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Killer Redemption

By B.D. Lawrence

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Mistakes

One leads to another
Compounding like interest.
A snowball unloosed upon a hillside,
Building, building,
Collapsing from its own weight.
Small leading to large, like child to adult.
Minor leading to major, like professional athletes.
Can we learn from them?
Do we learn from them?
Usually not.
by Lyle Hardgrave (unpublished)

The kneeling man whined. “I didn’t do it. I swear to God I didn’t do it.” He pleaded, “Oh God no, please don’t shoot me.” Finally, he bargained. “I’ll double your fee. Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”
Lyle Hardgrave stood over the whimpering mass of jelly known as B.N. Spinelli, amused at the irony. B.N. stood for Broken Nose, not because of any facial anomaly on Spinelli himself, but because of what he did to others. His nose would be hard to break anyway, plastered to his fat face like it was, nearly lost between flabby cheeks.
“Knock it off. You sound like a baby.” Hardgrave barely suppressed a smile. He held a snub nose, twenty-two caliber revolver to Spinelli’s head.
He admired the absurdity of the situation—thrived on it. Spinelli broke noses—and legs—for the Giarrafa family. Only this time the dope broke the nose of Joseph Vincenti Junior. Bad move. No doubt Junior deserved the nose breaking, being a gambler, born loser, and in debt to the Giarrafas for over one million dollars. Unfortunately for Spinelli, Vincenti Senior was the number one wise guy in the city—and Hardgrave’s client.
“You really ticked off Vincenti, B.N. You should have known better than to break Junior’s nose.”
“But that was my orders,” Spinelli whined.
Hardgrave smiled. He couldn’t help it. Spinelli went six-six, five inches taller than him, and weighed at least seventy or eighty pounds more than his one-eighty-five. And yet, by holding a small-caliber handgun to the brute’s head, he was able to instill terror in a man who could squash him flatter than a squirrel run over by a semi. There were days when this job had its high points. Though not that many of them.
“Please. You don’t have to kill me. I beg you in the name of God.”
Hardgrave sighed for Spinelli’s benefit. “I do have to do this.” He shoved the barrel of the gun harder into the back of Spinelli’s head. “That’s why I get the big bucks. Money from Vincenti, not heaven.”
“I won’t tell nobody. I promise. I’ll…I’ll leave the state. I’ll leave the country. Just let me live.”
“Do you know who I am?” Hardgrave knew full well Spinelli had no idea. Only one living person did. To others, he was only a voice and a name.
“No. I don’t know you. I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ll never tell nobody if you let me go.”
Four stories below the small downtown apartment, early morning traffic built. An occasional horn blared, tires screeched, a diesel roared. Inside, only Spinelli’s soft simpering contributed to the symphony of the city.
The cowering leg-breaker wore boxer shorts and an undershirt with yellow stains in the armpits. His hair sprouted in all directions. Acne scars ravaged his face. Hardgrave had aroused Spinelli from his beauty sleep. He had quietly picked the lock. No problem, considering Spinelli had not bothered to use the deadbolt or the chain. After all, he was well known in the neighborhood, and who’d be stupid enough to break in? Hardgrave had entered the dim apartment, shoved the twenty-two in Spinelli’s face, and cupped his mouth. After offering a good morning greeting, he yanked Spinelli out of bed by his hair and forced him to his current position of supplication.
Hardgrave said, “You should have gotten up earlier.”
“Huh?”
“You look like crap. Is this how you want to look on your last day?”
“I didn’t know it was my last day.”
“Gotta be prepared. You never know. I get up at five-thirty every day.” Today Hardgrave had taken the time to be presentable. He wore black for the occasion. Black jeans, black cotton shirt, black leather jacket, and black ski mask. He felt country that morning and had put on his black cowboy boots with the silver tipped toes. Good for driving into a crotch should the need arise.
“Who gives a flip what time you get up?” Spinelli was suddenly bold.
Hardgrave chuckled softly then slowly walked around the kneeling man, keeping the gun against his head, the barrel momentarily lost in dark curls, until it emerged on his forehead. He pulled his ski-mask off and stuffed it into his back pocket, then smoothed back his black hair and grinned. “They call me the Gorgon.” He winked. “Do you know why?”
Spinelli knew. His toughness fled. His eyes widened, his upper lip quivered. “Oh Mary, Mother of God.” He closed his eyes and bent his head, then whispered, “Receive me into your hands, Jesus.”
Hardgrave took that as his cue and pulled the trigger. A loud pop violated the silence. He worried little about the noise. Gunshots in that neighborhood were more common than cockroaches. Spinelli’s head jerked back. His body quivered. Hardgrave pulled the trigger again. Blood spattered the gun and his gloved hand. He stepped aside. Eyes bulging, the large man fell forward.
The apartment fell silent. The coppery smell of blood mixed with the odor of excrement. Hardgrave sighed deeply, leaned over and used the back of Spinelli’s T-shirt to clean off his gun and glove. Now that the deed was done, the irony fled. All that was left was a dead body leaking onto the wooden floor. He watched the red stain spread from Spinelli’s head. He searched inside himself but felt nothing. Not like the old days. Now, the adrenaline rush was muted, the excitement blunted, the thrill gone. Revenge used to drive him. Now it was just a job.
Some of Spinelli’s words bounced around in his brain. “In the name of God. Mary, mother of God.” Had this bone-breaker really believed in a supernatural being? And what had he meant by asking to be received into the hands of Jesus?
“That dude would have to have big hands to receive you, Spinelli.” Hardgrave smiled at his own quip, but it quickly faded as he felt no mirth.
What did he feel?
Again, he sighed, this time for real, and stepped around the growing blood slick. He cracked the window to let in fresh air to dilute the stench of body waste. Still holding the twenty-two, waiting for the barrel to cool, he watched the traffic below. After a few moments, he sighed once again then slipped the gun in his jacket’s right side pocket. When he turned from the window, he couldn’t help but look at Spinelli’s face. Eyes closed, but instead of a grimace anticipating his pathetic end, the dead thug’s lips were slightly turned up, a look of peace. Had Spinelli really died at peace?
Peace. Hardgrave wondered what that felt like. Calm, that he felt. Control. That he’d mastered. But peace?
Sometimes, rather than shooting these low-life scumbags, he wanted to rip them apart with his bare hands. He wanted to let out the beast that raged deep inside his psyche. His jaw tightened. His hands clenched. He brought his foot back, intending to bury his silver-toed boot into Spinelli’s belly. But just before executing the action, he breathed in deeply and centered himself. His leg relaxed. His jaw unclenched and his hands opened.
Once again, he’d mastered the beast. He was in control of his world and that was all that mattered.

***

A couple hours later, Hardgrave stood at the picture window of his apartment on the upper east end. Below him, bundled people hurried through Lesley Park on their way to jobs. Nine-to-five, punch a time clock, home to families, all that mindless routine. The same thing day in and day out. Safety, security, pride in what they did. He was proud of what he did. He was the best there was, commanded premium fees, succeeded where others failed.
His gaze fell upon a man and a woman walking arm in arm. At the corner they stopped, kissed, then separated. The woman went north, the man south. They held their heads high. Their steps were brisk. Hardgrave could almost see their smug smiles. He turned away from the window and said to his empty apartment, “O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes!” It would be a great line in a poem. “Too bad Shakespeare already used it,” he said to the empty apartment.
The smooth music of The Rippingtons drifted through his apartment. He settled into a black leather recliner, sipped his black coffee, then picked up the latest burner phone and punched in a number.
A gruff voice answered.
“Vincenti, please,” Hardgrave said.
“Which one?”
“The one that matters.”
After a pause, a voice ruined by years of smoking said, “Yeah.”
“The job’s done,” Hardgrave said.
“Good.”
“Meet me at the brewery in an hour. You know where it is?”
“Yeah, I know.”
The phone clicked off. He stared at it for a moment before setting it down on the glass table beside the chair. Just like that. So easy. That’s all Vincenti had to say about someone’s death. A man had punched his son, and now was dead because of it and all he had said was Good.
“O death where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” Another great line for a poem, but he knew he’d heard that before. Where had he heard it?
His hundred-disk CD player switched to Charlie Parker. He leaned back and absorbed the melody. Words floated through his brain in a tumble of meter. His latest poem wouldn’t come together. Just lines without logical order. He gave up, knowing if he struggled the words would refuse to coalesce. Better to let his subconscious work on them.
When the Parker tune gave way to David Sanborn’s sax, Hardgrave stood, grabbed his jacket, and left, allowing the stereo to continue without him.

***

Minutes before his meeting, Hardgrave entered the red brick building that had been the city’s only full-scale brewery. From 1823 until eighteen months ago, including during prohibition, barrels of bitter brew had rolled onto trucks to be distributed throughout the state. Now massive copper vats silently waited while bankruptcy court parceled out the assets, a casualty of microbreweries and mismanagement. Light filtered through filthy windows high above the concrete floor. Pigeons jostled for position on the ledges, cooing loudly. The place smelled of stale beer, dust, and urine from the homeless that frequented the abandoned city icon at night.
He ducked into shadow behind the first vat. Two bulky men entered the building. One with light hair, one with dark. Both had enough grease in their hair to pose a fire hazard. The dark-haired man carried a briefcase and walked to the right and a step behind the other. The sharp click of wingtips echoed in unison with a military beat.
When they were about twenty feet from the vat, Hardgrave addressed the light-haired man. “That’s far enough. Where’s your old man, Junior?”
Joseph Vincenti Jr. and his steroidal sidekick stopped. A scowl crossed his jowly face. White tape still covered his nose. His eyes collapsed to slits as he squinted, trying to see who had spoken.
“How do you know who I am?” Junior’s voice was higher pitched than Hardgrave expected, given his size.
“Not hard to figure. You’re a four-hundred-pound spitting image of your father. And you have a bandage on your nose.”
“Hey, you watch the way to talk to Mr. Vincenti,” Junior’s goon said.
“And who are you?” Hardgrave asked.
“This is my cousin, Richie,” Junior replied.
“Richie? What kind of Italian name is Richie?”
“His name’s Ricardo, but we call him Richie. Why don’t you step out here so we can see you, huh?”
“Tell Richie to put the briefcase down, Junior. Then leave.”
Junior slipped off his brown racing gloves and shoved them into the pocket of his ankle-length cashmere coat.
“His name is Mr. Vincenti.” Richie inched his hand across his chest.
“Take your hand out of your coat.” Hardgrave gripped the nine millimeter in his jacket’s left side pocket. The twenty-two was still in the right pocket. On the way home, he’d drop that gun in the river.
Junior ran a finger inside the buttoned white collar that pinched what little neck he had. Richie removed his hand, empty.
“I’m looking for the Gorgon,” Junior said. “Is that you?”
“That’s me.”
Junior and Richie stepped forward.
“Far enough, fat boy,” Hardgrave said.
Junior growled but stopped. “Why don’t you come out? Let me see you, huh?”
“Set the briefcase on the floor and leave. That’s the way it works.” Hardgrave’s annoyance built. Where was Vincenti Senior.? Why’d he send his punk kid?
“Is that right?” Junior looked at Richie. They both snickered. “Well, maybe the rules have changed.” The two men stepped closer to the vat.
Hardgrave pulled his gun out and cocked it, not concerned by the shell that ejected. At the loud and abrupt sound, the two men froze. “No. The rules haven’t changed. Put the case down and get out of here.”
“Hey.” Junior held up his hands. “No need to get…you know, itchy, huh? We just wanna conduct business, you know, face to face. That’s the way it’s done now. So, come on. I wanna see your face.”
“No. You don’t.”
“Will you listen to this guy?” Junior turned toward Richie.
“Yeah, the guy’s a real tool, huh Joey?”
Junior slapped Richie across the head. “Don’t call me that. How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Joey.”
“Sorry. You didn’t have to hit me.”
“And stand over there more.” Junior shoved Richie. “In case he starts shooting.”
“Hey, Laurel and Hardy!” Hardgrave shouted. “You want to cut the comedy shtick and put the briefcase down.”
“Look pal, you don’t know who you’re dealing with here. You want your money, I want to see your face.” Junior motioned Richie forward. “Go get him. Teach him to show some respect.”
Richie stepped forward, again reaching for his gun.
Hardgrave sighed and inwardly cursed. He stepped into the light, gun raised, pointed at Richie’s head.
“Well, look at pretty boy,” Junior said.
Both men snickered again.
Hardgrave pulled the trigger. The explosion careened through the brewery, startling the roosting pigeons. Junior stepped back. Richie staggered back a couple steps, teetered, rocked forward, then collapsed onto the concrete floor, the back of his head blown out.
Junior took the Lord’s name in vain, adding some other expletives. “Why’d you do that?” His voice rose two octaves.
“Apparently, Daddy didn’t explain the rules.” Hardgrave swung his gun Junior’s way. The fat man’s hands flew to his face.
Three more explosions echoed through the building as Hardgrave pumped three bullets into Junior’s chest, each one pushing the large man back a step. When the astonished man dropped his hands to clutch at his wounds, Hardgrave put another bullet in his forehead for good measure.
Junior fell to the floor on his back.
“Wonderful. Just freaking wonderful.” Hardgrave paced the floor, his head throbbing. His hand holding the gun hung at his side, the other hand opened and closed rhythmically. “Where’s Vincenti?”
He slammed his hand on the vat. He hit it again and again. The loud, hollow ringing drowned out his frustration. He stopped when the pain in his hand reached his brain.
Calmed but still upset, he slipped his cell phone from his other jacket pocket and dialed.

***

Arturo Faratola swore. His pock-marked face twisted in a wry grin. “Is that—”
“Yeah, Artie, that’s Vincenti Junior. And this,” Hardgrave kicked the other body, “is Richie.”
“Man.” He ran his stubby fingers through his tightly curled hair. “Did you—”
“Yeah, I shot them.”
Artie’s dark eyes widened. “Why?”
“They ticked me off.”
“Remind me never to make you mad.”
“You have many times, Artie.”
“Yeah, and I’m still alive.” Artie shook his head pensively and scratched the two-week stubble on his chin. It would take months before the stubble resembled a beard.
Hardgrave had known Artie for more than thirty years. They’d been friends for twenty-five. Hardgrave had been one of the few people who had not participated in the favorite pastime of Coolidge Elementary and then Taft Middle School—teasing Artie Faratola. The least offense had been calling the small, wiry boy Artie Farty. Artie had always been small, as well as ugly. He’d been the butt of everyone’s jokes, the kid most likely to be bullied. But in ninth grade he became Hardgrave’s only true friend. That’s when the teasing stopped. Toward the end of ninth grade, Hardgrave had finally had enough. He couldn’t stand to watch it anymore.
Whenever he reflected back on that time, Hardgrave concluded that his hatred of bullies and fondness for the underdog must have resulted from his love of legendary heroes; Robin Hood, The Three Musketeers, King Arthur.
One day he pinned Artie against a wall and gave it to him straight. He told Artie it was time to make a stand, to go against the odds, to take on the powers that be. He stressed to his undersized friend that if he continued to let the other kids tease him, it’d go on forever. High and mighty words, he knew, especially since no one picked on him.
He’d earned his reputation several years earlier by beating the snot out of Horse Mulligan, the terror of sixth grade. Since then, everyone had left him alone. The feeling had been mutual.
Apparently, Artie listened. The next day, he bit Big Jimbo McAllister’s ear, tearing off a good-sized chunk. The overstuffed football jock swore vengeance…until Hardgrave had a chat with him. A chat no one else knew about.
The powers that be suspended Artie from school for a week, but he earned respect. His nickname changed to Pit, short for pit bull. However, from that point on, Hardgrave thought Artie acted more like a Chihuahua, always yapping at his heels, recounting his conquest over and over. But he grew used to Artie’s tagging along, and now, he appreciated having a friend.
“You know, Lyle, you need a lesson in customer service. Killing your main client’s only son is no way to keep his business. I’d even venture to say it’s a good way to lose your life.”
“He doesn’t know who I am. I was tired of working for that old fart anyway.”
“May I remind you, that old fart is the most powerful Don on the eastern seaboard?”
“That ain’t saying much. They’re a dying breed. The game’s changing. The gangs have taken over. The guy owns a few cigar stores and a couple money lending shacks.”
“Yeah, but still he’s—”
“I know, he’s your dad’s cousin twice removed or some such bull. So what? You going to roll over on me, Artie?” Hardgrave stared hard at his longtime friend.
Artie’s left eye twitched, a sure indication Hardgrave had annoyed him. “No, Lyle,” he said coldly. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”
Hardgrave squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Sorry, pal. It’s been a bad day.”
“Spinelli? Problems there, too?”
“No. Spinelli wasn’t any problem.”
“So, now what?”
“Help me get these two into the back of your truck. Let’s deliver them to Vincenti.”
“What! Are you nuts?” Artie pointed to Junior and Richie. “They’re dead, Lyle. And you killed them. Just how are you going to explain that?”
“I’m not.”
Artie stood motionless, his mouth gaping, as Hardgrave dragged Richie to the back of the truck.
“Get your scrawny butt over here and help me,” Hardgrave said. “This wise guy is heavy.”
“You’ve lost it, pal,” Artie said. “Completely lost it.” But he helped anyway.

***

“Why don’t we steal a UPS truck or something?” Artie suggested. “That way they won’t know who we are.”
His full-sized Ford pickup rumbled and rattled on the blacktop road. Hardgrave sat in the bed, protected by the topper, kept company by two dead, stinking bodies. He leaned against the cab and talked to Artie through the back window. The road was in bad need of repair. After this, his teeth would be, too.
“They know you by sight, Artie.”
“So, I’ll wear a mask.”
“Oh, that’s good. And they’re just going to let a UPS truck in with a masked driver?”
“Then you drive. They don’t know what you look like.”
“I don’t want my face known, Artie.”
“Screw your face, Lyle. This is my life we’re talking about here.”
“Your life’s worthless, anyway.”
“Screw you.”
“Calm down. And keep your eyes on the road.” They’d veered onto the gravel shoulder as Artie turned to glare at him.
“Vincenti’s going to come after you, anyway,” Hardgrave said.
“Why? I didn’t do anything.” Artie accelerated. The forest flew by them in a blur of green and brown.
“Yeah, but you know me. Vincenti knows that. He’ll try to get to me through you. Not only that, but you introduced me to the old man. You vouched for me. Therefore, it’s your fault Junior’s dead.”
“Great how that logic works, isn’t it?”
“Um hmm.”
A couple more jarring bumps, then Artie said, “But I’m family.”
Hardgrave laughed short and bitter. “Oh yeah, you’re real close.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Artie turned again, just before a sharp curve.”
“Turn around!” Hardgrave snapped.
Tires squealed. Hardgrave leaned against the sharp turn. The dead bodies slid to the side of the truck.
“Your old man was a bookie, Artie. Not that high on the totem pole. Besides, I’m not convinced Vincenti didn’t have something to do with his death.”
In a flat, restrained voice, Artie said, “The Giarrafas killed my old man.”
And that was all Artie would say on that matter. Hardgrave knew not to push. Still, he’d never believed Giarrafa would bother with a low-level bookie like Artie’s old man. The only motive he’d ever come up with was that Artie’s father stood between Artie and a promising career as a runner for Vincenti.
Hardgrave remembered the first time Artie told his dad he was going to work for Vincenti. He’d walked in on the middle of it.
Rinaldo Faratola had been the most unassuming and timid man Hardgrave had ever met. But when he walked into the Faratola household that day twenty years ago, Rinaldo had been redder than an Iowa barn. His voice, which normally never rose above a hoarse whisper, berated Artie at a volume Pavarotti would have been proud of. His words were to the effect that only over his dead body would any son of his work for a scum like Joseph Vincenti. Strange words coming from a man who’d done just that for fifteen years.
Hardgrave always suspected Vincenti had decided to arbitrate the family argument. And his decision had been final.
“Why don’t we just dump these bodies in the woods? That would at least buy us some time.” Artie’s question pulled Hardgrave back to the present.
“I don’t feel right leaving Junior’s body somewhere. I owe the old man that much, not to make him wonder what happened.”
“Touching. I’m getting all teary eyed. And somehow I think there’s more to it than that.”
Hardgrave laughed softly. Artie would never understand. He barely understood himself. That really was the reason. It’s not that Hardgrave owed Vincenti anything. It just didn’t feel right. When he was ten, he’d lost a brother that way. And he remembered how it had ripped his family apart. Years of never knowing what had happened. It had been a relief when his brother’s body had washed ashore a few miles south of the bay, finally allaying the uncertainty. Not that Vincenti would tear himself up with worry. But he knew he needed a valid reason for Artie. Sentimentality would never fly with a psychopath like him.
“The cops, Artie. No body, no investigation. Let Vincenti dispose of the remains. Explain what happened. What’s he going to say, ‘My son was paying off a hit man and he got whacked’?”
Artie nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. And that wasn’t a bad imitation of the old man, though you sounded more like Jackie Mason.”
“Hey, ant,” Hardgrave said. They both laughed, the tension between them dissolved.
They pulled up to the wrought-iron gate. A thug in a long dark overcoat stepped out of a small booth. Hardgrave ducked under a blanket, which he shared with the two bodies. What pleasant ambiance.
“Hey, Arturo, how you doin’ today?”
“Fine, Tony. The old man in? I got a delivery for him.” Artie often collected money from the bookies in town and ran it out to Vincenti.
“Yeah, sure. He hardly goes out anymore. Go ahead. Maybe you’ll cheer him up.”
Oh yeah, we’re going to make him real happy. Hardgrave braced himself as the truck lurched forward. After a few seconds, he threw the blanket off. They wound along the quarter-mile tree-lined drive. Vincenti lived twenty miles out of town on a forty-acre spread blanketed in old forest, the house well hidden, the road heavily guarded. Every hundred yards or so Hardgrave caught a glimpse of a figure in the shadows.
Finally, they came to a circular driveway. Vincenti’s Colonial style house was white with black shutters and a black roof. Hardgrave had heard the house was originally built in the early 1800’s but was still in immaculate condition. It was at least a city block and a half long with three-story columns regularly spaced along the entire length. He pitied the poor sap who had to clean the windows, even if they were the modern tilt-out type. A big place for a small family. Only Vincenti, his wife Sara, and Junior lived there. Smaller family. Scratch Junior.
Hardgrave nudged the body of Vincenti Junior with his toe. Briefly, he thought of the pain Mrs. Vincenti would go through, losing her only son. Had Junior been married? He didn’t think so. He hoped not and shook away the thoughts before he had a chance to feel any guilt.
“Pull all the way through, so the back of the truck faces the house.”
No guards were visible. Artie had told him they remained at least fifty yards from the house. Vincenti did not want to see them from his verandah or any of his several balconies…unless there was a problem.
Hardgrave slipped on his ski mask. When Artie opened the tailgate, he jumped out, then helped his friend drag the two bodies from the truck and deposit them on the ground. Artie got back in the truck.
Hardgrave started toward the massive wooden doors but stopped when they opened and a rotund, white-haired man with a cigarette dangling from his lips stepped outside.
At first his sunken eyes widened, then narrowed as he took in the ski-masked man and the pickup truck. He slowly lowered his gaze and stared at the dead bodies. For what seemed like minutes but was only seconds, Vincenti was motionless, silent, his head lowered, his hands clasped in front of him. The only indication of emotion was a slight twitching at one corner of his mouth. A faint breeze carried the putrid smell of the cigarette to Hardgrave. He hated cigarette smoke.
“Joseph, Junior,” Vincenti finally murmured. He crossed himself in fine Catholic fashion. “What happened?” Vincenti’s voice was hoarse, but strong. He stared at his dead son.
“You shouldn’t have sent Junior, Don Vincenti.”
The old man’s gaze snapped to Hardgrave. Slowly he raised his hand and pointed at him. “No. You shouldn’t have killed my son.” He paused, clenched his eyes closed, then sucked in a deep breath. He opened his eyes. “Take off your mask, you SOB. So I can see you.”
“Can’t do that.” Hardgrave backed up. “You shouldn’t have sent a fool to do a man’s job, Vincenti.”
The old man lowered his arm. Softly, he said, “You are the fool.” Then louder, “I’ll destroy you, Gorgon. Mark my words. You will pay for this. You are a dead man.”
They stared at each other for a few tense seconds. The old man broke the contact, looking again at his son. He then shifted his gaze left.
Hardgrave caught the slight hand motion. He glanced in the same direction and saw two men a good seventy yards off, but advancing fast, both brandishing automatic weapons. He ran to the truck and climbed in next to Artie.
“Drive!”
The truck roared as Artie jumped on the accelerator. Through the side mirror, Hardgrave watched the old man’s frantic actions. He pointed at the truck and shouted orders, but the engine noise drowned out his angry words.
Vincenti’s emotionless mask dissolved as his face twisted in fury. His arm dropped to his side, and he collapsed to his knees by his dead son. In the mirror, Vincenti’s figure grew smaller. Hardgrave watched him caress his son’s cheek with the back of his hand.
Sadness chipped at Hardgrave’s concrete demeanor, but the damage was minimal. Still, he wondered at even that tiny twinge.
The truck swerved. Hardgrave snapped his attention front and center. Dark fabric flashed briefly, followed by a thud, then sharp bursts. A side window in the truck topper shattered.
Another guard appeared front right and Artie swerved, headed straight for him. The man jumped aside. Tires spun in loose dirt and the truck fishtailed.
More bursts, then the back window exploded. Hardgrave ducked.
Artie regained control of the truck. He shifted quickly to four-wheel drive and the tires bit the road. They lurched forward and sped down the drive, accelerating close to sixty.
The gate was closed. Two men, weapons ready, waited.
Hardgrave glanced at Artie. He was grinning, staring straight ahead. He slammed the accelerator to the floor and ducked. Hardgrave also ducked.
More bursts of gun fire, a rain of glass, then the sound of metal on metal.
They both sat up quickly, the brisk March air smacking them square in the face. Artie leaned hard to the right, bringing the truck with him. Rubber burned. The tires squealed in protest, but the truck held the road and sped away from Vincenti’s house.
Hardgrave breathed heavily. His heart hammered, threatening to escape his chest cavity. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”
“A freaking riot. You owe me a new truck, pal.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
They wound their way back to the interstate in silence, encountering little traffic. Artie merged onto I-93 and headed north. People stared in fascination at the windowless, bullet-hole-riddled truck.
“I don’t think I’ll be welcome at Don Vincenti’s house anymore,” Artie said.
“Yeah,” Hardgrave replied, “I’d say Easter dinner is out.”

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