Chapter Twenty

Campbell

I FOLLOW LA Rosa’s car for a mile to ensure he’s going straight home.

Once he turns toward Ditmars, I take the next exit off the 278 and throw the car in reverse to start driving along the East River. My dirty work was finished this morning when I revisited Mr. Costa’s van for another free ride past the gate and stole every source of epinephrine I could find inside the house. La Rosa won’t have a cure on hand, and the police won’t know to look for what’s already gone.

Despite the ever-present temptation to break a hundred on the near-empty interstate, I stick to the exact speed limit. If a cop pulled me over, what I have in the back seat would put me away for ten years without firing a single shot. Enrico joked over the phone that I was planning on committing a war crime, but I reminded him his special delivery only breaks such laws when it’s used by the military overseas. American law enforcement is under no such restrictions; domestic use is flatly sanctioned.

At the end of the day, some part of me remains a soldier. The difference between the Galicis and myself is that they learned by doing. For certain matters—like Cesare’s car trick—repetition makes them quite skilled at specific brands of violence. Yet their abilities are limited by personal accomplishments. I was trained to deal with every kind of death imaginable, from the everyday to the apocalyptic.

I was also trained to inflict it. Even those who dress the dead have to meet a rifleman’s standards.

Silence reigns over Astoria at eleven-thirty at night. I have half an hour to get this job done before Stefano checks in on La Rosa. In this case, I don’t mind the time crunch. What I have planned should take no more than ten minutes.

Sofia’s house is classic in a lot of ways: scoured red brick walls tapering up to a wide chimney, black-framed windows with the shutters drawn, and hints of decades-old wood in the porch and molding. There’s one door in front and one in back, the latter leading to a massive yard she only paid for to keep the rest of the neighborhood as far away from her as possible. I appreciate her misanthropy; it’s about to come in handy.

After parking a block away, I throw my retrieval bag together: two grenades, two gas masks, and a twenty-gauge steel security bar. Not exactly a top-of-the-line kit, but the empty space will be important once I’m inside. My suit from the gallery goes into the trunk; I need black, casual, and not a single bare inch of skin. The full effect makes me look like I’m about to rob an art museum, but a good set of boots and gloves has universal use.

A slow approach is vital. Three cars wall off Sofia’s driveway, pressing against her neighbors, but the house itself remains quiet. The windows are closed like I hoped, but light shines through on the first floor, confirming someone is still inside. The Galicis wouldn’t want locals seeing half a dozen men lurking around a single woman’s house, but that means their vision outside is equally limited.

I press a hand to the engine block of the closest car—ice cold. Sofia is just wealthy enough that an unattended S-Class Mercedes doesn’t attract attention, although the other two vehicles are a few years older. Of course they sent some of the lower ranks to fill out her guard; at the end of the day, it’s grunt work.

Not that it matters. Tonight, anyone loyal to the Galici is on my list, and I have a statement to make.

Opening the security bar to its full length brings a whisper of steel, but the rest is soundless as I lock it into place against the front door. No one’s getting out this way unless they happened to bring a battering ram. Crouched on the porch, I count fifteen seconds of silence, but when there’s no response from within, I start working my way around the exterior of the house.

The left side is heavy on brick and low on windows, but I’ll take a quieter climb over an easy one. I turn the bag I’m carrying close to my stomach to mute any noise, then brace a foot against the first sill, step up, and grab at the abutment above. It’s been a while since I scaled a building like this; getting a copy of someone else’s keys is much more efficient, but in this case, I don’t need the door—I need the chimney.

Someone moves near the window I’m braced against; the words that follow are too splintered to translate. When the shadow against the shutter turns, I push up hard and seize the gutter buckled to the roof. Aluminum brackets give a threatening bend outward, but I get a foot on the upper sill and claw my way onto slanted tiles. The roof is at a forty-five-degree angle, drawing my balance forward with every step until I reach the valley between hips and chimney.

My mask comes first. In basic training, they send fifteen recruits apiece into a room laden with tear gas and make them stand in it until even the cartridge recycling the air through your equipment can’t hide the smell. Then you take it off and recite your name, rank, and social security number while the gas burns through every open membrane in your face. They don’t let you leave until everyone else has filed out in order, and closing your eyes means failure.

Protocol says the test is supposed to give a soldier confidence in their gear. All I remember is a drill sergeant smirking as tears streamed down my face, then joking that if that didn’t break me, he would be happy to throw me back in the chamber.

I pull both grenades out of the bag and double-check the pins before holding them over the opening of the chimney. Time for a little noise.

Two clicks are followed by matching clangs as the grenades bounce into the fireplace below. Someone shouts, but the hiss that comes after is the only permission I need to run along the roof and jump down into Sofia’s yard, landing right outside the back door.

Her spare key hides under one of those fake little rocks. It slides into the lock cleanly as the yelling on the other side the door hits a fever pitch.

Good job, gentlemen. Keep yelling and draw that gas right into your lungs.

Thirty seconds in, I wrench the lock open, force my way inside, and slam the door shut. A pale yellow fog lingers in the air, rising slowly toward the ceiling, and one man is already on the floor unconscious, about five feet from making his escape. I step over him to the more distant coughing and agonized wheezing, rushing past the living room into the kitchen where Sofia keeps those wooden chairs.

A figure stumbles out of the gas with a gun in hand, the whites of his eyes blazing red: Cesare Galici.

“Hi, Cesare,” I say and punch him directly in the mouth.

Panic transforms his face an instant before impact, but he drops like a stone. His weapon skitters across dark tile and stops by Sofia’s fridge. I’ll get it later—right now, she’s my priority.

Except she’s not in here, where I expected.

“Sofia!” Being quiet is pointless now; everyone in the house is well aware they’ve been ambushed. “Speak up!”

A hard knock answers from down the hall. I dart that way and shove the first door open.

She’s on the floor of the bathroom with a wet rag pressed across her face. I tear it away without a word before kneeling and pulling the second mask out of my bag. I tug it onto her head, but the straps don’t want to cooperate with her long blonde hair. A soft pop happens the second it seals, and Sofia’s next breath is paired with a demand.

“Campbell, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Putting together an insurance policy.” I help Sofia to her feet, although she struggles a bit. “I’m giving you my car keys. Go out the back and sit in there. I’ll be right behind you.”

The keys are taken with an iron grip, and Sofia lets me shepherd her out the yard-side door before I shut it again. This place isn’t getting ventilated until I have everything I want.

With the gas, I have to work slowly to find everyone inside. Most of the kidnappers are already unconscious, but the ones that aren’t lack the will to fight, gagging on their own spit and tears as I empty their pockets. Every wallet, weapon, and phone goes into the bag. My distant hope to find a USB drive full of photos fades by the time I finish the search, but that would have been ridiculously lucky. I leave the jewelry; sentiment isn’t what’s valuable here, and it’s not worth ripping gold chains and watches off this many twitching mafioso bodies.

Stefano isn’t here, but I didn’t expect him to be. I imagine he’s lurking with a hit squad closer to La Rosa’s part of town, expecting backup the moment his death is confirmed.

Once my stash is complete, I walk over to the temperature control panel on the living room wall, crank the air conditioning to full, and turn off the option to recycle the air. It beeps a gentle warning at me about environmental impact, but it’s a little late to factor that in. I leave the back door open on the way out this time; the visible gas will dissipate by the hour everyone is up and ready to work, although the Galicis will be feeling the effects for days.

The security bar comes with me on the way to the car, where Sofia sits wet-eyed in the passenger seat. I throw my bag into the back, then get in on the driver’s side so I can peel off my own mask.

“Sorry for the wait,” I say.

Her answer is a ragged wheeze. Every breath she takes is shallow, catching high in her lungs. That shouldn’t be happening with only a few seconds of exposure, especially when she fled to the bathroom. “Sofia?”

“I have asthma,” she chokes out.

Fuck.

I reach across her lap to open the glove compartment, then yank out my crash kit. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Sofia’s laugh comes out as a shaking rasp. “You never asked.”

“And you smoke?” I mutter under my breath, pulling out an inhaler from the bottom of the bag. “Here.”

She fits it to her mouth and pops the button down, watery eyes squeezing shut. After a few solid puffs, Sofia’s shoulders stop trembling. Then she whispers, hoarse and amazed, “Did you tear-gas my goddamn house?”

“I used CR gas, actually. Six to ten times more powerful, depending on who happens to be selling it.” Enrico has friends everywhere, so I can’t be entirely sure. “I’ll give you the number for a company to deep-clean the interior tomorrow. Your neighbors will chalk the big tent up to an insect problem.”

“Jesus Christ.” Sofia coughs again. “I want to wipe my eyes so badly.”

“Don’t.” It would boil her sclera. “I was going to take you to Brunu’s. Is that safe enough?”

“I’m not sure anywhere is safe after you just inflicted chemical warfare on half the Galici’s made men.” She gestures at the steering wheel. “But go. Get us the hell out of here.”

Her uncle’s restaurant isn’t far, so I drive fast and let Sofia continue to catch her breath until we’re in the parking lot. She accepts my change of a spare shirt from the trunk with a faint protest; the size is off considerably, but the gas lingers in clothes too. Once I’m changed and Sofia has rolled up the sleeves twice over, we head in through the back door.

Brunu himself stands over a bubbling pot in the kitchen and immediately barks, “Sofia, where have you been?”

“Kidnapped,” she snaps. “So do me a favor and bring the biggest bottle of Averna you have to the table.”

He raises a thick gray brow, then shrugs and turns to the cabinet next to him. I follow her into the restaurant proper, where Sofia promptly slips into the VIP booth and collapses against the cushioned seat.

“I thought you were going to kill La Rosa,” she says, staring at the bulging bag when I set it on the table. “What is all this, Campbell?”

“La Rosa should have died—” I check my watch. “—ten or so minutes ago. Did you know he has a severe shellfish allergy?”

Sofia blinks twice. “Did you assassinate the head of the Commission with some shrimp and a smile?”

“Please. I injected him.”

Brunu arrives with the demanded bottle but doesn’t stay for long after Sofia drives him away with a blistering stream of Sicilian. She pours herself a full glass of sweet, herbal liquor and downs about half in a single swallow.

“Then please explain why you went Rambo after keeping your promise to Stefano,” she says, refilling the glass again. “Because he’s a man of his word. Usually.”

My phone rings. Speak of the devil.

I hit accept. Stefano’s voice cuts through the line the second it connects, verging on apoplectic. “You said it would look like an accident, you unhinged bastard.”

Not the response I expected. “Excuse me?”

“How does burning his house to the ground look like an accident, huh? His wife was in there! Arson is going to get everyone involved from the NYPD to the FBI, and they’ll be hitting up our doors the second they figure out who he is.”

I didn’t set anything on fire, but right now, I can’t tell Stefano that. He needs to think I’m in complete control for what’s about to happen.

Looking at Sofia, I press a finger to my lips, put the call on speakerphone, and set it down between the two of us. “You rushed me, Stefano. Plenty of house fires are caused by accidents. La Rosa’s out of the picture, which is what you wanted.”

“What I wanted is to cut your heart out, and I should have done that instead,” he snarls. “You think you’re getting Sofia back after this?”

“I already have her.”

Stefano’s stunned silence stretches out for five vital seconds. “What?”

“Your men might be conscious by now, but I don’t particularly care either way. The important part is that I have their guns, their phones, and their wallets. I have every bit of information needed to tear your operation apart. How many bodies are on Cesare’s piece? I’m just curious.”

“You’re lying,” Stefano snarls.

“Am I?” After unzipping the bag, I fish around for Cesare’s billfold and pull out the ID hidden in the center pocket. “His middle name is Andrea. He was born on August 19th, 1970. And he uses a Model 19 Classic revolver with a gouge in the wooden grip.”

More silence. I savor it like Sofia savors her Averna, sparks of bloodthirsty delight rising in her eyes.

“What the fuck do you want, Campbell?” Stefano asks. “You made your point.”

“I don’t think I have, actually. You’re down half a dozen men, and whatever move you were going to make on La Rosa’s territory is moot. In fact, you’re going to withdraw from every new operation you have in the city. Retreat to your little neighborhood in Brooklyn, and stay there, or I’ll drop my prize at 26 Federal Plaza.”

“You’re no rat,” he hisses. “You know better.”

“I’m not a rat.” That presumes I had any loyalty to him in the first place. “I’m a mercenary. Our contract’s done, so there’s nothing stopping me from giving the feds a hand.”

“I could do the same to you,” Stefano counters. “You think they’ll buy your little show-and-tell when they find out you kill for hire?”

I laugh. Hiding my mockery is pointless now. “Oh, Stefano. Your entire family is a gorgeous RICO case waiting to land in some agent’s lap. No one’s going to choose me over you when it comes to the shining highlight of their career. So back down—tonight—or I’ll deliver the goods at 9 a.m. sharp.”

Even over the phone, I can hear him break. The shattered breath of disbelief, jagged pieces severing right through his pride. Looking for any way out, anything he can chew or claw through to escape. Who’s the rat now?

“Done,” Stefano grits out through clenched teeth. “But you’ve made a big fucking mistake.”

“You made the mistake of getting in my way, Galici. Do it again, and you’ll wake up just like your brother with my hands around your narrow little neck.”

I end the call and look at Sofia, who has managed to work her way another glass of liquor but seems to have that much more clarity for it.

“I love you a little bit,” she says, then chuckles. “Platonically. Like the homicidal sibling my parents never gave me.”

By Sofia standards, that’s almost maudlin. “I’ll remember your birthday next time.”

She pushes her glass away and shakes her head. “You just told me you jabbed La Rosa. What was that about a fire?”

Someone was in his house, just as I suspected. Except I don’t have the first clue who would be motivated to burn him and his wife alive, or how their timing could be so perfect that it overlapped with my kill window.

So the only answer I have is damning. “I don’t know.”