Blood And Steel

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Blood And Steel - book excerpt

Chapter 1

High above the Manhattan skyline, dark clouds clustered. Flashes of light illuminated the blackened mass as the storm brewed. There was a low rumble followed by more eruptions of light within the angry-looking clouds. The wind howled through the city streets like a wraith hunting for its prey. The storm was nearly over, pushed on by the easterly wind. The downpour of rain had left its mark, leaving lakes on the streets and sidewalks. Despite the sparks of electricity in the clouds, there had been no lightning, just a fantastic light show. Bellow in the sodden streets, there was more flashes of light, but these were from a 9mm. The loud cracks were not from the storm, but the bark from the Sig Sauer.

“Stay away from me, you freak,” cried a man as he released another volley of hollow points into the dark. Mario, “the Shark” Brunetti, was afraid – scared shitless, someone was hunting him. The man was a mobster, loan shark, a piece of shit who would sell his mother for a profit. He was a short man with a receding hairline and a round figure. Too much of a good life, too much good food from blood money had shaped him and made him slow, vulnerable. Once a man that put fear into people, but now, he was running scared – or rather limping. He’d taken a bullet to the leg; he’d been lucky, his men had been taken out one by one, shot from a distance. All headshots, even the ones that had used walls as cover, however, bricks are no match for a .50 BMG calibre bullet. The M2 Armoured Piercing round was possibly overkill, but the shooter didn’t care, he only needed one of them alive – Brunetti. 706.7 grams of full metal death travelled the short distance quickly, and quietly. At 856 meters per second, the bricks were vaporised, and so were the men behind them. One of the men sought refuge behind a steel beam, but the bullet just passed through it like it was made from butter. The hunter had used an AS50 from Accuracy International with a smart sight with multi-imaging, which included thermal and suppressor – no noise, no flash from the barrel. The .50 calibre monster took out the men in a blink of an eye, ten rounds in just less than a minute. Brunetti had run. Smart move – pointless but smart. He had run to his car, only to find a hole in the engine block, and a bloody mess where the driver had been. Brunetti had run back inside the building. It was an old factory in the Bronx built in the twenties and left to rot for years, but he had bought it at a discount, a good place to do business. Brunetti pulled out his Sig Sauer 320XL custom and held it with his chubby fingers. A nice gun, polished steel with rubber combat grips. Fifteen in the mag, one in the pipe. Nice long barrel. Nice if you’re a sports shooter or a guy looking for a gun to intimidate. The Desert Eagle used to be the favourite, but gangsters soon learned that more bullets were far better than a few big bangs. If you’re in a firefight, you want more bullets. Magnums are good for intimidation – very good, in fact, but it means you must carry lots of heavy magazines. Brunetti was smart, possibly learned the lesson the hard way. Unfortunately, a nice gun is no match against what he knew was coming for him.

He had run inside the building, hoping the deeper he went, the less likely those damned bullets would be able to reach him. A good plan. Brunetti was smart, but the hunter was smarter. Brunetti ran towards the door of his office; he had a secure room there. Three inches of reinforced steel with lead lining, nothing was getting through, not even him. Brunetti smiled as the door came into view. Six more feet, and then he was safe. His eyes widened with eagerness as if willing the room to come to him. His gaze fell to a red LED light on the door. His eyes squinted as he approached. Was it a new alarm system his tech guy had fitted? Brunetti slid to a stop, dropping to the ground as he did so. As the red LED turned green, there was a rush of wind, followed by a blinding flash of light. Brunetti was lifted off the ground and hurled across the open space. A massive explosion rocked the building, but there was no fire, just the blast. Brunetti looked over at the gaping hole where his office had once been, now jus smouldering bricks and twisted metal. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burnt wood and metal, making his eyes sting and water. Brunetti wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve and coughed. He felt the urge to stand, to run, to get the hell out of there. As he stood, he turned towards the way he had come. He looked back at the hole in the wall. Two options, both could mean his death, but for some reason he wasn’t, the killer could have taken him out any time, yet he lived. Working on this, Brunetti smiled. The assassin needed him alive. Brunetti laughed and ran towards the hole, confident that the killer was too far away after all the shooter would have to be quicker than an Olympic runner to get from the nest to the other side of the building, no, Brunetti had the advantage. As he ran towards the gap, he froze, there stood a figure in a long coat, the light from a nearby streetlamp showed only the outline of the man, but Brunetti didn’t need to see the man’s face, he knew exactly who it was – John Steel.

“Brunetti, where is SANTINI?” Steel yelled. Brunetti skidded as he struggled to turn and run. There was a soft sound of metal against metal, followed by a scream from Brunetti. He looked down to see blood streaming from the outer side of his left leg. Brunetti turned and released a volley of rounds at the hole in the wall, only to find an empty space. Steel had gone. Brunetti’s eyes darted from side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the phantom, but found only darkness. He scrambled to his feet and headed towards the main entrance.

“Where is SANTINI?” Steel yelled out once again. Brunetti released another volley before the clicking sound of an empty gun. Brunetti replaced the magazine with a fresh mag and clicked the bolt release catch on the side, forcing the top slide forward, loading a new round into the chamber.

“Stay away from me, and you freak,” Brunetti yelled, firing blindly into the dark.

“I’ll only ask one more time Brunetti, where are they?” Steel yelled, his voice echoing around the empty space of the abandoned building.

“Go to Hell, ya freak,” Brunetti screamed, then fired off another volley. As he turned to run, he bumped into something. His blood ran cold as he dropped to the floor. He raised the weapon, but Steel grabbed it with a swift movement, ripping it out of the mobster’s hand.

“I am in Hell thanks to you and your friends, now, where is SANTINI?” Steel growled. Brunetti looked at Steel. He was a big man, six-two compared to his five-six. Steel’s handsome square-jawed face was masked by a pair of military-style sunglasses, which hugged his face like a mask, his black hair styled with a side parting. He was dressed all in black with a long black wool and leather trench coat. Brunetti looked down at Steel’s leather military-style gloves with the plastic knuckle guards, but Brunetti’s eyes were more fixed on his own gun that Steel was pointing down at his groin area.

“Talk, or you’ll never need that vasectomy,” Brunetti shook with fear as he noted the emotionless expression on Steel’s face as he spoke. “Where are they, talk, or I’ll take you one piece at a time, starting with the smallest,” Steel said, shoving the 9mm into Brunetti’s groan.

“If I tell, I’m dead,” Brunetti screamed, waving his arms about. Steel smashed the gun against Brunetti’s head to calm him.

“Well, if you don’t, I’ll keep you alive,” Steel said with a deep growl. Brunetti held a puzzled look.

“Don’t you mean you’ll kill me?” Brunetti laughed, thinking Steel had it backwards.

“No, you’ll be alive, but I will make sure that every scumbag in the city knows you like kids – little kids, make sure the word is spread that you couldn’t talk enough about every mobster in the city. You’ll want SANTINI to kill you, you’ll want me to kill you, but I won’t, I’ll make sure you stay alive – until I get bored of saving your arse,” Steel said holding up the gun and releasing the magazine, which fell to the concrete with a clatter of metal. Steel pulled back the top slide enough to make sure to check a round was chambered, then released the slide. “You have three options, one – you say nothing and your life becomes a living Hell, Two – you tell me what I want to know, you live and take your chances, or Three – you tell me, and I leave you with this quick way out?” Steel said, his face half in shadow, half in the light coming from a top window.

“I don’t see no incentive, either way, I’m dead,” Brunetti moaned, holding his bloody leg.

“You have a choice, more than my family was given, more than you gave them,” Steel said, this time the anger was starting to show.

“But I had nothing to –,”

“You told SANTINI that my family was having a party that day, you told them who was responsible for the raid on the warehouse and who was hunting them, you even provided the weapons used, so do not tell me you had nothing to do with it,” Steel screamed and ripped Brunetti from the floor as though he was a rag doll. Brunetti gasped at the display of power. “I grow weary of your excuses, and I’ll give you one more chance to answer, use it wisely.” Brunetti stared into those damned sunglasses and his scared reflection. The question wasn’t whether he was going to live or die; it was how he was going to die, horribly, or by his own hand? Steel had given him that choice, SANTINI wouldn’t.

“What do you want to know?” Brunetti sighed, his body going limp, the fight, and fear had drained out of him. Steel smiled and placed the man onto the floor.

“You help me – I’ll help you,” Steel said, dragging Brunetti out of the hole in the wall and to a waiting vehicle. As the blacked-out Yukon drove off, the old factory was ripped to pieces by several explosions, leaving nothing but rubble.

* * * *

Several miles away, deep under the city, in the depths of the Manhattan subway, Tara Burke looked out of the subway trains window. Raindrops had pooled onto the rubber corners of the safety glass, droplets of water rolled together like globules of mercury. They had collected from when the train had gone above ground.Her thoughts were a million miles away. Dreams of a different life, a better life. The cold glass felt good against her warm skin. The first time she had felt cool all day. The diner where she worked had been busy from breakfast up to the end of her shift. Thank God for nine o’clock, she had thought as she clocked out. The nights were getting warmer, but the season was bringing the rain. Sometimes she hated spring, sure it was getting darker later, and if she never saw another snowflake, it wouldn’t be too soon, but the nights were still cold. Tara had one of those ‘girl next door’ pretty faces, which was framed with shorter hair. Weeks before it had hung along the length of her back, but she needed a change. Now her red locks hung on her shoulders. New spring, new you, she had promised herself the year before. A New York summer is not the best time to have long hair, especially if you work in a Diner.

She looked at her reflection in the nearby window. A sad face stared back at her from the black background of the unlit subway line. Tara stared into her large blue eyes, noting the sadness within them. That was going to change. She had plans that would make her dreams come true. Tara took a deep sigh as she thought about her life. She had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday and had nothing to show for her life. She had been nowhere, nor had she done anything special. Straight after school, she had gotten that stupid job in the Diner just so she could live. Her mother had skipped out as soon as she could, leaving Tara with the two-bedroomed apartment while she disappeared to God knows where not that Tara cared.

Good riddance, Tara thought as she remembered reading the note telling her she was on her own. That was the only thing her mother had ever given her apart from the beatings. Now, she was on her own, apart from the new roommate, who was only there to help pay the rent.

The screech from the train’s brakes signalled that they were approaching the station on 50th Street. Tara took her face away from the glass. She felt the tingle in her cheek as the skin began to warm up. As the train came to a stop, the doors opened with a hiss from the hydraulics. She stood up and headed out into the chill of the night. It was almost quarter to ten at night as she reached Main Street. The walk home would take her five minutes—she knew this for certain after walking it for so many years. Down West 50th, then onto Ninth Avenue until she got to 48th Street. Tara took out her cell phone and checked her messages. She had forgotten about the vibration the phone had given off on the train. But then, late at night is not the time to pull out your cell phone on the subway.

Where the hell are you, we must talk…

She stared at the message for a moment, and her blood froze at the tone. Something was wrong. Tara put the phone back into her pocket and walked home. Her pace had quickened. Her heels tapped the concrete. The sound echoed through the streets like tiny horses’ hooves on cobbled roads. The night appeared darker than usual, even though there were plenty of street lamps and lights from the houses as families stayed up to watch television, but it was a different dark. A fearful darkness that no one could see unless you were terrified by it.

To her left, there was a dark spot, a gap in the light, Clinton Community Garden, a nice place in the day, but it was bathed in darkness. She shivered again, and her imagination began to run away with her as she began to see and hear things, she was sure weren’t there, or hoped. Tara looked at her watch. The digital display read twenty-one-forty.

She had worked overtime to help pay the rent until her new roommate moved in properly. Tara smiled as she thought about the fresh-faced girl who had answered agreed to move in. An old friend who needed digs, she had a good job so money wouldn’t be a problem. The friend was a pretty woman in her late twenties, but hey, who was Tara to judge why a woman like that was single? All Tara knew was she had been in a bad relationship but was now single…of sorts. Tara turned on to her road; the apartment wasn’t much further. A cold breeze met her as she started down the final stretch, making her shiver as though someone had just danced over her grave. She had that feeling again.

Something was wrong.

Tara walked up to the door at the front of the building. Stopping, she looked around to see if there was anyone lurking in the shadows. She shook her head as if to shake the silly idea from her mind; she was letting a simple text spook her. It was probably nothing. She smiled at her foolishness. The bad thing about texts is they don’t convey emotion unless you want to lighten the tone, and you put the standard LOL at the end. Tara took out the phone again and re-read the text.

Where the hell are you, we must talk…

She had to admit that at first, it had looked bad, but then she looked at it again. She had pulled a double shift and not told him, plus he could get a little jealous what with her flirting for tips and all. Once, she had gotten a twenty for giving some guy a peck on the cheek because it was his birthday. A little harmless fun, she thought, plus it paid the bills. Tara smiled as she walked up the stairs to her apartment on the fourth floor, her exercise for the day as she called it. The sound of televisions filled the tight corridors, some people watching games shows, others watching police dramas. Music blared through the thin flooring above. There was a baby’s cry from number 4.

She stopped outside number 42 and slipped the key into the lock. Tara pushed the door open and stepped inside the dimly lit room. An orange glow from the streetlights outside broke up the blackness. All she wanted now was her bed after a long day. Tara listened to the couple next door: loud moans of passion came through as if there was no wall between them at all. She smiled as she shook her head and shut the door behind her. A scream filled the building—a scream like no other. Then there was only the sound of the neighbours’ televisions filling the corridors once more.