Apaches (41 page)

Boomer turned Lavetti around and cuffed him as he pushed him toward the backseat of the dark blue sedan. “To visit an old friend of yours. And I bet she’s gonna be real happy to see you.”

“I could have you killed,” Lavetti said, glaring at Boomer from the backseat. “One call, that’s all it’ll take.”

“A lot of guys have made that one call, Lavetti,” Boomer said, kicking over the engine and peeling out of his space. “I’m still here. And they’re all dead.”

•    •    •

B
OOMER AND
D
EAD
-E
YE
were crouched down, hidden by shrubs and darkness, staring across a golf pond at the heavily guarded three-story house.

“I count at least eight in front,” Boomer whispered. “Figure the same number in back. And double that for the ground crew.”

Rev. Jim and Mrs. Columbo were stretched out farther up the ridge, Lavetti shoved face down alongside.

Except for Lavetti, they all wore bullet-resistant vests under their black shirts. On the plane ride over, the four of them had jammed a full arsenal of semis around their hips and waists, loaded up on grenades and ammo, and
listened while Boomer laid out what sounded like nothing less than an invasion.

“You really think any of this is going to work?” Rev. Jim asked at one point.

“Are you kidding?” Boomer said. “It’ll be a fuckin’ miracle if it even comes
close
to working.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Dead-Eye said. “I was starting to worry.”

“With our luck,” Mrs. Columbo said, jabbing a thumb toward Lavetti, “he’ll be the only one to make it out alive.”

“Don’t bet on that,” Boomer said, staring over at Lavetti, who had stayed silent through the entire flight.

“Run that Greek fire deal by me one more time,” Rev. Jim said.

“I’m new at this myself, so bear with me,” Boomer said, holding up a white five-foot plastic tube. “But the way Geronimo told it, you air-gun the nitro through the tube and it shoots out above the water, a lot like a torpedo out of a sub. It bounces off the water and right into the house.”

“It leaves behind a flame trail,” Dead-Eye said. “So you can use it as light too.”

“An air gun and nitro,” Rev. Jim said. “What could go wrong with that?”

Boomer had alerted his federal sources from the air and bargained himself an hour’s worth of attack time. “Don’t worry, Tony,” he said to a voice at the other end of the phone. “As it is, you’re giving us about thirty minutes more than we need. We’ll try and leave you nothing to clean up.”

Before Tony clicked off the line he said, “I don’t know which is better, if we find you dead or alive.”

“If you find us,” Boomer said, “I’d count on dead.”

•    •    •

L
UCIA
C
ARNEY DRANK
from a glass of white wine, looking out into the darkness. Wilber Graves stood next
to her, a smug smile on his face. She was dressed in a black pants suit, her hair hanging down around her shoulders, a .45 silver-handled semiautomatic lodged against the base of her spine.

“They’re here,” Lucia said. “Hiding in the shrubs somewhere.”

“They won’t get far,” Wilber said. “Or even close. They’ll be dead before they reach the house.”

“A shame,” Lucia said. “I was hoping to at least meet them. To fly all this way and go to all this trouble, just to end up dead on a golf course.”

“There are six men on every floor inside the house,” Wilber told her. “Just in case.”

“And where will you be?” Lucia asked.

“Where I belong,” Wilber said. “Next to you.”

Lucia finished her drink and smiled. “Time will decide where you belong, Wilber,” she said as she walked past him without looking up.

•    •    •

“W
E HOLD TO
the plan for as long as we can,” Boomer said, looking past Dead-Eye toward Rev. Jim and Mrs. Columbo. “If we make it out, we regroup here and head back to the landing strip.”

“Don’t I at least get a gun?” Lavetti asked, still stretched out on the ground.

“Know how to use one?” Rev. Jim asked.

“Of course I do,” Lavetti exclaimed.

“Then the answer’s no,” Mrs. Columbo said. “We may be crazy, but we ain’t stupid.”

“Don’t think of yourself as an Apache,” Dead-Eye told him. “Think of yourself as a bulletproof vest we don’t have to wear.”

“It’s like havin’ my very own shield,” Rev. Jim said. He snapped one cuff around Lavetti’s wrist, closing the other end on his own. “Wonder how many bullets he takes before I tire of draggin’ him around.”

“Enough to kill him, I hope,” was Mrs. Columbo’s answer.

“We ready to do this?” Boomer asked, standing and zipping his jacket.

“No,” Dead-Eye said. “But if it means getting out of this heat, I’ll give it a shot.”

“Dead-Eye and I will walk down the front path like we’re invited to a party,” Boomer said. “Soon as you can, Rev. Jim, get that Greek fire going across the pond.”

“It’ll either be flames or me shootin’ past that water,” Rev. Jim said.

Boomer turned to Mrs. Columbo. “Mary, you get as close as you can and launch those rockets just like we showed you on the plane.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “If I can drive a wrecking ball down a Manhattan street, I can sure as shit shoot a rocket against the side of a house.”

“We all meet inside,” Boomer said. “First one to Lucia takes home the prize.”

“We’re all going to be killed,” Lavetti said, panic firmly set in. “She’s in there waiting. They’re
all
in there waiting. If you turn back now, I can work something out. Have her back off. It’s your only way out.”

Boomer stepped over to Lavetti and slapped him hard across the face. “As soon as the shooting starts, uncuff yourself from him,” Boomer said to Rev. Jim. “He’ll be surrounded by his friends.”

“See you at the fair.” Rev. Jim began dragging Lavetti with him toward the golf pond.

Boomer watched them go, then turned to Mrs. Columbo. He touched her cheek and smiled. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asked.

“You worried because I’m the only woman on the team?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

“I’m worried because you’re the only woman I care about left alive,” Boomer said softly.

“You really know the right time for romance,” she answered with a smile. She lifted her launcher and rocket pack and headed off in search of a shooting site.

“That just leaves the two of us,” Dead-Eye pointed out.

“You’re a smart man.” Boomer placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “How the hell’d you end up with a guy like me?”

“Born under a dark cloud,” Dead-Eye told him. “And there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

“Let’s go make some noise, then.” They began to walk down the well-lit path, knowing there were eyes on their every step. They turned a slight curve and saw the house, a quarter of a mile ahead.

“They’re not gonna let us get much closer,” Boomer said.

“I wouldn’t have let us get this far.”

“Maybe we got it all wrong,” Boomer said. “Maybe they don’t want us dead.”

“That’s what Custer thought. Up until that first arrow.”

•    •    •

“W
HY ARE YOU
waiting?” Lucia asked Wilber, anger in her voice and eyes.

“Can you see them yet?” Wilber asked. “I thought you wanted to see them.”

“Enough with your stupid little games, Wilber,” Lucia said. “I want to see them
dead.
”

“They
are
dead,” Wilber said. “They just haven’t been told yet.”

“Well then, have the men let them know,” Lucia said. “
Now.
”

Wilber opened the windows to the terrace, stepped outside, and gave the signal.

•    •    •

R
EV
. J
IM EASED
the nitro ball into the air gun, then placed the front tip of the gun inside the opening of the
five-foot plastic tube. He and Lavetti were crouched at the edge of the golf pond, directly across from the rear of the house.

“You have any idea what you’re doing?” Lavetti asked, desperate.

“Not a clue.” Rev. Jim moved both hands slowly, dragging Lavetti’s cuffed wrist along.

“It won’t work,” Lavetti said. “I can tell from your face even
you
know it won’t work.”

“You’re a very negative guy.” Rev. Jim looked him over. “Maybe yoga would help.”

•    •    •

M
RS
. C
OLUMBO DROPPED
the rocket into the launcher pad, her hands, face, and back drenched with sweat. She twisted the base shield to her right and pressed the red button, turning from the launcher. She waited with eyes shut for a blast that never arrived.

“Dammit, Mary,” she muttered to herself. “Don’t screw up. Not here. Not now.”

She peeked over the lid of the launcher and shook her head.

“What a dope,” she said, still mumbling, realizing she had put the rocket in backward.

She struggled to pull it out, turned it around, and then placed it back inside the cylinder.

“Please, God,” she whispered, her eyes closed. “Please make it work.”

•    •    •

A
STREAM OF
bullets rained down on Boomer and Dead-Eye, pelting the path at their feet.

It was the signal they wanted.

Boomer turned right, Dead-Eye left, each with a grenade in hand, tossing them out into the dark night. After six grenades had blown patches of grass and pieces of men into the air, they each unzipped their
jackets and wrapped their hands around the handle of an M-16 machine gun. They stood back to back, pumping bullets in all directions, Boomer leading the way to the house.

They saw the Greek fire before they heard it.

A large ball of flame raced across the rear pond, up onto the back lawn, flush into the house, blowing out windows and walls. Three other blasts followed in quick succession, causing equal amounts of damage.

Mrs. Columbo’s missiles found their mark as well.

The first one overshot the main house and blew up the garage. The next two took out five men and half the second floor.

Boomer and Dead-Eye reloaded, kept firing as bullets whistled past. Only one found them, clipping Boomer on his right elbow.

Dead-Eye was running the M-16 like a concert baton, leaving in his wake the moans and thuds of the wounded and dying. Boomer cleared the front of the path, stopping his cascade of bullets long enough only to throw out a few more grenades.

Missiles and nitro blasts lit the sky.

“I guess they know we’re here,” Boomer shouted.

“Think they’re ready to surrender yet?” Dead-Eye asked, spraying two more face down into the grass.

“When we get inside, we’ll ask,” Boomer said, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it toward the front door.

•    •    •

R
EV
. J
IM UNCUFFED
Lavetti, picked him up, and started to run with him toward the house. But Lavetti broke free and drew ahead.

“Wilber!” Lavetti began to shout. “Don’t shoot! It’s me! Mark Lavetti. Don’t shoot!”

Rev. Jim headed off in the opposite direction, around the left side of the pond, running toward the gaping hole
in the first floor caused by one of his fireballs, using an Uzi submachine gun to further light the way. He turned to take a look at Lavetti, frantically waving his arms and calling out Wilber’s name.

“Hope he finds you,” Rev. Jim said.

•    •    •

M
RS
. C
OLUMBO
,
FREE
of the weight of the rocket launchers and heavy packs, walked quickly down an unguarded rock road and soon found herself by the rear of the house. She smiled as she stepped inside. Wait till Boomer hears about this, she thought. He’ll never believe it.

•    •    •

T
HE DOOR BLEW
open and Boomer and Dead-Eye jumped through a circle of fire, guns still spraying bullets in all directions.

“Here’s where we split,” Boomer said, standing and shooting in the main entry. “I’ll take the second floor.”

“That leaves the third for me.”

“Call if you need me,” Boomer shouted, running up the front hall steps.

“Other way around, friend,” Dead-Eye said, racing through the kitchen and taking the back staircase.

•    •    •

W
ILBER
G
RAVES MOVED
through fire and smoke, stepping over dead bodies, looked out incredulously at Lavetti, standing near the golf pond, shouting his name.

Wilber lifted the machine pistol in his hand, aimed it at the corrupt cop, and waited until he was close enough for their eyes to meet.

“Wilber,” Lavetti yelled, blinded by smoke and flames. “That you? That you, Wilber?”

“It’s me,” Wilber said.

He then calmly pumped three bullets into Mark Lavetti’s chest.

The first two found flesh and bone.

The third shattered the bottle of nitro Rev. Jim had slipped inside the pocket of Lavetti’s black windbreaker.

The explosion sent Wilber flying onto his back and killed anyone on the back grass who wasn’t already dead.

Rev. Jim saw the blast from the second-floor balcony. He shook his head and turned away.

“Some friends you found yourself, Lavetti,” he said.

•    •    •

M
RS
. C
OLUMBO WALKED
along the wall leading to the second-floor den. Gunfire erupted throughout the house and thick plumes of smoke filtered down the halls, tearing her eyes. She had a .38 Special in her right hand, held down against her thigh. There were scattered bodies and debris everywhere.

She stepped over a black-suited shooter, face down in his own blood, and turned a curved corner, bumping into a tall man with deep lacerations on his face and arms.

“You must be the one they call Mrs. Columbo,” Wilber Graves said in a voice revealing his British boarding school education. Graves was born to a life of luxury and had the habits to prove it. But at a young age he had trained his full attention on doing what he liked to do best—kill.

Mrs. Columbo went to lift her gun, but his hand was faster. Graves reached out to hold it in place with a powerful grip. She heard the snap of a switchblade and watched as he moved closer, the fear of the knife stalking her once again, paralyzing her.