NiceStories.com: Short story: Danger Zone. Adult. Teenage killers, CIA, Mafia, and a drunken PI. by Oscar A Rat

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story Another fact, unknown to the boys, was that the owner, Mr. Masters, had refused to pay protection money to a teenage gang a few days before. Besides, he was already paying the Wops protection money. Let them take care of it. “I want Milk Duds, Peter. Come on.” “I don't like them, neither does Jimmy.” “Just one pack, I'll pay you back later.” Johnny insisted. “Come on, man.” “Okay, okay, whiner. You don't have to beg. I'll get just one pack.” They argued over each piece of candy, as Mr. Masters ignored them, busily stacking new goods on a shelf. The sound of shattering glass drew all their attentions as a missile broke through the large front window. Johnny had time to notice a long smoking object before being spread all over the store by the explosion. All four were killed in the blast. *** Large mean-looking men sat in a small office, so tiny the three on one side of a scarred desk were almost rubbing shoulders. The words “Sam Thompson. Detective Agency” were stenciled on the outside of the door. The office contained no secretary, only one of those new answering-machines. It consisted of only one room in an old building, with a bathroom down the hall shared by the entire floor. “I don't know, Anselmo. I gotta full schedule now. Maybe in a week or so?” “I need you now, Sam. The Don also needs you now. You know the area and the people.” Anselmo the Swift, called the Swift because he had a talent for knowing when to change sides in a controversy, answered. “I'll give you triple your usual fee.” “I gotta live here. If I have the gangs pissed at me it will make my work harder, as well as dangerous,” Sam, the private detective, explained. “'Sides the police are working on it.” “Yeah, but you can get down and dirty, they can't,” from his gangland friend. “And I know damned well you don't have any full schedule. You ain't got nothing going right now.” He smirked. “I didn't think I would see the day you turned chicken. Quack. Quack. Quack.” Sam had to laugh. “Chickens go cluck, not quack, you dumb Wop.” He did stop to consider the connotation though. His friend guy did know how to push his buttons. “All right, I'll see what I can find out. Remember, though, I just get names. You take it after that. I'm not going to kill anyone for you.” The two shook hands on it, the mob didn't like excessive paperwork, and his friends left. The problem they'd been discussing was a teenage gang trying to move in on the area. The newcomers were both organized and elusive with, apparently, no fixed headquarters. It was a predominately black gang. They had enough sense not to expand past state borders, thus avoiding the attention of the FBI. The teenagers were trying to shake down local businesses for protection money, encroaching on Don Luigi's territory. The Don, simply stated, did not like it. A few days before, a candy store, read "bookmaker," had been blown up. Now the Don was out for revenge. He wanted someone to use their contacts and skills to find out who to jack up for it. Since Sam had done the same sort of work for them in the past, they thought of him first. *** The Coast Guard stopped a large cabin-cruiser off the coast of Georgia. It was packed with Cubans trying to escape Fidel Castro's regime. Since it was so badly overloaded, they boarded the vessel to take some of the refugees onto their own larger craft prior to towing the boat back to the US. They were not surprised when one of the refugees talked to them in perfect English. They were very surprised when she showed them credentials as a CIA employee. “Get on your Ship-to-Shore phone. I have a number for you to call for me,” The young woman demanded. After the call, she was given VIP treatment. A car was waiting for her when they returned to land. Shayla was surprised when her boss greeted her from the back-seat of the sedan. She expected to see him the next morning in his office. “I have something to tell you, Agent Jones. Something serious and horrible. I thought it better to do it here, alone and in person.” He took a deep breath and lowered his eyes. “Your little brother has been killed, murdered. He was the victim of a gangland killing.” He turned away, looking out a window to give her a bit more privacy. Expecting tears, he received silence instead. “He was killed by a bomb thrown into a candy store.” “Tell me about it, all about it,” She requested in a cold steady voice. He told her all he knew, including the altercations between the kid gangs and the Italian mob. “I want time off. To settle this,” she demanded. “I can't do that. Can't let you handle it,” he told her. “We are NOT above the law and aren't allowed to operate within the United States.” “The hell we're not. Don't you try to tell me that everything I've done for you has been approved by Congress. I know fuckin' better," Shayla raised her voice to a scream, causing the driver, on the other side of a sound-absorbing partition, to step on his brakes and look back. “You give me time off or I'll quit and do it on my own.” At a worried shake of his head, she leaned forward, slamming a dainty-looking fist against the plastic partition. “Stop this fucking car, NOW,” she called to the driver, who did so. “See you later, alligator,” She told her boss as she stepped out and disappeared onto a crowded sidewalk. *** A week later, Sam the private eye wasn't much closer in his quest. The gang he was tracking was secretive. What was worse, it was from out of town. His contacts had, or would admit to, little knowledge of the members. Apparently they materialized out of thin air, and went back the same way after their daily activities. He was currently drinking a cup of instant coffee in his office and reading the morning paper. He noticed an ad in the classified section, job offers. It read: Men needed. Must be combat veterans from any of the Armed Services. Only those 21 to 40 yrs old need apply. Your background will be checked. Criminal Records no handicap. For overseas contract work with extended travel required. Sent resume to Blade P.O. box 287. A strange advertisement, he thought. Who could be recruiting, and to fight where? Certainly not his friends in the mob. Besides, the police would soon crack down on whoever it was. Sam doubted if such recruitment was legal. His phone rang. It was Anselmo. “You see that ad for soldiers, in the paper today? You can afford to buy one'a the fuckers, can't you? With the money we pay you, and all the time you sit around on your fat ass, you should.” “Blow it out the other end, buddy. Yeah, I've seen it, so what? Some con or other.” “I want you to join, You're one of those ex-GI types. The Don said it might be them. Anyways, he wants to know what they're up to. They might be getting ready to fight us guys, ya know?” Sam had been a sergeant in Korea. “Hey, now. I'm way out of shape for that bullshit.” Sam paused for effect. “It would call for twenty-four-hour pay?” “You'll get it, Sam. See, I'm making you rich, as well as lookin' out for your health.” Figuring, what the hell, the mob had deep pockets, Sam sent in his resume, leaving off his present occupation and admitting to a not-too-clean police record. He hadn't been a nice guy all his life. Maybe it would turn the advertiser off, he thought. He then forgot about it. *** Shayla put down the list. She had been reading it off, over the telephone, to an FBI associate. The man owed her a favor. He would check all the applicants' prior service records and make certain they weren't police plants. A job that would, a few years ago, have taken weeks. Her friend told her he could have it in two days, using his new machine – something called a com-putit. She'd already found three combat veterans that were fed up with crime in "their" city. When she had enough of them, she would begin training her private army in some of the methods the CIA had taught her. Then she and her new manpower would hit the city like a storm. They needed cash. That night, she would blood the three men she already had by taking down a heroin dealer she had found through the FBI. He was only one of many on a list slated for stings when that agency found the time. A few phone calls had set him up to buy a few kilos, about 2.2 pounds each, of drugs from her. She had no drugs but the dealer didn't know that. He would have the money, though, which was all that counted. *** Later the same night, the petite black lady carried a small suitcase with her as she walked to a specific address agreed on by her and her victim. She and her men were dressed in dirty well-worn street clothes. Through another contact, in the CIA, she had obtained a shipment of military ordinance. They waited in a beat up ‘48 Chevy, parked outside a certain building for over four hours, the vehicle's windows blacked out. Shayla walked up a small flight of stairs to the building entrance and pressed a doorbell. When the door was buzzed open, she threw a grenade inside, rolled off the steps onto bushes, and covered her ears. At the same time her men erupted from their vehicle and rushed the entrance. A heavy iron door absorbed most of the blast, ending up hanging by one hinge. Her people entered and swept through the building, killing everyone they met. Getting to her feet, Shayla followed, finding the shreds of two men in a smoke-filled foyer. By the time she entered the building proper, she met her compatriots on their way out with another suitcase. They handed it to her. As she accepted the case, she instructed them to search for weapons and anything else of importance. Finding a wall safe, they blew it with a small shaped charge, then swept the contents into a heavy burlap bag, effectively smothering any flames. Some of the cash had been smoldering, some of it blasted to shreds, but a lot had survived. Everything in order, they left the scene long before any police could arrive. *** “What the hell you mean, somebody hit Jerry's?” Don Luigi screamed at his man, Tony. His face flushed as he slammed a meaty fist onto the top of his desk. “Who did it? I want names and assholes.” Tony hastily backed out of the room. When Luigi became angry, people died. It was up to Tony to find out or it might be him. All he knew was that they had lost two good men and another four assholes. The place had been trashed. Not only trashed, but blown the hell up. He'd seen less destruction at Anzio. *** Sam the PI received a letter instructing him, if he were still interested in an uncertain job, to show up at a certain address and time frame,. He showed at the time and place specified. A rundown warehouse at the edge of town. The place seemed empty, but hard to tell with outside windows painted black. There were no cars but his parked outside. Not finding a bell, he knocked loudly on a heavy wooden door. It was answered by a large rough-looking man. “Wha' you want, man. I'm not deaf.” “I was told to be here about a job. You know anything about it?” “Yeah, wha's yur' name?” “Thompson, Sam Thompson.” The man consulted a dirty piece of paper clutched in an equally filthy paw, it looked all the world like a bear's paw with exceptionally hairy knuckles. “Yeah, you're on here. Go on in. Second door on the right.” Sam walked into a small room containing three straight-chairs and a large dented metal desk. Nobody in the room, so he sat down in one of the chairs to wait. Finding one chair leg shorter than the others, he switched. On the desk, there lay a twelve-year-old copy of Life Magazine, which he picked up. The top cover was covered with a layer of dust, making it difficult to see the heading. Sam made a mental note to examine the seat of his pants when he left. He was three-quarters of the way through the magazine, looking at the pictures, when a very good-looking black woman walked into the room. He started to get to his feet. “Sit down, Sam is it?” Obviously not worried about her jeans, she sat on the edge of the desk. “No application to fill out here.” She looked him over carefully, noting his size and weight. Damn, I hope they're not all this out of shape, Shayla thought. “I see you were in the infantry and fought in Korea,” She stated. “I need people for a domestic operation. Are you interested in that sort of thing?” She finished with, “Are you even in shape for it?” “I might be, honey. What kind of operation, and what does it pay?” he answered. “You give me enough reason, like cash, and I can get in shape pretty damned quick.” “By domestic, I mean just that. I intend to clean up this city and need some help. The pay is very good, if you live through it. I don't want any deadheads, though. You have to pull your weight.” “You some kind of Government thingy, honey?” “You might say that, and that's the last ‘honey' I want to hear from you.” “You say ‘clean up,' you mean the mob or what? I don't know if I want to take them on.” “Not particularly. What I mean are younger gangsters, like those teenagers that are moving in.” She drummed long thin fingers on the desk, nails clicking in a staccato rhythm. “If the Italians get in the way, we take them too.” “You mean kill or just bring them to justice?” He forced a grin. “Like in the comic books.” “I mean wipe them out completely and send a message to stay the hell out of this town. That's what I call justice.” “Sounds good to me, ho.... ma'am,” Sam told her. “You can count me in, but I need an advance to pay my rent.” She reached in her pocket and, taking out a large roll of cash, peeled off a few bills. “It's dangerous carrying that much around in this neighborhood. Better be careful.” “It won't be that way for long, if I have my say.” *** There were fifteen of them. Two, by far the oldest, had their arms tied behind their backs. Arriving in four stolen delivery vans, they entered the indoor parking lot of a high rise apartment house. Wheeling a large box on a hand truck, two of the teenage gangsters approached a security guard. “Hey man, we gotta get this to 1204. Mr. Adamson wants it tonight.” He waited for an answer while his partner slid silently behind the guard. “I hav'ta call him first.” He noticed the one young man, out of the corner of his eye. “Have to make su...” The guard stopped as he felt an object sliding across his neck, along with a sharp pain. In moments, he stumbled forward, hands to his throat, spurting bright-red arterial blood from between shaking fingers. “God damn it, George, be a little more careful,” the first man screamed, the front of his coveralls covered with blood. “You got it all over me. Christ.” “He did it, blame him,” his partner said, leaning down to wipe his blade on the guard's still-shaking leg. “Stupid fuck.” Johnny kicked the fallen guard. The large delivery elevator was unlocked. The kids, half-dragging their two captives, got in and pressed the button for the tenth-floor. The building contained luxury condominiums, consisting of twelve floors with the most expensive apartments on the upper three. It was three am. Several of the intruders had hand-trucks with them, a few also held small shaped-charges and all carried silenced pistols. They were aiming for the top three floors, four apartments on each. They were going to rob twelve wealthy families. Silence reigned as they left the elevator on the tenth-floor. The corridor was empty at that time of the morning. One of the men, with electrical training, opened the door of a storage room. Years before, he had worked as a security guard in the building. Opening a small access door, he proceeded to cut the trunk line for telephone service on those floors. He also turned off all the electricity for that one floor. He would later do the same for the next two. Next, the leader brought one of two captives they'd brought inside with them in, blindfolded. The electrician cut more wires on the high side of the switch-box, using a pen knife to strip insulation off some of the live ones. He then turned the switch back on as a couple of his friends, also wearing thick rubber gloves, untied the hands of their captive. The victim struggled, trying to remove blindfold and gag at the same time. It was easy to grab one hand and shove it against the exposed wires. Gloves held his jerking body, muffled screams coming from behind the gag as the current hit him. After a few seconds, the electrician turned the switch back off. The dead man was let go, to fall on the dirty floor. His gag and blindfold were then removed. As the intruders closed the door to the heavily-carpeted corridor, the smell of frying pork and ozone faded. Most of the gang headed up the stairs. The second captive would later be shot in the back on the twelfth floor landing. Three of the gang went to each of the four apartments on the top floor. Not bothering to knock, they forced the doors and entered. Two of the homes were empty. In the others, the gang rounded up occupants. The first hand-truck contained a large box of handcuffs. Using some of them, the homeowners were handcuffed to thick piping in the bathrooms and under sinks. The three in each apartment then looted the place of all the valuables they could find. Noting any wall or floor safes for later attention. They then did the same on the other two floors. Afterward, according to prearranged planing, as the looters walked down a floor, the demolition people set their charges against wall safes. The shaped charges contained military C-4 plastic explosive. It was packed into empty soup cans, with cone-shaped indentations pressed into the open ends. Held in place by duct tape, piled mattresses, and bedding to muffle the sound, they were detonated by hand generators. Others, before the safes were blown, piled valuables outside in the corridors, to be packed and wheeled to the elevator by other gang members. No large objects were taken. It went according to plan. By 05:30 they were finished, the loaded vans driven off. Only one problem was encountered. In one of the condos, a resident had heard them and come out of a bedroom with a revolver in hand. He was quickly shot with one of the silenced pistols. That left a total of three dead. Two of them were known Italian gangsters, killed to throw the police off. *** Don Luigi was forced to leave town for awhile. The Mob kept a low profile and, after that robbery, business fell off drastically. The heat was enormous. It seemed like State and Federal cops filled all the hotels in town. The mob was blamed for the murder and robberies. “Pick up the fucking phone, Sam.” Anselmo yelled into Sam's answering machine. He had been leaving messages all morning and half the afternoon. Where was that bastard? The Don wanted answers as of last month. Although the gangster didn't know it, the answering machine tape had long ago reached its end and he was talking to a dead telephone. Since Anselmo didn't believe in the new machines, and didn't own one, Sam had no way to tell the mobster that he was now in a training program with no telephones available – at least none he had access to. Shayla had only given him a half-hour at home, escorted by one of her new goons, to pick up personal items before hauling him to an out of town farm. He had left a sealed note to his local bookmaker next to the telephone, knowing Anselmo would eventually get it. *** “How long I have to stay here, Shayla?” Sam complained. “I got things I got to do.” “Can't be a lot'a things. You said you were single, with no girl or job, right?” she answered. “Two or three days, maybe a week is all. Since you're single I can use you here at the farm. The married people have home commitments.” “Well so do I,” he mumbled. He needed a long talk with Anselmo, but could hardly tell her that. He grinned at the thought. The look she returned changed his grin to apprehension. To him, she seemed like one dangerous woman. They sat in mildewed overstuffed chairs out of the middle-ages in the living room of a farmhouse. A large outbuilding had been converted to a makeshift barracks for her hired army. The few women were to stay at the house. Shayla had only acquired about a half-dozen people so far, but was trying for three times that many. When she found someone, she lost no time in getting them settled. The PI assumed that she had a telephone in her locked office, but couldn't take the chance. He already knew, besides her name, that she had been trained by some kind of government-type organization. She might well have any telephone bugged. Well, Anselmo would just have to wait, Sam decided. During the next few days, he and the others puttered around, fixing broken furniture, windows and, in general, getting the place ready for the rest. Shayla was kept busy interviewing in town. Every once in a while, she would return with one or two others to get settled in. No alcohol or transportation being available, they spent their free time sitting around, gambling, and watching television. There was no way he could report to his real employer, the mob. Finally, there were two-dozen of them, including three women, and the classes began. Sam found the instruction interesting. There were self-defense classes, interspersed with instructions on subjects such as using various explosives – all taught by the black girl. He wondered how, at her apparent age, she had learned all those things. Occasionally, plain panel-trucks would arrive, carrying supplies, various explosives, and weapons. There was even a pair of bazookas like he'd used in Korea, for Christ sake. It wasn't until the third night of training that he had a chance to return to town. Shayla had acquired several vehicles for them to drive back to the farm. A barn had been cleared out to store them in. Sam and other drivers weren't due back until the next evening. *** On her part, Shayla had to turn down, or was rejected by, dozens of applicants. She was very careful about not employing crazies, alcoholics, or the drug dependent. It seemed that a large proportion of the applicants were at least one of the three. Many of them, especially the ones with large families, turned down the job. She couldn't be too specific until actually hiring them. Some appeared too trigger happy for her, spending valuable time posturing and telling of past kills in the army or marines. When she had enough people hired, she spent a few hours wiping fingerprints from the downtown warehouse office and cleaning up. She knew that, once she was started, the police would be there. It was rented by a process that couldn't lead back to her and had a long history of weekly and monthly rentals. That should lead to any prints she missed being useless to the authorities. The lady also pulled in most of the favors owed her by her contemporaries. She knew damned well that her CIA boss would soon recognize her pattern and try to stop her. Which, among other things, would force her to use her imagination. If he wanted to find her, she had to make it as hard as possible by doing the unexpected. Shayla knew that, once she started operations, she would be on her own with everybody and their brother after her ass. Of course, knowing her CIA superior, they might simply sit back and ignore her work, expecting her back after she avenged her brother. The "Company" was like that. *** “Those bastards must be around there somewhere,” the Don instructed Tony, “You find them. Have everyone working for us keep an eye out for any half-dozen or more out-of-town heavies maybe living together, a number of unfamiliar cars at the same place, that kind of thing. They gotta live somewhere.” “We been doing just that, Don Luigi. And looking for people spending a lot of money.” Tony explained into the telephone handset. “I got people looking at all the towns and villages within fifty miles of here.” They talked business for a few minutes and Luigi hung up. About that time Anselmo walked in. He was all smiles. “I talked to that detective, the private eye I had checking that newspaper ad. He found a nasty bunch getting together. Not the ones that have been fucking with us, though.” Anselmo told Tony. “These guys are hunting them too and, according to him, they got one hell of a lot of firepower.” Anselmo told Tony all about Sam, and his being hired by a black woman to go after the same gang that had been ripping them off, even blaming them for some of the Mob's own actions. “So, then at least we know where to find that bunch, eh?” He thought for a minute. “I better call the Don about this. Fuck, he's mad enough as it is.” Tony picked up the phone and dialed. After explaining to the Don, he looked relieved. “Don Luigi said to keep an eye on those last fuckers. Maybe they'll take care of the kid gang for us.” *** The next day, Sam and some of the others were sent out to search for the teenage gang that killed Shayla's brother. At night, they had to make up classes in weapons and terror tactics. Most of the time, Shayla conducted the classes, though occasionally a CIA friend would take over. So far, she hadn't heard from her boss. It would be silly to think he didn't know what was going on. Sam used all his resources in the search. He had contacts in the local police forces, real estate offices, and the post office. Nobody knew of any collections of loose teenagers living in the area. Meanwhile, he was learning a lot of interesting subjects from the classes, also getting in better physical condition. In the following weeks, he collected pay both from Shayla and the mob. *** Johnny Jackson checked his e-mail. He found several encrypted messages. One was from a person he only know as Ichi, the number "one" in Japanese. It instructed him to meet the others at 1015 Adams Street. There were also instructions on checkpoints. He was to stop at a certain bar and have a beer, then stop for a six-pack of cola at a certain small market before going on to his destination. He was also told to bring his assault rifle and a half-dozen grenades he had hidden in the basement of his parents' house. He then deleted the message and defragmented his hard drive, eliminating any chance of retrieval. Johnny lived with his folks. The reasons nobody could find their gang were that they only met at the time of an operation, did their thing, got paid for the previous action, and went home again. Nobody knew anyone else, by real name or location. The leader, Ichi, maintained a server and website out of the country, nobody knew just where. He said he moved often. All the gang members were on the lookout for new operations and would email the ideas to him. Ichi would pick those suggestions over and set them up through email and chat sites. They communicated by code-names and were sworn to never meet outside a job. They aimed for a maximum of ten jobs before dissolving the gang. Also, the gang was to have no name, not even that of a gang. It was simply a collection of individual teenagers, most living with their parents and many still in high school. Loading the ordnance into the trunk of his car, Johnny dressed all in black and headed for the designated bar, where he bought a beer. He saw a few faces he recognized from past operations, but they ignored each other. Someone would be hidden outside, watching for anyone interested in them or their vehicles. He then drove off to the little store for his soda, again going through the same process of checking for tails. There was a certain abandoned old house, off the highway, he glanced at as he went past. If the shades in the front window were down he would have headed back home, the job aborted. His eventual destination was a favorite teenage hangout, the truck-parking lot of a McDougles fast food restaurant. He found a half-dozen cars there when he arrived. Within a few minutes, several more arrived. Roku, or number "six" was in charge of this operation. They all gathered around Roku's Ford van. “Tonight we're going to hit an Italian numbers collection point. The place where they count the weekly receipts and get it ready to take to Chicago. There should be at least $300,000 dollars there, in small bills and change.” Roku grinned. “Maybe much more. We're going in quick and hard.” “Where's it at?” one high school girl asked. “I didn't know there was one around here.” “It's there all right. We been watching it for a couple months,” Roku assured her. “I talked to a couple of neighbors, and a heavy steel front door was installed a while back. No doubt the place has guards inside the building, but there are none outside, so we go in through the side.” “Wouldn't that door be guarded too?” Johnny asked. “Hardly, since we make our own door,” Roku told them. “The front door is re-enforced but it's an old wooden house. There's a straight run from the highway to the left side of the building. I have a large dump-truck, stolen yesterday, parked nearby. It'll be driven into that wall.” He smiled at Johnny. “You, you'll drive it. After you hit at about a thirty-degree angle, throw two grenades out your window. The heavy truck will protect you. By the time we get there that hole should be safe to enter.” He looked around. “Let's get going, we'll take these two vans.” *** Francisco "Frankie" Sinatra was in charge of the weekly count. The Mob was paranoiac when it came to currency, and it was a lot of cash. He had counting machines available that separated the different denominations of coins along with a count of each. In those days of inflation, most of the smaller bets were made with two quarters or a handful of smaller change. For that reason, there were a lot of quarters and dimes to be counted, along with $1 bills. Frankie had ordered a bill-counting machine, but it was taking forever to arrive. The back room of the house was filled with long tables, coin counters in one corner, a pile of heavy cloth bags in another. A half-dozen men and women sat at tables, sorting bills into different piles, prior to counting them. Calculators and scratch-pads were in abundance. It would all be counted twice, at different tables. A personal computer, in another room, had tabulated the betting slips and receipts from individual bookies. One thing that slowed things down was that each bookie's money had to be counted separately and matched with their slips, ensuring no cheating. Later the entire take would have to be recounted, for accuracy. It had to match the betting slip totals. “You got the change ready yet, Pete?” Frankie asked a man by the change machines, he was dumping a bin from the bottom of the machine into a bag. “Just finishing the dimes now, Frankie, another half-hour maybe.” “You people keep busy, I'll be back in a few minutes.” Frankie told them, lighting a cigarette. He went out to check with guards watching the highway through windows in the front room. They had never had any trouble there yet and he didn't really expect any. There were three guards at the front and two in the kitchen watching the back door. There were thirty people in the building, all armed except the coin counters. Those were wives and girlfriends out to make a little extra money. Frankie was walking down a short hallway to the front of the house, when he heard a loud crash, and the entire building shook. A door to one of the bedrooms sprang open. Frankie ran in to see an entire wall caved in with the nose of a large truck extending into the room. As he watched, two objects flew into the room through the broken windshield of the truck. Before he could react, the grenades exploded, throwing shrapnel into the room. Also into luckless Frankie and completely through thin walls to the adjoining rooms. Lying on the floor, bleeding and in shock, he saw figures entering through the large hole in the wall before he passed out. In the counting room, Pete, not knowing what was going on, busily shoveled money into bags. If it were the police, there was a dry well under the house. The bags could be dropped in and a hidden trapdoor closed over them. The women, also trained in the procedure, did the same, quickly filling bags with receipts, notepads, and other incriminating evidence. They heard the sounds of gunshots through the walls. A few pieces of grenade also peppered the room, not hurting anyone. *** After throwing the grenades, Johnny had trouble getting out of the cab of the truck. Both doors were sprung and he couldn't get them open. “Here,” he called to a passing gang member, “take these, I have to get out of here.” He passed his bag of four remaining grenades to his compatriot and continued forcing an escape from the truck. A couple of minutes later, the teenager could hear other grenades and gunshots, as his friends took care of the other guards. The battle was over by the time Johnny actually entered the building. He was halfway across the room, arming his rifle when he heard a gunshot and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He had time to see a wounded man on the floor, shakily holding a smoking pistol, before dropping into oblivion. *** The gang forced all the living counters into a bedroom on the other, largely undamaged, side of the house and jammed the door shut. The room had barred windows, and there was no fire. After loading the bags of cash into their vans they took off, leaving Johnny's body. They didn't notice he was missing until they got back to the McDougles. While there, they picked up their shares from the prior condominium job and went home. Johnny's body was their first screwup. *** Sam had stayed at his own apartment that night, tired from a day of searching. He was roused about six am by a call from Shayla. The PI kept his telephone across the room, on the theory that if he had to get out of bed and walk all the way over there to answer it, he would be awake enough to remember what was said. A good policy after a night's drinking. “Yeah, this's Sam, wha's up?” “They hit the Mob again, Sam. I want you to get over to this home." Sam copied down a street address. “Pick up the kid's computer and any material around it. I don't care how you do it, but do it. Bring it to the farm, and hurry the hell up about it.” “Wha' kid, an how the hell am I gonna pick up a computer by myself?” The thought made him wince. “I gotta get a truck somewhere?” Shayla had to explain. As with many people at that time, Sam knew virtually nothing about Personal Computers. To him a computer was something huge that filled a large room. He had never seen any, only pictures. Personal Computers were, in most part, considered expensive toys. “And hurry up, before the police get there.” “How am I going to get it out? Past the parents, that is?” “You're intelligent, you'll find a way.” She hung up. Perplexed, Sam dressed and hurried over to the specified address, a large brick home set back on an acre of land in the suburbs. The driveway was empty. Deciding to bluff his way, Sam searched for fake police identification, hidden in a secret compartment in his trunk. He noticed that the garage door was open and empty. The family's probably at the hospital or something, he thought. The doorbell brought no answer, neither did knocking. Sam used a credit card to jimmy the door between the garage and house. When he entered, he heard voices from the back of the house. Oh, Christ, I better get the hell out of here, was his first thought. He stopped for a few seconds to listen, though, and changed his mind. It didn't sound like a family conversation. “Hey we need all this shit? We got the damned thing already.” “Stop complaining, it's not all that heavy. How the hell do we know what we need or what?” There was a lot of clanking and thumping, sounding like something was being packed. “Grab everything in or on the fucking desk.” Sam drew his pistol and advanced on the voices. He could always play cop. He found a couple of teenagers struggling with a large box. They were loading electrical equipment of some sort into it. When they saw Sam, they froze, looking from his face to his gun. One of them started to move a hand behind him, toward his belt. “You fucking hold it, and I mean right now,” Sam ordered, directing both gaze and weapon toward the boy. “Both of you against the wall. You know the position.” With his left hand, he flashed a fake badge. Frisking them, he found the one carried a small revolver protruding from the back of his belt. Sam relieved him of the weight. Now what do I do? he thought. I gotta get out of here before the family or real cops show up. He forced them to carry the box and computer out, through the house and garage and put them on his back seat. Looking around quickly, and seeing no one looking, he opened his trunk. “Now get in, and hurry the hell up, will you?” “What you mean, get in. You a cop or not? Call for another car or something.” “I'm not getting in there, we got our rights.” Sam put on his toughest face, which obviously was tough enough, and told them again, brandishing both pistols. “Listen up. I don't really give a damn if you get in there alive or dead, but you're getting in. Now move.” They managed to fit inside, though not with much extra space – sort of like spoons, bent spoons. Sam closed the trunk and hurriedly drove away, back to the farm. He felt pleased with himself. A few times along the way, he did check on his passengers. Glares and curses he received showed they would live. He stopped at a service station and tried to call Anselmo, with no answer. That guy had better break down and get an answering machine, Sam thought. Later, he thought of stopping again to try drop off a message but didn't want to leave the captives alone. *** Shayla was doing paperwork in her office at the farm when she heard a commotion out in the front yard. She went out to see Sam had returned. There were two bedraggled teenagers with him, being manhandled by some of her men. Others were bringing items out of the back seat of Sam's car. Stopping a woman hurrying through the living room toward the front door, she told her to, “Tell the guys to kick the shit out of those punks. Break a few bones if they want but don't kill them. I want the bastards deathly afraid of us.” Then Shayla returned to her paperwork. She could kiss that Sam, she thought. Shayla picked up her telephone and called a friend in the CIA. “Look, Fred, I know we're straight right now, but I want you to do me a favor, a big one. You know all about those new little computers? I want you to analyze some data-disks for me. Especially any encrypted ones.” She listened a few minutes,and finished. “Okay, I'll send them over to the florist shop.” The two captives were held in separate rooms in the farmhouse, well guarded. One had ended up with a broken arm and the other several busted fingers, which were not tended to. Shayla wanted them in pain and silence. They stayed there, with only water to drink and no food, for three days, until the results came back on the computer and disks. Shayla used that information to question them, mostly to fine tune what she already knew. Between the two, she had all she needed. She had found out the person who had ordered the explosion that had killed her brother. At that moment, the resources of the CIA were secretly tracing the culprit. Somewhere on the computer or its disks, there would be a name and address. Eventually, she would have access to records of all the email traffic from and to that punk. It did no good to delete the mail from the dead man's computer, since even deleted information could be retrieved by government experts. Once she was done, she turned the two over to her employees. After being tortured into writing various checks and giving up passwords to clean out their bank accounts, the two teenagers were buried out in a cornfield. In Shayla's occupation, you didn't screw around. *** The mob was in a panic. Most of their operations either slowed down or stopped. The search was intensified to the point that citizens complained to local officials, and newspapers. Police went crazy trying to trace all the strange men reported. FBI, State Police, Anti-Mob Units, Local Detectives, Several other Federal Agencies, and the Mob themselves, spread out through the area. All looking for the remains if that teenage gang. With Sam's next report, the Mob eased off, pulling their men back. They waited for Shayla's reaction. *** Kirstina Jenson was pleased with herself. The 22 year old was already very wealthy. She had planned and committed the perfect crime. A few more raids and she would abandon the entire project, leaving no trace of her activities. Kirstina would simply move to another town – or even country – under her real name, and disappear. Even if some of the others would be caught, it wouldn't affect her in the slightest. She could imagine the faces when they found the money from their last operation was gone. Why should she split it with them? After the money had gotten into her account, she would leave the others hanging with no possible way to trace her. She got up the next morning, infused with a sense of purpose. A phone call to her bank assured her that the final sum was deposited in a Swiss Account. After breakfast, she would start the final process. The girl fixed herself an ample breakfast of eggs and kippers. She didn't know when she would have time for another meal. Soon the load would be off her, and she could relax. It had been a constant high, one she knew she would miss. Kirstina was surprised when a black woman sat down across from her at her meal, in her own kitchen. “How the Hell did you get in here? And what do you want?” “Please speak in English, Kirstina. I know you can,” the woman instructed her. “I said, who are you and what do you want?” “I'm the sister of someone you had killed, no doubt by accident ... but still your doing.” Shayla told her with a grin. “It's payback time. Go ahead, finish your last meal.” “How much you want?” Kirstina considered, pausing. “I'm sorry, but those things do happen.” She paused. “Are you going to kill me.” “Of course,” Shayla told her, smiling. “First, you're going to give me the information on your Swiss Account.” “Why should I? You're going to do it anyway.” The girl was still calm, franticly trying to find a way to get out of her situation, hopefully with skin intact. “Mostly to avoid pain,” Shayla told her. “I will get the information.” It took a few hours to find and verify the bank information. What was left of Kirstina was given final peace. When finished, Shayla left the apartment. A car was waiting for her around the block. She got into the front seat with her CIA boss and they drove away. “You ready to go back to work? We have a little job for you across the channel in England. Just your type of thing.” “Yes, sir, and thanks for the break. It did me a world of good. You did clean up that farm, didn't you? Pay them off and everything?” “No problem, just don't make it a habit.” As they drove through France toward Belgium, they talked over her new assignment. *** The Mob, hearing from Sam that the gang had been eliminated, raided the farm. All they found were empty buildings, nothing left behind. Shayla's people had been paid off and let go. They were no threat to Don Luigi. Sam, however, was a hero to them. Despite his Irish ancestry, he was even considered for full membership in the Mob, but he refused. With his pay from Shayla, not to mention a very large bonus and the money he had collected from the Mob already, he decided to give up the private eye business and retire.

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Danger Zone. Adult. Teenage killers, CIA, Mafia, and a drunken PI. (standard:mystery, 8611 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1402/987	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An organized group of teens instigate a crime wave.