A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (12 page)

“Do you have time for a meal? I’ve got sauce warming on the stove. I could boil some pasta real quick.”

“Sure,” he said, jogging up the stairs to their bedroom.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Julie said. “Tommy’s been calling all day. He said he needs you to call him on his cell, right away.”

Nick grimaced. “Like I needed to hear that.”

* * *

Tommy picked up on the first ring. “Yo.”

“It’s me,” Nick said.

“I think you owe me a favor,” Tommy said.

“Of course. You want the name of the person who kidnapped Phil— right?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. You see, I know the name you’re gonna give me, and that’s not quite enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nicky, I know you’ve been busy today, but did you happen to catch the name of the family that was killed this morning in Baltimore? You know, the terrorist’s pick for the state of Maryland.”

“I saw the list.”

“The name was Capelli. Joseph and Mary Capelli. Ring a bell?”

“Aw, shit, Tommy. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well . . . now I need a favor from you.”

Nick flinched. “I’m listening.”

“The Capellis have given me the responsibility of finding the monster who killed their family. I’m talking three gorgeous little kids, Nicky. I need your help and I need information. Don’t let me down.”

Nick was about to react by rote. Normally, he would dismiss Tommy with the standard policy and be done with it. But this was different. The President had said as much that afternoon. Technically, Tommy was an informant. Informants exchange information with the government and almost always receive more information than they give. It was the quality of the information that counted, not the quantity.

Tommy waited patiently while Nick sorted things out. He could sense Tommy’s rebuttal about to commence.

Finally, Nick said, “How much do you know about Semtex?”

Rashid Baser stepped into the pawnshop, flipped over the open sign to read “closed” and locked the door. Behind the counter Fred Wilson offered him a sheepish smile while running a cloth over the barrel of a gun. When he glimpsed the manila envelope in Rashid’s left hand he set the gun on the glass counter in front of him and nodded toward a doorway. Rashid followed him into a dark room where guns and cameras mingled together on the warped wooden shelves that covered all four walls. To one side of the room a large mound was covered conspicuously with a canvas tarp. Fred sidestepped his way to the mound, mumbling apologies about the condition of his storage room. Rashid understood the maneuver very well. He recognized it from his native Turkey. It was the dance of the intimidated. Back home his reputation had grown to such proportions, he could move through the crowded streets of an entire village without ever viewing the back of a head. The Red Sea of fear would part before him. But not in America. At first he was disturbed by the absence of respect, but he grew to revel in the anonymity. Blending in made his missions that much easier. That’s why Fred’s demeanor was so troubling. He didn’t even know Rashid’s name.

As if he was trying not to wake a sleeping baby, Fred carefully lifted the corner of the tarp revealing a load of large silver tubes. “Here they are,” he said.

Rashid lifted one of the tubes. He was unprepared for its weight and accidentally clanked it slightly on the side of another canister.

Fred jumped back, “Careful,” he said. “Those are mighty powerful blasting caps, the primer alone could blow the roof off a hou. . . .” he dropped his eyes. In the tension of the moment Fred Wilson had made a mistake.

Rashid seemed to let the comment go, as if he didn’t hear it. He busied himself with the detonators, counting the stacks.

Fred removed his baseball cap, leaving its imprint in his hair. He fondled the hat, reluctant to look at Rashid directly. After an uncomfortable silence, Fred got the words to his mouth. “Well, Sir . . . how about the money?”

Suddenly, Rashid thought, he’d become Sir. Two weeks ago he was foreign trash. Now he was Sir. He was certain the fifty thousand dollars was only part of the reason.

“Aren’t you curious why I needed such a large cylinder?” he asked.

“I . . . uh never get involved with the details.”

“But surely you must wonder.”

Fred refused to engage him. He picked lint from the bill of his cap. “Sir, I haven’t the slightest idea what you might be using it for. I’m just the middleman. I don’t make judgments.”

“Do you watch the news?” Rashid asked.

Fred hesitated a moment too long. “Sometimes. I’m pretty busy with work and all.”

“You’re a liar,” Rashid said.

Fred stepped back, rigid with fear, his eyes searching for something over Rashid’s shoulder. Rashid heard a familiar click from behind him.

“Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice said. “Just take the money out of the envelope and give it to Fred.”

Rashid’s blood raced through his body. “You expect me to trust you.”

“I don’t see that you have much of a choice,” the voice said.

Rashid listened carefully to the voice. Years of training aligned his thoughts. He ran an index of moves through his mind, then waited to hear the voice and determine whether it was moving or stationary.

“This ain’t no pistol I’m holding here.”

That sentence offered Rashid everything he needed to know. He slid his hand into the manila envelope and gripped the knife inside. Judging the position of the voice, he dove straight back onto the floor, rolled and heard the shotgun blast whistle over his head. Rashid heard Fred Wilson scream in agony as he jumped up, caught the barrel of the shotgun with his shoulder and thrust the blade under the man’s ribcage. Standing inches from the man’s shocked face he twisted the knife, skewering the life-sustaining organs and draining his mortality until the only thing that held up his lifeless form was Rashid’s hand holding the knife.

Rashid turned to see a streak of red on the floor where Fred Wilson dragged his wounded leg. Fred frantically crawled toward a rifle that leaned against the wall. Rashid grabbed a fistful of Fred’s hair, pulled his head back and lashed his steel blade across his neck so deep it nearly decapitated him. The head hit the floor with a thump.

* * *

Nick Bracco sat at the kitchen table surrounded by heaps of files and photographs. With his secure phone planted to his left ear, he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. Working from home was his meager attempt at spending more time with Julie.

Julie stood at the counter flipping through pages of a magazine while she waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

Nick glanced at her, half-listening to a diplomat from the Turkish embassy reciting a verse from a propaganda textbook. He cupped his hand over the phone. “What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Nick dropped his pen on the table and hung up the phone. His jaw was slack and his eyes drooped, as if she’d announced that she’d been diagnosed with cancer. No elation. No “I’m-going-to-be-a-father” glow on his face. Just surprise and confusion.

“But how?” was all he could manage.

She shook her head, “I was just seeing if you were listening. I guess I’ll know what to expect from you, should I ever really be pregnant.”

Nick stepped behind her and rubbed her back, “I’m sorry, honey. It’s just—”

“You don’t have to explain. Your job will always take precedence over our marriage. I knew that going in and I guess I just like to test the theory every now and again.”

“Aw, come on, Jule, do you really believe that?”

“Nick, there’s always a reason why we can’t go on a long vacation, or plan a party, or raise children. That reason is your job. I know it seems like more than a job to you, but in the grand scheme of the universe, that’s all it really is. A job.”

Nick walked to the bay window overlooking the backyard. The grass needed mowing and the hammock he’d bought over the summer swayed unoccupied between two large oaks. It occurred to him that he’d never even sat in the hammock. She was right, of course. Even after the therapy sessions, Nick was still compelled to police the country. Single-handedly, if necessary.

He wondered what Julie had seen in him that kept her so close. Even when they were dating she must’ve been aware of his preoccupation with his work. He wished he could give her more. More time. More emotion. More . . . life. Julie was thirty-five and if they didn’t do something soon, time would sweep past them and deny her what she deserved. She loved kids so much she chose a profession that surrounded her with children all day long.

“Okay,” he said, staring out the window. “I’ll quit.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“I’m not. I’ll get out of terrorism and find a resident agency in some small town and work nine to five. I’ll come home at night and eat dinner and read books to our children and push them on the swing set I’ll build in our backyard.”

She wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed her head into the nape of his neck. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You don’t know how it kills me to talk about this stuff, but, every time you go on a mission, Nick, part of you doesn’t return. I shouldn’t be adding any more stress to your life, but I just want us to be happy, that’s all.”

Once again it was time to say it. Let those three words out and watch her eyes sparkle with delight. He leaned back into her hug, letting the moment pass as it had a thousand times before.

“Just let me handle the KSF attacks,” he said. “Once they’re resolved, I’ll get out.”

She sighed, rocking back and forth with Nick to an imaginary song. “However long it takes, Mr. Bracco, I’ll be there.”

* * *

Tommy Bracco knocked and when the door opened he was hit with the aroma of homemade marinara sauce. Don Silkari swatted him on the back and led him into the kitchen. Three men in white starched shirts shoveled spaghetti into their mouths, a paper napkin tucked into their collars. The burly one in the middle pointed his fork at an open seat.

“Sit down, Thomas,” the man said.

Tommy sat down while Silk stood over his shoulder.

The two bookends eating next to the husky man timed their bites to coincide with their boss. They wouldn’t be caught with a mouthful if a quick, respectful response was needed.

The boss wiped his mouth and Tommy couldn’t help feel like he was watching a silent film. The three men were practically breathing in unison.

“Thomas,” the boss said. “How’s your father doing?”

“He’s good, Sal.” Always the family questions first. That was Sal Demenci’s style. He could be about to whack someone and he’d ask how the guy’s sister was doing in school.

Sal dove into his mound of pasta. When he came up for air, he said, “Ever been to Payston, or Patetown?”

“Payson,” one of his men clarified.

“That’s it, Payson,” Sal said. “It’s in Arizona. You familiar with this place?”

Tommy shook his head.

“Well,” Sal said, “it’s supposed to be beautiful. Up in the mountains a couple of hours from Phoenix. Anyway, there’s a guy up there, he likes to book with a friend of ours. One day last week the guy lays down ten large on a football game . . . I forget who he bet—it doesn’t matter. The thing is—this guy’s a twenty-dollar better. He never dropped more than a small one, not even on the Super Bowl. The guy’s name is Fred Wilson. One day he started blabbing to our friend about how he’s gonna make a killing selling some Arab a bunch of giant blasting caps. Our friend doesn’t think anything of it until Fred loses his head.”

The bookends chuckled while Sal drew a finger across his throat, “I mean literally.”

Sal twirled long strands of pasta into a spoon, the image of headless Fred Wilson unable to slow his appetite. “Anyhow, our friend gets to thinking maybe this Arab has something to do with the bombings. You know, that whole one house in every state thing.”

Sal looked Tommy in the eye, as if to say “You see what I’m getting at here?”

Tommy nodded.

Sal waved his fork between Tommy and Silk. “You two get down there and find out what our friend knows. I want this rat bastard to pay for what he did to the Capelli’s. Capisce?”

Tommy stood and waited for his final instructions. Sal wiped his mouth. “I trust you, Thomas. I don’t need nothing from you but your word. Don’t come home until the Arab is dead.”

Tommy winked at Sal, then followed Silk out the door. It was standard procedure for Sal to request a finger or an ear as evidence that the hit was completed. But Sal had awarded Tommy with the ultimate show of respect. Trust.

Rashid’s patience was reaching its limit. Both the hardware store and Target were out of the batteries he needed and he was on his way to Wal-Mart to continue the search. Something about the stores made him uneasy. They both had plenty of AA and D batteries, but no C batteries. They were conspicuous in their absence. Rashid became suspicious of everyone he saw. Every movement in the corner of his eye became a concern. There was no way anyone could recognize him in a place like Payson, Arizona, even if they knew what to look for. He’d shaved his mustache and changed the color of his hair from dark to blond. Besides, if the government knew where to look, he’d be back in custody already. He had to control his emotions and get through this last chore before the next series of bombs could be transported. He’d hoped to avoid attention by spreading out the purchases among several stores, but he was running out of options. He parked the van in an empty row of parking spaces and decided to buy only twenty batteries this trip. He would come back tonight after the employees changed shifts and purchase the remaining thirty.