact dispatch in order to haul in anyone who was capable of lending a hand. He ran back to the building to find Steve and Chris combing the area around Patrick’s body.
“Sharon said Tessie can’t come. She also says Oberon Pass is completely blocked because of the storm.”
“So that means Jensen can’t come down either,” Steve said, “which is good news, actually. If he can’t come down, nobody can go up either.”
“We should contact Patrick’s dad,” Nathan said.
Steve moaned loudly and closed his eyes. “Oh, that should be a fucking joy.”
“I’ll handle Larry,” Nathan said. “I know the guy pretty well.”
“Thanks,” Steve said, “I’ll go back to the station and wait for help.”
Chris handed his car keys to Nathan. “Take my jeep, that way you don’t have to double back into town.”
Nathan gave a nod of appreciation and left.
Steve said, “If this was deliberate, it means Patrick was the target.”
“Do you know what could’ve brought this on ‘cause this is big city shit.”
“Maybe; about three years ago there was some talk about Larry’s gambling debts. Everyone thought he was going to lose his business when Patrick swooped in and saved it at the last minute. Nobody knew how; the kid didn’t have much and I know the two banks in town didn’t loan him the cash. I figured Patrick must have borrowed from a bank outside Wallingford because he was too embarrassed to ask for a loan from somebody he knew.”
“Do you know how much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars was what I heard.”
“That’s pretty big loan,” Chris said. “And Patrick’s what? Twenty-four, twenty-five years old?”
“He was twenty-two when he got the money so there was a lot of talk about how he got it. Nobody bothered to ask, though.” Steve stared at Patrick’s ruined face. “Maybe we should’ve.”
“What I don’t like is why the guy was waiting,” Chris said.
“Padalecki got a good look at him before he bolted,” Steve explained.
“So the shooter knows there’s a witness.”
“Which is why he stuck around. He wanted to see if the kid found help before freezing to death in the woods.”
“And he got his answer,” Chris said. “The Pass is closed?”
Steve nodded. “The only way anyone could get up there are with the snowplows and they’re all being used right now. Nobody can get to Jensen, Chris, so he’s safe for now.”
“But as soon as we can we’re taking a plow and getting them, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Steve said. “I don’t like the idea of a murder witness sitting with Jensen who’s still in a wheelchair. It stinks of bad karma.”
Nathan cautiously drove to Connor’s farm. It was only three miles outside of Wallingford but the plows haven’t been through for a while, making the roads treacherous. He saw the farm lights from a distance and sighed in relief. He had never felt threatened by snow before. Nathan grew up in Wallingford, attended University of New Hampshire, and when he graduated he marched right back home. But now, after witnessing the aftermath of what he knew was a ruthless execution, the cold would be forever associated with the bloodbath in Laramie’s store.
He parked the truck and had taken the keys out of ignition when Sterling rose up from the back seat, grabbed his head and broke his neck with one brutal twist of his hands. Sterling had hidden nearby and eavesdropped on the conversation inside the store. When he realized that the police officer was going out to see Larry Connor, he decided to hitch along.
Sterling wasn’t sure how much the father knew, but even a sliver of information connecting Patrick Connor to Russo and the Manzoni Family was unacceptable to the people in New York.
Sterling put on his glasses that had clear lens. He was a big man, and black, so to many people he automatically looked threatening. However, that perception changed when he wore glasses. He pulled up the collar to his coat and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets before walking up to the front door and knocking frantically.
Larry Connor opened the door slightly and jerked back in surprise. Sterling didn’t miss the look of relief and confusion on the man’s face.
“I am so sorry to bother you,” Sterling gushed while rubbing his arms and stomping his feet as if he was trying to get his circulation going. “But I couldn’t drive any further and I saw your lights. I was wondering if I could call for help? My cell’s not working.”
“Sure, come in.”
“Thanks so much. Jesus, I flew in from Georgia just yesterday! My buddy never warned me about the storm.”
“That’s because your friend’s probably used to this shit by now and didn’t think much of it,” Connor said. “The phone’s right over there.”
“Thanks.” Sterling took out his gun and shot Connor once in the head. He left the body undisturbed and started hunting for the phone.
Sterling had no choice but to kill the old man. Obviously Patrick had told his father about his mafia connections, which was why Connor Sr. looked relieved to see Sterling standing in front of his doorsteps.
After all, what self-respecting Mafioso would hire a black man to do his job?
Sterling found a phone in the kitchen. He dialed a number and ended the call on the fourth ring. He then redialed the same number.
“What’s up?” Manzoni asked.
“Your pet dog’s fucked up everything,” Sterling said in a cold tone. “He lost Padalecki in Boston and the man ended up here. He saw everything, Manzoni. He saw me kill Connor.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I’m paid to do. Clean up the fucking mess and that means your golden boy’s going to be taken out of the picture. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, I do. I can’t say I like it, but Russo had other fishes on his hooks so we can afford to lose this one.”
“I also took care of Connor Senior. It looks like his son told him everything.”
“What’s the count?”
“Four so far. I expect six.”
“Two more? Who else besides the Jared kid?”
“Padalecki’s holed up in the mountain with someone, which should be impossible according to the information you handed over to New York,” Sterling said. “From what I read there’s nobody living up there.”
“There shouldn’t be. There was a retreat of some sort that got burned down four years ago, but that’s it.”
“Find out if the property went up for sale, and if so, who the fuck bought it.”
“Give me few minutes. Can I use this number?”
“Yes.”
Sterling ended the call. As he looked around, it became obvious all the furniture were handmade and with great attention to detail. Sterling felt sorry for killing the Connor men, for they were gifted artists married to their craft. Sterling was called many things, some quite unpleasant, but he was never indicted as an iconoclast.
The phone rang. He waited for the second call before answering.
“Someone did buy the fucking place,” Manzoni said, embarrassment coloring his voice. “His name is Jensen R. Ackles. He built a goddamn house on the same spot where the resort was. Why the fuck would anyone want to build a house where another burned down?”
“Did you say Jensen Ackles?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” Sterling said. “More importantly, Contadino is fucking it up right and left. What do you want me to do with him?”
“I like having him around but if he gets too much to handle, deal with him. He’s replaceable.”
“All right then,” Sterling said. “I won’t contact you until this is cleaned up, so don’t bother me. Am I clear?”
“As a bell. Good luck.”
Boston, Massachusetts
Ben Manzoni looked at the cell, his lips curled up in disgust and frustration. “Motherfucking nigger tells me what to do? Fuck that.”
He used another pre-paid cell to make a call. “It’s me. The White Mountains job went fuck-all.”
“What happened?” Barassi asked.
“The nigger told me Contadino fucked it to hell. I’m not buying it. Contadino's smart and reliable. And He does as he’s told so if...”
“Listen to me carefully. I got a call from New York before he came. The orders are clear, Ben. The nigger’s got the green light. We fuck with him, we won’t see sunrise. Do you understand?”
“Why the fuck does that…”
“Listen to me, you dumb wop,” Johnny Barassi hissed. “The son of a bitch does real heavy work for us. We’re talking federally protected witnesses! Trust me when I say this guy doesn’t care who’s your daddy. If he wants you dead, that’s it: end of story. Contadino’s gone, just accept it and move on.”
“I still don’t like it,” Manzoni complained but with great deal less venom.
“Ben, let it go. Did you handle Russo?”
“I’m about to. Want me to tell him anything?”
“Why the fuck would I want to waste words on that sack of shit? Just clean it up.”
“All right. I’ll call you when I hear something.”
“Sorry about Jack.”
“Thanks.”
Manzoni drove his car, checking frequently to see if he had his usual followers. There was a familiar Camry three cars behind his Lexus that steadfastly followed him into downtown Boston. Manzoni left his car in the parking lot belonging to Ritz Carlton located right next to Chinatown. He exited the hotel through the main lobby, made a left, and briskly walked through Boston Commons towards Newbury Street. The busy shopping district was renowned for bad traffic and by the time he reached corner of Newbury and Mass Ave, he had lost the men tracking him.
He turned left on Mass Ave and went down to the Hynes Convention Center T-station where he caught the D line to Riverside. Manzoni got out at the last stop and spotted Jason, his driver, waiting for him in the parking lot. It took them thirty minutes to reach Mather's Rest. The gates to the cemetery were closed but Jason had the key to the padlock and the Jaguar quietly crept into the heart of the place.
Manzoni saw the figures lit up by the headlights and smiled. This was going to be satisfying. Not as satisfying as forcing the cleaner from New York to eat his own vomit, but Manzoni was the kind of guy who was happy to take what he could get.
“I have to say I’m going to miss you Will,” he softly said as he approached the three men. “But you have to admit you fucked up big time.”
Russo opened the only eye he had left and gave a baleful glare at his former boss.
“Gotta say, I admire your little scheme. It has certain panache to it,” Manzoni said. “And you did some good work for me so I’ll make this quick.”
He gave a nod to the two men towering over Russo. They dragged their prisoner to the edge of the open grave. When Russo saw what was in the hole, a low keening sound drifted into the air.
“I liked them too, Will,” Manzoni said. “But orders are orders, and I was told to take care of all of you. If it helps, your kids died quick; so did Bella.”
Russo didn’t pay any attention to Manzoni and continued to wail through his shattered jaw.
“Shut the fucker up,” Manzoni groused.
Jason shot Russo twice and shoved his corpse into the grave to join his family. Then the two men threw enough dirt into the hole to level it before putting the coffin back into it. They covered the grave with more dirt and placed the sod back on top of it.
Manzoni didn’t like to toss bodies into rivers and the Atlantic like the rest of his kin. If at all possible, he used cemeteries and Mather's Rest was currently his favorite.
At least they’re buried in sacred ground, Manzoni thought as he returned to Boston. Bella should appreciate that, after all she and her kids were devout Catholics.
Part III * Part V
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: ~7,800
Disclaimer: Slavery's still outlawed so no, I don't own them.
WARNINGS: Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh.
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream. Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is. It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Main Post
January, 2009
Logan Airport, Massachusetts
Sterling coughed and smiled apologetically at the couple walking by him, dressed comfortably warm in their calf-length down coats. He looked down at what he thought was an appropriate winter jacket for New England winter and mentally berated himself.
The brutal weather was yet another reason Sterling was not looking forward to the job assigned to him.
“Got a light?”
Sterling looked at the two men standing to the right of him. “Yeah, I do.”
The older of the two strangers pulled out a Dunhill. “Thanks, forgot my lighter.”
Sterling lit the cigarette. “Not a problem.”
“New York really that pissed?” Manzoni asked, eyeing Sterling carefully.
“Afraid so.”
“Shit.” Manzoni took a deep drag of the cigarette before crushing it under his boot. “So, the Connor fag really talked to the Feds?”
Sterling nodded.
“Okay, well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Manzoni gave a jerking nod at his companion. “This is my boy, Jack Contadino. You’ll need his help if you want to get around without a problem. This city’s a fucking maze and that’s no lie.”
“Thank you,” Sterling said. He knew the in-joke only too well: want to hide a body in Boston? Dump it in any of the narrow streets between Cross and Commercial before calling the police. Then sit back and enjoy the free entertainment.
Manzoni seemed to be satisfied with Sterling’s answer and left without a word to Contadino.
“So, what’s your name?” Contadino asked, visibly eager to prove his worth to his boss and to the man standing in front of him.
“Brown.”
Contadino managed to keep the smirk off his face. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to keep an eye out on Padalecki,” Sterling ordered.
Contadino brusquely asked, "Why?"
“In case Connor whispered something more than sweet nothings into his ear,” Sterling replied. The truth was he wanted to lose the fucker. Sterling was only too well aware that Contadino was ordered to spy on him and then report back to Manzoni. He knew he had Lorino’s complete trust but Manzoni wasn’t as fortunate and the man was smart enough to know it.
It was obvious Contadino was clearly unhappy with the order but he was smart enough to do as he was told. Sterling watched the stocky, psycho-eyed kid get into an elevator before moving. He took the stairs to the ground level and caught a shuttle that took him to economy parking. There, he methodically examined two rows worth of cars before he found one that he wanted.
It was a black Chevy Trailblazer with Massachusetts plate, two rear dents, and a roof rack. Its parking ticket was plainly visible on the dashboard. Sterling boosted the car within seven seconds and was approaching the New Hampshire border by the end of the hour.
White Mountains, New Hampshire
Jared peered fretfully over the dashboard before taking another look at his GPS unit. It was close to a whiteout and Highland Road was quickly becoming impassable. Jared was tempted to pull over, call Patrick and cancel his visit before making a u-turn and returning to Boston. Then he remembered Patrick’s trembling voice, pleading for Jared to visit him in Wallingford. Jared wanted to refuse but changed his mind because it gave him the chance to face Patrick and officially end their relationship. Something he was already planning to do after the away game at Seattle next weekend.
Jared sighed and checked his cell. Still no signal.
Not that he was surprised. This particular area was called 'the prettiest dead zone' by the locals for a good reason. Jared sighed in relief when he spotted a familiar rest stop. It was the only one of its kind for the forty-minute drive to Wallingford from Haven, the last town before Highland Road officially cut across the White Mountains.
Jared pulled over and parked his Mercedes, once again kicking himself for trading in his truck for a luxury vehicle that couldn't handle the unpredictable New England weather.
Jared was sprinting towards the family-owned convenience store when he spotted Patrick’s truck. He stared at it in confusion, wondering why Patrick would come out when he had specifically asked Jared to visit him at his apartment. Bewildered, Jared was almost at the door when he noticed it was ajar, allowing snow and wind to freely enter the building. The lizard part of his brain forced him to stop and peek into the store.
What Jared saw froze him to the concrete doorstep.
The cashier was slumped over the counter, his blood wildly flowing across the Formica surface and dripping onto the wooden floor. Across from him and to his right Jared saw Patrick or what was left of his part-time lover.
A large, well-built black man was frisking Patrick’s body, looking for something. Jared didn’t get a look at the killer’s face but that didn’t matter to him as anger quickly swamped his fear. Jared’s body coiled as he got ready to charge in and beat the man to the nearest emergency room, but the same primal instinct that cautioned him earlier kept him immobilized.
It was only a matter of seconds before Jared understood what was wrong. The killer’s gun was in plain sight and it wasn’t a common one. A silencer had been attached to the muzzle and the gun itself looked foreign made. No ordinary robber would have access to such a weapon.
Jared took a cautious step back, his eyes still trained on the killer. His left foot stumbled on an ice patch and Jared had to grab the handrails to prevent himself from tumbling backwards.
The wild motion he made was enough to catch the killer’s attention.
Jared turned and ran. The first bullet whizzed by his head and Jared ducked as he skidded across the icy parking lot and slammed into his car. He was fumbling for his remote when the second bullet tore through the meat of his upper right arm.
Jared screamed and dropped his keyring before sprinting away. He saw specks of ice fly up from the ground in front of him. Realizing he was being shot at, Jared veered sharply into the tree line to his right, hoping it would somehow shield him from the killer. Jared didn’t look back, instead he forced himself to run faster. And even when he hit the woods he didn’t stop. Jared continued to sprint while dodging left and right, keeping up the punishing pace for another five minutes before scrambling behind a large tree.
Jared kept his mouth closed and took shallow breaths through his nose in fear that his breath plumes would be visible even in the storm. When he heard running Jared crouched deeper into the snow mound surrounding the tree. The killer sprinted by him, not realizing his quarry had stopped. Jared watched the man disappear over a hill before packing handful of snow into a firm mass and shoving it onto the bullet wound.
The coolness was actually a welcomed relief and helped to numb the pain. Jared remained in the crouching position while cautiously moving away from the tree. He knew better than to think he could retrace his steps. And even if he could, something told him that the shooter had disabled his car in order to trap him. As the snowfall thickened Jared realized something else: that if the man couldn’t kill him, the storm would.
Sterling was furious with himself. He had no idea how a routine job could turn into such a clusterfuck. Part of it was bad intel, of course, and he would definitely have a talk with Manners when he finished. But he was also a professional, trained to deal with shifting scenarios and unpredictable human behavior, so he should’ve compensated immediately when he realized he had a witness.
And why the fuck was Jared Padalecki here to begin with? He was supposed to be in Boston, living it up with his teammates, not driving through a snowstorm in the dead of nowhere.
Sterling didn’t even bother to check his cell. And even if he did have a signal, whom could he call for backup? That shit-for-brains Contadino was by no means someone Sterling could trust with this job and it was Contadino who was suppose to keep tabs on Padalecki in the first place.
Sterling once more studied his surroundings and noticed in the last ten minutes the snowstorm had actually worsened. He knew Padalecki was hit at least once, probably twice. Calculating the wound and the weather, Sterling gave him twenty minutes, maybe thirty since Padalecki was a professional athlete, before shock set in. Sterling was also sure that unless Padalecki found help within the hour, he wouldn’t survive the night.
Sterling had studied the map of the area surrounding Wallingford and knew this side of the mountain was deserted with the closest human settlement more than forty minutes’ drive from the rest stop. Given little choice Sterling made his way back to the store. It took him fifteen minutes before he broke the tree line. He spotted a new car in the parking lot and quickly dodged behind the store. Sterling heard footsteps and glanced around a corner.
“Hey, I was just inside…”
Sterling grabbed Contadino by his throat and slammed him one-handed into the wall. “You dumb fuck,” Sterling snarled. “Why did you not stop Padalecki from leaving Boston?”
Contadino’s eyes widened in shock. “You told me to follow him, you didn’t say anything else!”
Sterling loosened his hold and stepped back. “Are you really that stupid?”
“Look,” Contadino croaked, “I tried calling you but I kept getting your voicemail, okay? I didn’t know what to do. And what the fuck is the problem anyway?”
“He saw me, you dumb shit,” Sterling said. “Nobody sees me, you understand that?”
“Hold on a second,” Contadino said, “are you going to kill him?”
“What does it look like, fool?!”
“No, no, he’s the goose that’s going to lay the golden egg. You can’t kill him!”
“Listen to me: Padalecki saw me. That means he can identify me, and that means the Feds have a way to connect me to your boss; you get that? Padalecki can’t live, and that’s final. And if you get in my way, I will not hesitate to put you down. Understood?”
Contadino gave a tiny nod, eyes wide with fear. “Okay, okay, so where’s the dead man?”
“In the woods. I hit him but the bastard kept running. He’s not going to survive an hour in this weather but I have to make sure because that’s what I’m paid to do.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Contadino said. “I got a police scanner. We could listen in, if you want.”
“All right, that’s a good plan. We’ll move the cars around back and wait in the store.”
“Fine with me,” Contadino answered. “I’ll move the fag’s car.”
“Be my guest.”
As Contadino made his way to the Mercedes he knew Brown was staring at him, wondering if he could be trusted. He calmly did as he was told and moved the car. However, once he parked the Roadster in the back, Contadino checked his cell. Still no signal.
As he made his way to the front to move his Acura, an idea struck him. There was another way to make sure Padalecki was never connected to Manzoni: kill the assassin.
Contadino felt sweat soak through his undershirt and forced himself to calm down before collecting the police scanner and a backup piece he kept for emergencies. Contadino knew his so-called partner saw him tucking away his Browning so he needed a second gun if he was able to reach Manzoni and receive the go-ahead to smoke the hitman.
I have to play it smart, Contadino thought as he made his way to the store. And be patient.
Carver's Rest, New Hampshire
Jared’s right hand was slowly freezing because of the blood coating it. What’s left of his common sense railed at him to take care of the problem, but he couldn’t force himself to care. He was tired, so tired that the cold had ceased to be a problem some time ago.
Jared checked his watch by moonlight and saw he had wasted whole five minutes taking shelter under a large tree. He looked up at the snow-choked branches and remembered Jack London’s To Build a Fire: a horrific short story that his mother had assigned to all her classes. He had been entranced and shocked by the tale and swore he would never end up in the same situation as the pathetic bastard from the story.
Well, fuck me sideways Jared thought and laughed wildly. Part of Jared wanted to stay where he was and try to build some sort of a shelter but another part kept urging him to get up and continue walking. Where, he hadn’t a clue, but the second voice kept insisting that if he stayed put he wouldn’t survive another twenty minutes.
With a soft groan Jared pulled himself up and started walking. He’d taken ten steps when his caught a scent. For a moment Jared thought he was hallucinating as it was impossible to smell warmth, but his senses would not be denied. He whirled around, looking for something, anything that could give him shelter.
It was the snow that almost made him miss, but he saw to his left a faint trace of white in the air that hinted of something else besides snow. Jared started plodding, thinking of a way to explain his situation without scaring the hell out of the people - if there were people and he wasn’t imagining the smoke because he was losing it.
Jared crested a steep hill and came to a standstill as a homestead came into view. He suddenly burst into tears and fell to his knees twice as he laboriously made his way up the porch, hoping he wouldn’t trip and die only inches away from help. He leaned on the door and banged on it with all the desperation he felt.
Jared heard “who the fuck now,” from inside and only then did he allow himself to feel relief. He heard weird scraping noises from inside the house before the door swung halfway open. For the second time in less than ninety minutes Jared was completely taken back.
The man who opened the door was in a wheelchair with his right leg resting on a board that stuck straight out of the seat. It was obvious he was in some hideous accident as the contraption reminded Jared of Holden’s injuries.
“What the fuck happened to you?” the stranger asked, his eyes wide in disbelief.
“I need help,” Jared said. “I was shot.”
“Jesus Christ, come in!”
The man expertly wheeled himself aside, allowing Jared to enter his warm home.
“Can you walk?” the man asked.
Jared nodded weakly. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Follow me, let me get you something hot to drink.”
Jared docilely followed to the kitchen where the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit him much like the storm did when he had stepped out of his car at the rest stop eons ago. The owner poured him a large mug and added enough sugar to make Jared wonder if he finally met someone who had even a bigger sweet tooth than he did. He gracefully wheeled himself to the microwave where he popped in a mug of water.
“You’re dehydrated. The sugar’s to revive you a bit,” the man explained. “The caffeine isn’t good for you, actually, but I figure you need something to keep you awake. The water’s going to be hot but you need to finish it, okay?”
“Thank you,” Jared said with complete sincerity. “My name is Jared Padalecki.”
"I thought you looked familiar. I’m Jensen Ackles,” the stranger said. “Who the hell shot you?”
“I stopped at the store on Highland Road. A black man shot the cashier and a friend of mine and tried to kill me when I took off,” Jared babbled, his voice rising with hysteria. “He was fucking huge and the gun he had was something you'd see in the movies. He chased me in this storm but I managed to get away.”
“Fuck, I know the owner,” Jensen whispered. “The cashier, was he a blond kid?”
Jared paused to think. “I didn’t see the guy’s face but yeah, he had long blond hair.”
“That’s Evan, he’s the owner’s son,” Jensen said. “We need to call the police.”
“You have a land line?”
“Yeah, and it works. My satellite phone’s broken though. I tried it earlier but got nothing.”
Jensen reached for an old-fashioned wall phone and dialed. Jared felt himself thaw further when he heard the dial tone.
“Steve? Is that you? You’re not going to believe this but I have Jared Padalecki … yeah, that one, in my house. He just came from Laramie’s store. He says a black gunman killed Evan and his friend then chased him and managed to shoot him too. No, Padalecki’s friend, not Evan’s.”
Jared stared blankly at Jensen and realized the shock from the gunshot was starting to overwhelm him. Now that he was at rest, his adrenalin was no longer spicing up his blood. Jared closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. It felt so good to finally stop he never wanted to start up again.
“Okay, we’ll be here,” Jensen said. “Good luck, Steve.”
“You know the police captain?” Jared asked.
“No, Steve is his sergeant. The captain’s off at some conference in Orlando this week.”
“Lucky me.”
“You are lucky. Hey, buddy, finish your drinks. I’m going to get my first aid kit.”
Jared stood up straight. “I’ll go with you.”
Jensen recognized abandonment issues when he saw them. “Sure, it’s right down the hall.”
Jensen found his first aid kit and a new U.T. sweatshirt jammed under two large toolboxes. He managed to wrangle them out of the hallway closet but not without bruises.
“I could’ve helped,” Jared said.
“Dude, you can barely stand on your feet,” Jensen said. “C’mon, let’s go back to the kitchen. It’s the warmest part of the house.”
Jensen waited patiently as Jared took off his many layers, wincing in sympathy when Jared took off the last shirt and yelped because the blood glued the fabric to the wound.
Jensen soaked four sterile pads with iodine. “This isn’t going to hurt, much, but you’re free to scream if you feel like it.”
“Too tired to scream,” Jared said. “Too tired to feel actually.”
Jensen cleaned the wound and gave a low whistle as he examined the wound closely. “It’s a through and through - you got lucky.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Trust me, the last thing you want is live ammo jammed inside your body.”
“You sound like you had experience with such things.” Jared teased light-heartedly, surprised that he still retained his sense of humor after everything.
“Personal, no, thank God. But I know people who weren’t so lucky.”
“Are you a cop or something?” Jared asked.
“You think I am?”
“Kind of; you seem familiar with gunshot wounds, you have a fully stocked medical kit that looks like it could be used in a war. And you’re on first-name basis with the local police department.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Are you serious? Published and all that?”
Jensen nodded. “Published two books, writing a third now.”
“Let me guess: detective novels, right?”
“Historical non-fiction, and the only crimes I write about are what human beings do to each other every day.”
“Sounds cheerful.”
“It’s not most of the time, but I love my job. I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything else.”
“Not even for a position in the Celtics?”
Jensen looked up at Jared and grinned. “Not even for that, sorry to say. But it’s a whole different game if we’re talking about the Mavericks.”
“Mavericks?” Jared frowned in confusion. “Why them? They suck.”
“That’s my hometown you’re pissing on.”
“Dallas doesn’t suck,” Jared said quickly.
“But the Mavericks do, I know,” Jensen said, defeat heavily lacing his words. “How’s the arm now?”
Jared cautiously bended it and felt the tightness that comes with wounds. “It’s better, doesn’t hurt as much. What did you put on it?”
“Just a small amount of topical lidocaine. It’s minimum help at best but something’s better than nothing.”
Jared nodded and examined the gauze tightly wrapped around his arm. “I’m impressed. Are all writers as well-rounded as you?”
“I don’t know. I met Stephen King several times. He’s surprisingly normal compared to what comes out of his computer. Poor guy, he has to have bodyguards when he goes out for public get-togethers because he’s got so many crazies gunning after him.”
“And you don’t have over-eager fans loitering around town, looking for a chance to jump you?”
Jensen’s telltale blush told the truth.
Jared was struggling to put on the U.T. sweatshirt when he remembered where he'd heard Jensen’s name. “Oh hell, Tom loves your books. He’s been trying to make me and Justin read them for months now.”
“I gather he’s not successful,” Jensen said dryly.
“Your first book is bigger than my head.” Jared defended himself. “And the second one could be used as a roadblock.”
“Imagine writing that many words and then complain about reading them.”
“Okay, you got me there.”
Jared gave a genuine smile and for a moment Jensen was dazzled by it. It was extraordinary that the man still retained his sense of humor after all he had endured. If Jensen were in his shoes, he would’ve barricaded himself in the bathroom before sucking down bottle after bottle of tequila to steady his nerves.
“Do you want some painkillers?” Jensen asked. “I scored some serious heavies because of my knee.”
Jared shook his head. “No, I have to stay clean.”
“Dude, you’ve been shot. I think the NBA can forgive you if you took one Vicodin pill to help with the pain.”
“I don’t want any but thanks for asking.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“What?” Jared asked.
“You don’t come across as a control freak,” Jensen said with a questioning look.
“My legs alone have been insured for two million dollars,” Jared said. “When people say their body is their temple, they haven’t got a fucking clue what they’re talking about.”
“Advil then?”
“Tylenol?” Jared asked. “They work better for me.”
“It’s in the cabinet next to the refrigerator.”
Jared found them along with six prescription bottles. “How bad is your injury?”
“I had my second surgery two weeks ago. It’s been months since I got hurt but I broke bones and they’re not healing properly.”
“Oh man, that sucks,” Jared said as he popped two Tylenols and washed them down with orange juice. He returned to breakfast table with two bottles of beer. “I thought you might want one.”
“Thanks,” Jensen said. “I’ve been meaning to ask - what are you doing here? Doesn’t Boston have an away game this weekend?”
“I have a friend who lives near here. He called me and asked for my help. He sounded so bad that I had to come up.”
“Was he the one killed?”
Jared jerked a nod and let out a deep sigh. “He was at that rest stop but I don’t know why. I was suppose to meet him at his apartment.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Patrick Connor.” Jared saw Jensen’s face pale dramatically. “You know him?”
“Wallingford’s pretty small town so, yeah, I know him. His father is a real piece of work. He’ll probably bitch nonstop about paying for Patrick’s funeral.”
“Jesus, Pat never said anything about his dad except he has gout.”
“Oh he has that all right,” Jensen said. “He also had a bad gambling habit and a temper. He would’ve lost his business if it hadn’t been for his son. Patrick must have one hell of a talent for numbers.”
“Patrick?” Jared remembered numerous occasions when he had to check the restaurant bill because Patrick couldn’t properly calculate the tip.
“Yeah, didn’t…” Jensen couldn’t finish his sentence as the phone rang.
“It’s me,” Jensen answered. He paused for a moment before looking at Jared. “Okay, will do.”
Jared immediately tensed up and said, “What happened?”
Jensen hung up the receiver and studied his guest with piercing look. “That was Steve. He was at the store and found the bodies. He says it wasn’t a holdup. The cash is still in the drawer and the wallets were left untouched.
“What’s going on, Jared?”
Jared cringed a little at coolness in Jensen’s tone. “I saw the killer, he had this motherfucking huge gun and it ... oh Jesus, how could I forget? It had a silencer.”
“A silencer?” Jensen echoed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, and he was good shot too. I mean I’m not easy to miss but he only had moonlight and he still managed to hit me.”
“That doesn’t sound like a robbery, Jared. That sounds awfully like a hit. I know Evan Laramie’s not into anything that can bring down that much grief so it had to be Patrick.
“Jared, do you have any idea what he wanted to talk to you about?”
Jared shook his head. “No, he said it was an emergency and he really needed to talk to me. He sounded frantic so I came.”
“Frantic or scared?”
Jared couldn’t answer so he just shrugged.
“So, we have to assume Patrick was the target, or…” Jensen faded away as he stared at Jared.
“Or?” Jared prompted.
“Or you are.”
“Me?” Jared squawked. “Who the hell wants to kill me?”
“You’re a professional athlete and a celebrity, Jared. That attracts all kind of psychos.”
“Psychos with day jobs as hitmen?”
Jensen took a long time to answer. “Okay, maybe this guy isn’t some psycho fan, but you had a big part in the Celtics winning last year, and from what I’ve read you guys are doing it again this season. Am I right?”
Jared nodded weakly. “Yeah, we’re having a great year but people don’t kill athletes because they’re doing what they’re paid to do. If that were true ESPN wouldn’t exist.”
“But if something happened to you, what are the chances of the Celtics reaching playoffs again?”
Jared shrugged and looked at his blood-spattered boots. “They’ll have a hard time but it’s not impossible for them to win again.”
Jensen noticed the 'they' in Jared's explanation. “This is not the time to play humble boy from Texas.”
“I honestly don’t know,” Jared replied heatedly. “Gaines was a decent trade and he’s doing pretty damn good for a new kid. Even Tom thinks Jamie’s got serious potential.”
“Okay, maybe that’s a wrong angle then, but there’s someone out there who wants to hurt you bad, and whoever he is, he’s not an amateur.”
“You don’t think he’s gone, do you?” Jared asked.
Jensen shook his head and looked thoughtfully at Jared. “No, I’m afraid not. Maybe you don’t know why this is happening to you, but that guy does, and I think he wants you dead because of it.”
“Are you sure your friend wasn’t pulling your chain?” Police Officer Nathan Donaldson asked as he grabbed his coat and hat. “Writers have a weird sense of humor.”
“No, he was serious about this, Nathan. Grab the satellite phone, the cell’s still out.”
Nathan nodded and dug into Linklater’s personal locker for the only satellite phone in the police department and the entire town of Wallingford.
Steve was almost out the door when his cousin sauntered in. “Hey, Chris,” Steve said. “Look, I’m sorry you came all the way here but I have to go. There’s a real mess at Laramie’s.”
Chris’ loose posture immediately tightened.
“What’s wrong?” Steve asked.
“I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t figure out what. Laramie’s store wasn’t lit when I drove by. I wasn’t going to stop but I’ve never seen it closed before.” Chris saw Steve’s face lose its usual openness. “I’ll go with you.”
Steve knew he shouldn’t allow a civilian to ride with him, much less enter a crime scene, but Chris knew how to handle firearms better than anyone he'd ever met. “Okay, but you take your jeep.”
“Not a problem.”
“Chris, you still have your gun in the car?”
“Why you asking?”
“Just in case,” Steve answered.
Chris stared hard at his friend then said, “Awww shit.”
“And we’re about to walk into it.”
Steve had little problem driving through the storm and was glad to see Chris had no difficulties either. Nathan’s tense position grew more taut they approached Laramie’s store.
“Steve, I got a bad feeling about this,” Nathan said. “If Jensen wasn’t bullshitting, that means Evan’s dead.”
“I know,” Steve said.
“I went to his baptism. Hell, I bought him his first Playboy for his thirteenth birthday. What the fuck am I going to tell Emma and Roger?”
“Don’t think about that right now, Nathan. Just concentrate on what we need to do for the next five minutes.” Steve saw Nathan reach for the switches that would turn on the police lights and stopped him. “We’re going in dark.”
Nathan’s gaze hardened. “You think the killer’s still there, don’t you?”
“Big black guy armed with an elephant gun and who could track a person in this snow storm - tell me, do you know anyone in Wallingford who could have even a passing acquaintance with such a man?”
“Jesus Christ, I should’ve brought Big Mama.”
“Rifles don’t work well in close range, Nathan. You have your backup, right?”
Nathan nodded. “Yeah, switched from ankle to back when I had to start wearing my winter boots.”
“Have extra clips?”
“Just one.”
“Keep it where it’s easy to reach.”
Nathan nervously checked it to make sure it was fully loaded before tucking it inside his jacket. What scared the him the most was how worried his sergeant was. Steve was usually very easy going and able to defuse situations that could explode into lethal violence with just words. But now Steve’s tone was clipped and his words economical. That meant whatever situation they were heading into, Steve had already decided that good manners and civilized behavior were useless. Nathan had been in law enforcement long enough to know nothing good could come out of such thinking.
He didn’t see the store in the darkness and what he didn’t see confirmed his worst fears. The building was unlit and it shouldn’t have been.
“This is officially a FUBAR,” Steve said as he parked the cruiser. “I’ve never seen the store closed save for the holidays.”
“Me neither,” Nathan said. “Do you want me to call for help?”
“Not yet, Jensen said there was one shooter.”
The two officers got out of the car and waited until Chris joined them.
“Do you want me to stay out front?” Chris asked.
Steve nodded. “I don’t see any cars. That means somebody hid them before closing the store.”
“So the son of a bitch is still in there,” Nathan said. He pulled out his gun and took a deep breath.
“We’ll go through the back; see if we can flush the bastard out the front.”
“I’ll be here,” Chris said and caught the worried look on Steve’s face. “Don’t worry, honey, I ain’t no hero.”
Steve grinned and tapped Nathan’s shoulder. Chris quickly lost sight of them as the two men bolted into the night. He slowly made his way to the building, looking at the windows for any telltale sign of movement. Chris knew whoever was in the building could barely see three feet from the window, but they probably had adjusted to their environment and was more aware of what was happening around them than he was.
Chris crouched behind a gas pump, looking around and trying to listen for any identifiable sound aside from the howling wind. He knew human beings made noises that were systematic: footsteps, breathing, they all had rhythm apart from the chaos surrounding him. Once Chris filtered out the wind, he would hopefully be able to pinpoint the noise the killer would make if he tried to escape.
As it turned out, Chris didn’t have to. The lights suddenly turned on in the store and the parking lot. Steve walked out and shouted, “It’s clear!”
Chris didn’t holster his gun out of precaution and took his time entering the building. He saw the cashier first and winced. Then he spotted the second body. The man was facing the ceiling, a neat hole drilled into his left eye socket, another in his throat.
“The shooter came through the front, shot Evan once and then took out Patrick,” Steve said.
“You guys should see this,” Nathan said from the back office.
He pointed at a mug sitting next to a freshly-made pot of coffee. It was only half-full.
“Son of a bitch,” Steve said.
Chris took a cigarette that was lying on top of a computer keyboard and blew gently on the tip. It relit.
“Fuck, we missed him by seconds,” Steve hissed.
“He probably saw the cars,” Chris said, “and took off through the back.”
“Where’s he going in this storm?” Nathan asked.
“Good question,” Steve said. “I’m going to call Jensen and tell him to be careful. This isn’t an ordinary stick-up gone wrong. This is something much, much worse.”
“The bastard probably had a car parked down the road,” Chris added. “This guy has a plan and he’s not done. That’s why he was waiting here, in the dark.”
“But why wait here?” Nathan asked.
“Because it was the most convenient one at the time,” Steve answered. “Which means he’s going to find somewhere else to shack up. Nathan, tell Sharon to call everyone on the emergency list. We’re going to have to start doing door to door to make sure this badass isn’t sitting in someone’s living room, having coffee and smoking cigarettes.”
Steve called Jensen to warn him to be careful while Nathan used the police radio to contact dispatch in order to haul in anyone who was capable of lending a hand. He ran back to the building to find Steve and Chris combing the area around Patrick’s body.
“Sharon said Tessie can’t come. She also says Oberon Pass is completely blocked because of the storm.”
“So that means Jensen can’t come down either,” Steve said, “which is good news, actually. If he can’t come down, nobody can go up either.”
“We should contact Patrick’s dad,” Nathan said.
Steve moaned loudly and closed his eyes. “Oh, that should be a fucking joy.”
“I’ll handle Larry,” Nathan said. “I know the guy pretty well.”
“Thanks,” Steve said, “I’ll go back to the station and wait for help.”
Chris handed his car keys to Nathan. “Take my jeep, that way you don’t have to double back into town.”
Nathan gave a nod of appreciation and left.
Steve said, “If this was deliberate, it means Patrick was the target.”
“Do you know what could’ve brought this on ‘cause this is big city shit.”
“Maybe; about three years ago there was some talk about Larry’s gambling debts. Everyone thought he was going to lose his business when Patrick swooped in and saved it at the last minute. Nobody knew how; the kid didn’t have much and I know the two banks in town didn’t loan him the cash. I figured Patrick must have borrowed from a bank outside Wallingford because he was too embarrassed to ask for a loan from somebody he knew.”
“Do you know how much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars was what I heard.”
“That’s pretty big loan,” Chris said. “And Patrick’s what? Twenty-four, twenty-five years old?”
“He was twenty-two when he got the money so there was a lot of talk about how he got it. Nobody bothered to ask, though.” Steve stared at Patrick’s ruined face. “Maybe we should’ve.”
“What I don’t like is why the guy was waiting,” Chris said.
“Padalecki got a good look at him before he bolted,” Steve explained.
“So the shooter knows there’s a witness.”
“Which is why he stuck around. He wanted to see if the kid found help before freezing to death in the woods.”
“And he got his answer,” Chris said. “The Pass is closed?”
Steve nodded. “The only way anyone could get up there are with the snowplows and they’re all being used right now. Nobody can get to Jensen, Chris, so he’s safe for now.”
“But as soon as we can we’re taking a plow and getting them, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Steve said. “I don’t like the idea of a murder witness sitting with Jensen who’s still in a wheelchair. It stinks of bad karma.”
Nathan cautiously drove to Connor’s farm. It was only three miles outside of Wallingford but the plows haven’t been through for a while, making the roads treacherous. He saw the farm lights from a distance and sighed in relief. He had never felt threatened by snow before. Nathan grew up in Wallingford, attended University of New Hampshire, and when he graduated he marched right back home. But now, after witnessing the aftermath of what he knew was a ruthless execution, the cold would be forever associated with the bloodbath in Laramie’s store.
He parked the truck and had taken the keys out of ignition when Sterling rose up from the back seat, grabbed his head and broke his neck with one brutal twist of his hands. Sterling had hidden nearby and eavesdropped on the conversation inside the store. When he realized that the police officer was going out to see Larry Connor, he decided to hitch along.
Sterling wasn’t sure how much the father knew, but even a sliver of information connecting Patrick Connor to Russo and the Manzoni Family was unacceptable to the people in New York.
Sterling put on his glasses that had clear lens. He was a big man, and black, so to many people he automatically looked threatening. However, that perception changed when he wore glasses. He pulled up the collar to his coat and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets before walking up to the front door and knocking frantically.
Larry Connor opened the door slightly and jerked back in surprise. Sterling didn’t miss the look of relief and confusion on the man’s face.
“I am so sorry to bother you,” Sterling gushed while rubbing his arms and stomping his feet as if he was trying to get his circulation going. “But I couldn’t drive any further and I saw your lights. I was wondering if I could call for help? My cell’s not working.”
“Sure, come in.”
“Thanks so much. Jesus, I flew in from Georgia just yesterday! My buddy never warned me about the storm.”
“That’s because your friend’s probably used to this shit by now and didn’t think much of it,” Connor said. “The phone’s right over there.”
“Thanks.” Sterling took out his gun and shot Connor once in the head. He left the body undisturbed and started hunting for the phone.
Sterling had no choice but to kill the old man. Obviously Patrick had told his father about his mafia connections, which was why Connor Sr. looked relieved to see Sterling standing in front of his doorsteps.
After all, what self-respecting Mafioso would hire a black man to do his job?
Sterling found a phone in the kitchen. He dialed a number and ended the call on the fourth ring. He then redialed the same number.
“What’s up?” Manzoni asked.
“Your pet dog’s fucked up everything,” Sterling said in a cold tone. “He lost Padalecki in Boston and the man ended up here. He saw everything, Manzoni. He saw me kill Connor.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I’m paid to do. Clean up the fucking mess and that means your golden boy’s going to be taken out of the picture. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, I do. I can’t say I like it, but Russo had other fishes on his hooks so we can afford to lose this one.”
“I also took care of Connor Senior. It looks like his son told him everything.”
“What’s the count?”
“Four so far. I expect six.”
“Two more? Who else besides the Jared kid?”
“Padalecki’s holed up in the mountain with someone, which should be impossible according to the information you handed over to New York,” Sterling said. “From what I read there’s nobody living up there.”
“There shouldn’t be. There was a retreat of some sort that got burned down four years ago, but that’s it.”
“Find out if the property went up for sale, and if so, who the fuck bought it.”
“Give me few minutes. Can I use this number?”
“Yes.”
Sterling ended the call. As he looked around, it became obvious all the furniture were handmade and with great attention to detail. Sterling felt sorry for killing the Connor men, for they were gifted artists married to their craft. Sterling was called many things, some quite unpleasant, but he was never indicted as an iconoclast.
The phone rang. He waited for the second call before answering.
“Someone did buy the fucking place,” Manzoni said, embarrassment coloring his voice. “His name is Jensen R. Ackles. He built a goddamn house on the same spot where the resort was. Why the fuck would anyone want to build a house where another burned down?”
“Did you say Jensen Ackles?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” Sterling said. “More importantly, Contadino is fucking it up right and left. What do you want me to do with him?”
“I like having him around but if he gets too much to handle, deal with him. He’s replaceable.”
“All right then,” Sterling said. “I won’t contact you until this is cleaned up, so don’t bother me. Am I clear?”
“As a bell. Good luck.”
Boston, Massachusetts
Ben Manzoni looked at the cell, his lips curled up in disgust and frustration. “Motherfucking nigger tells me what to do? Fuck that.”
He used another pre-paid cell to make a call. “It’s me. The White Mountains job went fuck-all.”
“What happened?” Barassi asked.
“The nigger told me Contadino fucked it to hell. I’m not buying it. Contadino's smart and reliable. And He does as he’s told so if...”
“Listen to me carefully. I got a call from New York before he came. The orders are clear, Ben. The nigger’s got the green light. We fuck with him, we won’t see sunrise. Do you understand?”
“Why the fuck does that…”
“Listen to me, you dumb wop,” Johnny Barassi hissed. “The son of a bitch does real heavy work for us. We’re talking federally protected witnesses! Trust me when I say this guy doesn’t care who’s your daddy. If he wants you dead, that’s it: end of story. Contadino’s gone, just accept it and move on.”
“I still don’t like it,” Manzoni complained but with great deal less venom.
“Ben, let it go. Did you handle Russo?”
“I’m about to. Want me to tell him anything?”
“Why the fuck would I want to waste words on that sack of shit? Just clean it up.”
“All right. I’ll call you when I hear something.”
“Sorry about Jack.”
“Thanks.”
Manzoni drove his car, checking frequently to see if he had his usual followers. There was a familiar Camry three cars behind his Lexus that steadfastly followed him into downtown Boston. Manzoni left his car in the parking lot belonging to Ritz Carlton located right next to Chinatown. He exited the hotel through the main lobby, made a left, and briskly walked through Boston Commons towards Newbury Street. The busy shopping district was renowned for bad traffic and by the time he reached corner of Newbury and Mass Ave, he had lost the men tracking him.
He turned left on Mass Ave and went down to the Hynes Convention Center T-station where he caught the D line to Riverside. Manzoni got out at the last stop and spotted Jason, his driver, waiting for him in the parking lot. It took them thirty minutes to reach Mather's Rest. The gates to the cemetery were closed but Jason had the key to the padlock and the Jaguar quietly crept into the heart of the place.
Manzoni saw the figures lit up by the headlights and smiled. This was going to be satisfying. Not as satisfying as forcing the cleaner from New York to eat his own vomit, but Manzoni was the kind of guy who was happy to take what he could get.
“I have to say I’m going to miss you Will,” he softly said as he approached the three men. “But you have to admit you fucked up big time.”
Russo opened the only eye he had left and gave a baleful glare at his former boss.
“Gotta say, I admire your little scheme. It has certain panache to it,” Manzoni said. “And you did some good work for me so I’ll make this quick.”
He gave a nod to the two men towering over Russo. They dragged their prisoner to the edge of the open grave. When Russo saw what was in the hole, a low keening sound drifted into the air.
“I liked them too, Will,” Manzoni said. “But orders are orders, and I was told to take care of all of you. If it helps, your kids died quick; so did Bella.”
Russo didn’t pay any attention to Manzoni and continued to wail through his shattered jaw.
“Shut the fucker up,” Manzoni groused.
Jason shot Russo twice and shoved his corpse into the grave to join his family. Then the two men threw enough dirt into the hole to level it before putting the coffin back into it. They covered the grave with more dirt and placed the sod back on top of it.
Manzoni didn’t like to toss bodies into rivers and the Atlantic like the rest of his kin. If at all possible, he used cemeteries and Mather's Rest was currently his favorite.
At least they’re buried in sacred ground, Manzoni thought as he returned to Boston. Bella should appreciate that, after all she and her kids were devout Catholics.
Part III * Part V