Zelman’s heart raced as he watched Mancini drive out of the parking lot twelve floors below him. He grabbed his duffel bag filled with travel cash and a change of clothes and briskly walked out of his office. When he got to the elevator, he turned to his receptionist and said, “I will back in just a few minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
On the elevator ride down, he thought about that message: COURTESY OF NICK BRACCO. How did that guy get into his system? Who could’ve turned? And how can he get his cryptocurrency back? He knew how the stuff was transmitted and also knew he could recover the funds once he found where it had been sent.
All this bounced around his head as the elevator doors opened and he walked into the basement garage, relieved to see Ropa behind the wheel of his BMW.
Zelman threw his duffel bag into the back seat, jumped into the passenger seat, and shut the door.
“Go!” Zelman shouted.
Ropa stepped on the gas. “Where?”
“The hangar.”
Ropa glanced at Zelman, feeding off his anxiety. “What happened in there?”
“Nick Bracco is what happened. He found a way to steal my funds.”
“How?”
“I do not know, but I will find out. And that person will not survive the betrayal.” He looked at Ropa suspiciously.
Ropa returned the glare. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t get paranoid. Not everyone is against you.”
“No, but someone in my inner circle has given my password to the Feds. There is no other way to explain it.”
“Who has your password? Not me.”
Ropa was right about that.
They headed south on 24th Street toward the airport. As he glanced at his surroundings, searching for Mancini, Zelman pulled out his phone and pushed a contact. When his pilot answered, he said, “Get the Gulfstream fired up and idling for me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When the pilot asked for the destination, Zelman simply said, “Have a full tank ready.” Then he hung up.
“It could be Pashkov,” Zelman said, returning to the infidelity.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Zelman didn’t know what to believe.
There was a loud blast from the front of the car and the vehicle jolted to the right. Ropa fought to keep it in the lane, but the front end was pulling it toward the sidewalk. It took twenty or thirty yards before Ropa could control the brakes and steering wheel enough to skid it to a stop right against the curb.
“Fuck,” Zelman said. “What was that?”
“We blew a tire,” Ropa said, still gripping the steering wheel tight.
A car horned blared as it swerved around the crippled BMW.
“It felt like the car was going to explode,” Zelman said.
Ropa leaned back against the headrest. “It was a blown tire, that is all. You are allowing the paranoia to control your mind.”
“Well, get out and change the tire,” Zelman ordered.
Ropa sighed, then opened the door and went to survey the damage while Zelman checked his phone for any messages. A moment later, he glanced up and saw Ropa looking past him while Zelman caught an image of a man approaching the car in the sideview mirror. He appeared to be a concerned citizen, a young guy, short hair, with a tailored shirt tucked into creased slacks.
Zelman pushed the button to lower the window.
“Everything okay?” the man asked.
“We are fine,” Zelman said. “Just a flat tire.”
The gun came out so quick, Zelman didn’t have a chance to respond.
The guy pointed the gun at Ropa and said, “Toss me your phone.”
Ropa listened and the guy caught it.
Then he swung the gun onto Zelman and said, “Get out.”
Zelman couldn’t understand the bravado of this guy on a busy street, cars driving by, waving his gun like he was in a dark alley. When Zelman got out of the car, the guy pointed to a silver Lincoln Navigator behind them with the back door opened.
“Let’s go!” the guy shouted.
Zelman didn’t hesitate. These guys were probably Mancini’s men, following him from the office. What choice did he have? They just wanted their money, so he was still valuable to them.
The guy patted him down, then pushed him toward the Navigator. Zelman slid into the back seat next to an old guy with thinning black hair, dark gray suit and a pair of aviator sunglasses. The gunman hopped into the driver’s seat, jerked the steering wheel to the left and pulled the car back into traffic.
“Do you know who I am?” the old guy asked, pulling down his sunglasses for a moment.
Zelman nodded. He’d seen Dom Lucia’s face on the news plenty of times.
Lucia waved his arm over Zelman’s left shoulder through the rear window. “Look.”
Zelman could see a man with a rifle running up an embankment that bordered 24th Street. He rushed past a bus stop to Zelman’s car and shoved Ropa against the BMW, all the while staring at Lucia’s car driving away.
“You think that tire blew out by accident?” Lucia said.
Zelman shook his head, his stomach creeping up into his throat, realizing there was something deeper going on.
“That man is Matt McColm,” Lucia said. “He is Nick Bracco’s partner.”
Zelman was struggling to piece it together.
“Keep looking,” Lucia said, while their driver accelerated around slow-moving vehicles.
Zelman twisted in his seat, watching Bracco’s partner standing out in the street now as a black SUV pulled up, and he hopped into the passenger seat, the car peeling out into the traffic behind them.
“Lose them,” Lucia told his driver, casually, as if ordering wine from a waiter.
Zelman kept watching the scene behind them like it was a movie, only it was real and he needed to grab the handle above the window to keep from sliding on the leather seat.
“You thought Al Mancini was working for me, eh?” Lucia said. “Telling you he was collecting my money? That didn’t make you suspicious?”
Zelman shrugged, realizing now how dubious that seemed.
“He was never working for me, that rat bastard. He’s working with the FBI. He’s trying to put you away. Apparently, he was very upset about your Perrino family massacre and wanted you to pay for it. He’d become very close with Sal Perrino over the years. Maybe you sensed that when you tried to pay him to take care of the Perrino killings, huh? You must’ve realized when he turned you down there was some kind of loyalty there. Right?”
“Right,” Zelman said out loud, putting things together in his mind.
They were going over eighty miles per hour when Lucia looked down at his watch and said to the driver, “Make a right on Washington. Head to the train tracks.”
The car swerved to the right and slid sideways onto Washington Street. Zelman watched the SUV still chasing them.
“Mancini is getting soft in his old age,” Lucia said. “Letting another family affect how he runs his business. Me, I only care about the Lucia family. You try to mess around with my business, well, then we have a serious problem. But you start a war with the Perrinos or the Mancinis, what the fuck do I care? The three of you could destroy each other and only make my life easier. Capisce?”
“Of course,” Zelman agreed. Right now he was buying anything this old guy was selling. Lucia was the largest of the Italian families left in the Phoenix area, so Zelman strategically had left him alone. The Perrinos were small and dwindling. An easy target.
“You want to know how the FBI got into your computer system, don’t you?” Lucia said. “Swipe all of that cryptocurrency shit? That what it’s called, right?” he asked the guy sitting in the front passenger seat.
“Yeah, that right,” the guy said.
“You’ll have to pardon my ignorance on this stuff,” pointing to the guy in the passenger seat. “That’s why I pay him to watch my back. I need to keep up with the digital crap, but don’t want to learn all this nonsense myself, if you know what I mean.”
Zelman understood. The old guy tugged at his shirtsleeve, pulling it out from his suit jacket, acting like he was going to a wedding. He looked out the window through his sunglasses at the less affluent part of Phoenix, older buildings with graffiti and businesses with broken signs.
“They need to fix this,” Lucia said, wandering into a new conversation.
“Yeah,” Zelman said, not knowing what else to say, his back up against the seat with the accelerated speed.
Lucia looked over at him as if he just remembered Zelman was there. “I got a guy inside Mancini’s crew. That’s how I know about all this shit.”
Things were coming together for Zelman, but he got queasy wondering whether he was going to survive this car ride. They sped down the one-way street narrowly avoiding other vehicles.
“It was your boy who done it,” Lucia said. “He put some kind of flashy drive thing into your computer system. That’s how he got all your passwords and shit and gave it to the FBI.” He looked at the guy in the passenger seat again. “Right?”
“Right,” the guy said. “He used a keystroke logger. It captures all your keystrokes used to log into your system.”
Zelman’s heart dropped in his chest. “Jerry?”
“Yeah, Jerry.”
“But . . .”
“Why?” Lucia finished for him. “I don’t know. You two have a good relationship?”
Zelman always thought they’d overcome their bad history. Now he wondered.
“I thought so,” Zelman said, thinking of all those cold greetings and distant conversations. And the flash drive he put into his laptop to upload his latest song. Was that the real reason he came to his office?
Zelman was thrown against the door as the driver jerked the wheel to the left, down a side street, nothing but vacant lots and one-story block buildings.
Lucia brushed off some lint on his pant leg and said, “Here’s what I want from you. I want my twenty million dollars back. That’s it. I had no idea what you were doing the money I gave you, and honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass. Now that I know the Feds are involved with this operation, I don’t want any of this coming back to me. I just want my money back that I loaned you, then we’re done here. Understand?”
Zelman did not understand. As much as Lucia knew about his operation and how his funds were transferred from his account, how was he supposed to be able to pay anything back?
Zelman held up a shaky hand. “Mr. Lucia, I don’t know—”
“Calm down,” Lucia said. “You think I want blood from a turnip?”
Zelman wasn’t familiar with the phrase, but realized it was a rhetorical question.
“Give him the laptop,” Lucia said.
A moment later, the guy in the passenger seat twisted around and handed Zelman a laptop computer. Lucia gave him a piece of paper with a series of letters and number on it.
“That’s my real account address,” Lucia said. “Go ahead and transfer my twenty million back.”
“But—”
“It’s okay,” Lucia told him. “My guy here is sort of an expert at this stuff and knows how to recover things, so to speak, so your account is back up. However, I suggest you change your password as soon as you’re done with the transfer.”
Zelman looked down at the screen as the computer bounced around in his lap. The car jostled as it went over bumps along the neglected asphalt of south Phoenix.
“They’re still on us,” the driver said, looking in his rearview mirror.
Zelman twisted around to see the SUV careening toward them just a couple of hundred yards away. When he turned back, he saw a set of train tracks coming up. Another bump to contend with.
“Listen,” Lucia said to Zelman. “Make that transfer and I’ll get you to the airport. I hope that’s where you’re going, right?”
“Yes,” Zelman said, looking down at the search engine and putting his cryptocurrency address into the address bar. A moment later his cryptocurrency page miraculously appeared on the screen.
Zelman looked over at the guy in the passenger seat and said, “You are good, aren’t you?”
“It’s what they say.”
Zelman was thrilled to see everything there. He was looking down at Lucia’s account number when the car skidded to a stop, jolting him forward, his head pounding against the front headrest.
“Shit,” the driver said.
Zelman bounced back. A slow-moving train came from their right as the crossing gate lowered in front of them.
Behind them, the SUV was less than a hundred yards away.
“Johnny,” Lucia said. “Do the train move from that movie.”
“What movie?”
“You know the one where he waits until the last minute before crossing over in front of the train and losing the tail behind him.”
Johnny seemed to be considering the tactic. He looked at the train coming maybe fifty yards away, then in his rearview at the SUV slowing down behind them.
Zelman could see it happen in slow motion. “No, no, no. Don’t even think . . .”
But he was too late. Johnny hit the gas and jerked Zelman back into his seat once again. They swerved around the crossing gate and Zelman caught the handle just before he was about to slide into Lucia. The back tires spun the vehicle sideways and was spitting dirt as the Navigator faced directly at the engine of the train. A piercing whistle howled as the blood drained from Zelman’s head.
Just moments before impact, the Navigator found its footing and fishtailed over the tracks, missing the train by just a few yards.
Zelman’s throat twisted shut. “Fuck,” he croaked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
They careened down a poorly paved road and Zelman braved a glance behind them to see nothing but a long stretch of train cars separating them from the FBI.
“What movie was that from?” Johnny asked.
Lucia waved the back of his hand. “I don’t know, one of those Bruce Willis or Matt Damon films. It’ll come to me.”
Zelman had to get his breathing under control as he returned to the laptop to transfer the funds to Lucia’s account. Johnny was making it rough, though, swerving down side streets to put distance between them and the FBI.
“Let me ask you something,” Lucia said. “I was very impressed by your management style. When you ordered the Perrino murders, did you have that gravedigger make all the plans, or did you arrange everything yourself? Because I hear one of the Perrino girls, she was thrown off a building downtown. Twenty floors down. That was very creative, if I say so myself.”
Zelman was focused on getting the money transferred in between bounces. “That was all me,” Zelman said. “I put together the hit for Charlie at his house and the sister downtown. I left Sal Perrino up to Pashkov. That needed special attention. The other two were soft targets.”
“I gotta say, that makes sense. Big shot like Sal probably had a crew travel with him.”
Zelman looked over at Lucia. “See that is the interesting thing about Sal. He refused to go anywhere with protection. He thought it was degrading somehow.”
Lucia was looking out the window once again. “I respect that.”
Zelman finished the transfer and held up the laptop for Lucia to see.
Lucia pointed a crooked finger to the passenger seat. “Give it to him.”
The guy examined the laptop then nodded to Lucia.
“You know where his hangar is?” Lucia asked the driver.
“Sure,” Johnny said. “We’re five minutes away.”
The old guy put a hand on Zelman’s shoulder. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Of course.”
“The next time you orchestrate a mass slaughter, make sure it’s not a Sicilian family. Okay?”
Zelman was leery of the suggestion, but didn’t want to make waves so close to his destination. “I can assure you,” he said with his palm up for emphasis. “I will never get involved with another Sicilian family. Ever. As a matter of fact, once you drop me off at my hangar, I’m getting on a plane and will never step foot in this country again.”
The old guy smiled. “Good. Because although we may fight among ourselves sometimes, there’s a certain code we keep between the families. Something that goes all the way back to the homeland.”
Suddenly the car wasn’t going so fast. The driver seemed to be observing the speed limit and it caused Zelman’s heart to pound a little faster.
“You must have something like that within your organization,” Lucia added, gazing back out the window. “The Chechen code. One for all. That sort of thing, huh?”
“We do, yes.”
Lucia suddenly snapped his fingers. “The Italian Job ,” he said, looking at his driver now.
“That’s Mark Wahlberg,” Johnny said. “And it was in Venice with boat chases.”
“No, the original movie, from 1969. A bunch of Mini Coopers being chased by a motorcycle guy.”
“I never saw that one.”
Lucia scratched his ear. “I don’t know, maybe I’m mixing up movies.”
“You do that a lot.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” Lucia snapped. Then he looked over at Zelman. “You see, we get into it a little bit, but then, we’re family.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” Lucia said with a frown. He took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, you never will.”
Johnny pulled the car over to the curb and parked in front of a brick home with a short cyclone fence and toys scattered in a dirt yard.
Zelman’s face went flush. He was confused and frozen with panic. Why would Lucia only ask for his twenty million returned before he killed him? Why wouldn’t he have Zelman transfer his entire account? None of this made sense.
“Um, what is the problem?” Zelman asked, discreetly reaching for the door handle.
Lucia scoffed. “That won’t open from the inside.”
Zelman believed him and put his hand down. Lucia seemed different somehow. There was a sense of resignation to his demeanor.
“Mr. Lucia,” Zelman said. “I apologize if I have offended you somehow.”
Lucia’s disposition soured even further. Zelman was scrambling for the right words to put together to buy him another five minutes. Just get to the airport. A low-flying 737 surged toward them, getting airborne, the jet engines roaring above them. Zelman was going to keep talking until he found a way out.
No one pulled out a gun. No one threatened him. However, there was a foreboding silence as Zelman kept pushing for his clemency.
“I will be gone forever, Mr. Lucia. You will never see me again,” Zelman said, forcing thoughts from his head, desperate to close the deal. “I can offer you a percentage of my profits moving forward.”
“Profits from what?” Lucia said, shaking his with disgust. Then he looked at the guy in the passenger seat and said, “Will you please get this over with, so I don’t have to listen to this crap anymore?”
The man turned around and pulled his sunglasses down. He had a full head of white hair and held up a gold FBI shield.
“You are under arrest for the murders of Charlie, Lucy, and Sal Perrino.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Zelman asked, confused and unsure if this was real. Lucia working with the Feds?
“I’m Lloyd Thiel. Special Agent in Charge of the Phoenix FBI branch.”
“No, no,” Zelman said. “You can’t do this. This is entrapment.” He pointed a finger at Lucia. “You tricked me into confessing.”
The guy in the front seat, Thiel, had twisted as far as he could to face Zelman. “First of all,” he said, “entrapment is when you are tricked into committing a crime. We did not do that. You had already committed the crimes, we simply listened while you bragged about it. Secondly, everything Mr. Lucia told you was true. There was no deception there.”
Zelman’s stomach sank while listening to his stupidity coming back at him. “This will not mean a thing,” he said, trying to act brave. “My attorney will have me out in less than an hour. It is all hearsay.”
“No, he won’t.” Thiel held up his laptop and pointed to the miniature camera. “We have it all recorded. Plus, you’ve already admitted you were leaving the country forever, which makes you a flight risk and no judge on the planet would allow you bail. Of course, your attorney will explain all of this to you.”
Zelman was still in denial, trying to wriggle his way out, find an opening somehow.
Lucia looked at him with sympathy in his eyes. “You ever been inside?”
“Inside what?”
“Prison.”
The black SUV rolled up behind them and parked. Nick Bracco’s partner jumped out of the passenger seat.
“No,” Zelman answered. “Never. And I never will be.”
The back door was yanked open. Matt McColm stood there with the glint of a rottweiler.
“You’ll feel alone for a long time,” Lucia said, still talking about prison. “But don’t worry, give it a few years. Even that’ll fade.”