Redemption

Chapter One-2

“Yeah, you should know the half of it,” Sabrina pointed her salad fork. “We've got these Vacuu-Lan units coming in tomorrow. They'll be tearing up the place to install them. I wanted to have them put in over the weekend but the g**g went bonkers. Seems like they have this thing about going in on weekends and having barbecue after work. It's gonna give us electronic vacuum control in a network instead of dedicated pumps at every station. It's supposed to help prevent inter-lab cross-contamination, which was a pain in the butt last year.”

“You know that shop talk of yours hurts my little brain, girlfriend,” Rita waved her off. “My goodness, I must've been out to lunch when they gave out brains when we were babies. You probably went and took my share.”

“Yeah, you're one of the sharpest gals I know,” Sabrina retorted. “You just like playing innocent, like a Southern belle. That's how you got Kelly Stone wrapped around your finger.”

“Now, why would you go bringing him up for?” Rita chided. “I swear I will have nothing to do with that man.”

“Hmm, I wonder who that was you went for coffee with last week? Playing your cards pretty fast these days, huh?”

“Miss Brooks, I'll have you know that I took pity on the poor fellow after weeks upon weeks of not having returned his calls. Yes, I had a cup of coffee with him, but that was all. I will not tolerate a man who keeps trying to stick his tongue in my mouth without revealing his intentions. End of story.”

“Oh my gosh,” Sabrina cupped her forehead in amusement. “So I suppose he'll have to come up with a ring for the privilege.”

“Now it's not a matter of trade or negotiation. I have not decided whether I would accept a ring from such a rogue.”

“A rogue,” Sabrina rolled her eyes. “What century are you from, anyway?”

“Speaking of which,” Rita lowered her voice. “Anything of the dark knight?”

“What?” Sabrina scowled. “Didn't we agree…?”

“I know, I'm sorry. You know I'm not the only one. I mean, God bless the man, he saved this City. If he decided to retire, well, all the best to him. It's just that, well, things seem to be so bad these days, and Lord knows the police don't seem to be able to get anything done. If they're not violating someone's civil rights, one of them is getting murdered in the line of duty. It's no wonder that most of them just feel like it's all so useless.”

“Well, I've got nothing to do with the Nightcrawler. I thought I made that clear. He served his purpose and now he's gone. People need to accept that.”

“I didn't mean anything by it.”

“It's okay,” Sabrina smiled at her. “Let's just not talk about him anymore. Like we agreed. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rita smiled sweetly. “And in turn, we won't talk about a certain Mr. Kelly Stone. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sabrina rolled her eyes again.

Aleister Piedmont was one of the last of the great Mafia Dons of New York City in the 20th century. He was heir apparent to Pietro Rossini, the boss of the 'sixth Family' Rossini Mob, having succeeded Angelo “The Blade” Vacirca in a b****y coup for the throne. A native Neapolitan, he lived by the ancient proverb that the true power lay coiled in wait, waiting for the time to strike. He watched as the Russian-Chechen mob wars went their way, and the Russian Mafiya crumbled beneath the onslaught of Homeland Security, the NYPD and the Nightcrawler. It was time for the American Mafia to reclaim dominion over the NYC underworld. Only everything had to be perfect. He would not consider failure an option.

He was quietly moving in on territory abandoned by the Russians, expanding his narcotics, loan sharking, gambling, p**********n, corruption, extortion and fraud operations throughout the five boroughs. The Five Families were incensed but would not risk open warfare against a man whose reputation was built on violence and murder. Piedmont saw the reluctance to confront him as a sign of weakness and accelerated his campaign. Only he knew he would require the best of the best in helping him hold everything he would take.

Don Rossini taught him that misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. Al found that, as time went by, the Shakespearean axiom was all too true. Just as the Don had made millions in partnership with the Haitian gangs of Harlem, Al was about to make a fortune in this deal with non-Italians. Yet he had reservations about these strange new characters lurking in the shadows. As a precaution he had two of his top crews providing security for this meeting at his Sheepshead Bay mansion.

“Hey boss,” Vito Scafati entered the long hall where Al sat at the head of an enormous banquet table. “They're here. You sure about this, bringing them in here?”

“Do you question me?” the blond, steely-eyed godfather asked.

“No sir, not at all. Coming right up.”

Al heard the sounds of a couple dozen people coming down the cavernous hall outside. He knew there was a party of six among the visitors, and his crews consisted of two twelve-man teams. There was a brief discussion before the door opened, and his lieutenants Vito and Guido led the way as five of the visitors entered the chamber.

“Mr. Piedmont,” Guido Rovigo made the introduction as a hooded man took a seat at the opposite end of the table, “this is the Thinker.”

The man pulled back his hood, revealing a close-cropped head of hair and a well-trimmed mustache and goatee. He had dark eyes which bored into focus, his intense gaze fixed on his host while appraising his surroundings. Al figured him at 5'9, 210 pounds of solid muscle, about his own size.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Al nodded. “That was quite a stunt your men pulled, breaking in and out of Attica like that. Not to mention that record-breaking cyber haul.”

“Money's money,” the Thinker replied. “Power is power. I've never believed them to be the same thing. Ask any old rich geezer locked up in his mansion at night. I've got more money than I could ever spend. I'd like to experience the feel of true power. And I think that very soon you'll have plenty of power to spare.”

“And, of course, you'll be helping me secure that power. If we pool our resources, I'm fairly certain we can bring this city to its knees. With my control of the streets and your control of cyberspace, we'll have everything covered. Should anyone fall out of line, I'm sure your special friend will be able to restore everything to normal.”

“Oh yes, he most certainly will, just like we said,” the Thinker turned to one of his gunmen by the door, crooking a finger. “Bring our colleague in, if you will.”

The Thinker studied Al's face as the 6'6”, 290-pound giant strode into the room. Ken “Black Panther” Stevenson was a six-time mixed martial arts champion who was framed for a murder he did not commit. He served four years and started a prison g**g that joined him on the street upon his release. They took over the d**g rackets in East Harlem, ruling the 'hood until a b****y m******e of the 137th Street g**g in broad daylight resulted in his arrest. He had served two years in solitary confinement at Attica Prison until the Thinker g**g sprang him loose.

“Welcome, my friend. Have a seat.”

“I'd rather stand,” the voice rumbled as thunder.

“As you wish.”

“You see, the time is past for your rank-and-file street crews—like these guys here—to go around waving guns in people's faces and trying to tell them what to do,” the Thinker said matter-of-factly. “It may work on the little people—civilians and the bottom-feeders—but not with the new breed of gangbangers. Everybody waves guns in their faces—the cops, the criminals, your everyday psychos. Everybody has that liberty or death mentality. Everybody's a slave to their own sin. Greed, s*x, drugs, you name it. Everybody's locked in their own little cage, and if you kill them, you set them free. These guys with their little popguns just don't scare them anymore.”

“Yeah?” Vito snarled. “Maybe I show you otherwise.”

“Let him talk,” Al ordered, not taking his eyes off the Thinker.

“What they're more scared about is the fate worse than death,” the Thinker's eyes brightened. “Lying paralyzed or worse in their cage, unable to escape. The Nightcrawler brought that to the table. Breaking people's bones with titanium steel boots, spraying them with chemical weapons, tossing concussion grenades. Even the toughest guys in the Russian Mob didn't want to go up against him. He finally broke their will, then he disappeared. Where do you suppose he went?”

“He went off the side of the Empire State Building,” Guido scoffed. “From that height he would've splattered before he even hit the ground. If he bounced off a ledge he would've come down like tomato sauce.”

“For those of us unfamiliar with Nightcrawler lore, it's also been said that he fell from the Statue of Liberty as well as a blimp hovering over the New York harbor at over a thousand feet. Who is he anyway, David Copperfield? Well, perhaps. Or maybe the Government's secret weapon. Perhaps they put him in a glass-paneled box, like 'break in case of emergency'. Stored away for the next rainy day.”

“Well, why ain't he looking for the big guy?” Vito nodded at the Panther.

“I suspect he's about at the end of his warranty. Not much time left on his clock. They're saving him for one last detail. Only here we have our own insurance policy. The glove, Uno.”

The Thinker's enforcer, wearing a balaclava as were they all, pulled a thick black glove from inside his motorcycle jacket and handed it to the Panther. The bullet-headed giant pulled it on and, to everyone's surprise, lunged with a piledriver swing that broke a foot-long chunk off the end of the two-inch thick mahogany table.

“Whaddaya, outta your mind?” Guido went for his shoulder holster.

“I'll compensate you for the damage,” the Thinker held up a hand.

“That won't be necessary,” Al glanced from Guido to the Thinker.

“I decided to try my hand at having some titanium reinforced gloves manufactured,” the Thinker informed them. “I, too, hold my own mathematics-based degrees in various sciences beside computers. I think my product is as good—if not better—than those of our illustrious opponent. How does it feel?”

“Excellent padding,” the giant grunted. “Not that I need it.”

“You see, the Reaper and Apollyon were seasoned fighters, but not on the level of the Nightcrawler,” the Thinker folded his hands on the table. “Our vigilante is highly skilled in martial arts as well as the manufacture of chemical weapons and armored gear. Plus he obviously has sources inside the NYPD and Homeland Security. We must exceed him on every level if we are to eliminate him. I can outdo him scientifically, and I can put up enough money to outbid him in bribing officials. As far as beating him in a fair fight…Kenny?”

“He don't stand a chance,” the Panther growled.

“Good,” Al smiled. “Then we have a deal.”

“I'll call you,” the Thinker smiled as he rose from the table. He left the room with the Panther behind him, followed by his two gunmen.

“Why we doing business with these bags of garbage?” Vito snorted.

“As Don Rossini used to say, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'. It doesn't matter how we seize control of this City, only that the task is completed.”

“That guy talks big, but he don't impress me,” Guido declared. “How do we know he was behind that cyber caper, or if he was the one who busted the n****r out? You mean there ain't one Italian who's as smart as him, or tougher than that melanzane?”

“Why go to the store when your neighbor's tools are on the other side of the fence?” Al was sardonic. “We will use them until the work is done. Then we will dispose of them.”

“Yeah,” Vito grinned. “Six feet under.”

They shared a hearty laugh.

“You don't look so good, kid.”

“Long night.”

Hoyt Wexford climbed into Bob Methot's new Jaguar as the partners left Police Plaza that next morning. They had been assigned to investigate the armored car robbery at the Wells Fargo bank. Although it was under jurisdiction of the NYPD Robbery Squad, Hoyt and Bob were taking a look as members of the Organized Crime Unit. They were checking to see if there was a possibility it had been perpetrated by any members of a known organized crime faction. It would have allowed them to conduct an independent inquiry in conjunction with Federal agents.

“Woman trouble?” Bob sailed out towards the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“Nah, we're doing fine.”

“So how's she doing? Did the doctors give her a clean bill?”

“She's back to running things at the BCC. What's that tell you?”

“You told me old man Aeppli's been in charge. No pushback?”

“It's her company. Besides, like I told you, she loves him like a father.”

“Looks like you've lost some weight.”

“So is that a bad thing?”

“Also looks like you're not getting enough sleep.”

“What are you, a doctor?”

“We're partners, kid,” Bob glanced at him. “You want me to call it by the book here, I can say I'm putting my life in your hands while you're not at your best.”

“Screw you, Bob,” Hoyt looked out the passenger window. “Put in a request.”

“Don't get smart, kid. You and I have some serious time in together. We just beat an internal investigation.”

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks to you.”

“Yeah, well, the bastard deserved it. We saved the State the cost of a trial and maybe forty years of prison expense.”

“See, that's what's wrong with you,” Hoyt snapped back. “How do you know Kelly Stone doesn't have his Chernobyl satellite tracking us? They can hear a conversation from over a thousand miles away.”

“Yeah, I bet you believe in flying saucers too. Look, we're getting off topic. What do you think, the Feds may be still watching Bree?”

“I don't know, Bob. I just don't know. Everybody's looking for the Nightcrawler to resurface. Nobody believes he died jumping off that building.”

“Listen, I can put some guys on her house. If they catch anyone snooping around outside, it'll be in the morning papers. If they catch her doing anything suspicious, you'll be the first to know.”

“Spy on Bree? Geez, Bob, I can't do that.”

“Look, you're driving yourself nuts. You're falling apart. Let them watch her for a week. If they don't come up with anything, at least you'll have peace of mind.”

“All right,” Hoyt exhaled tautly. “Just one week. You promise me you'll take them off in seven days. If you don't, you and I got a problem.”

“Hey, who am I?” he reached over and punched Hoyt's shoulder.

“Okay, partner. I appreciate it.”

Neither of them would expect how badly their best intentions could go awry.