Brock

 

Brock pulled up in front of the Metairie Cemetery in the red Ferrari at ten minutes to ten. Turo was already there, waiting for him with the valise. As he walked over, Brock noticed that Turo was freshly-shaved and wearing a crisp suit. His eyes were still baggy and exhausted, but he didn't look stricken and helpless, the way he had at the waterfront earlier.

 

This gave Brock a faint twinge of anxiety, but he pushed it aside. He was about to pull off the biggest score of his life. It was only natural for him to feel a bit jumpy.

 

“Glad you were able to smooth yourself out a little,” Brock said. “I know how hard that must have been, given the circumstances.”

 

“It's nothing. Just a shower, a shave, a change of clothes, and a couple glasses of grappa. I didn't want to give these animals the satisfaction of seeing me like that.”

 

Brock nodded. “We'll get through this, Turo, I promise. But listen—just in case anything goes wrong in there or it looks like they're going to screw us over, I'll grab Maggie and get her to safety, okay? You just turn around and run as fast as you can.”

 

Turo shook his head. “No. She's my daughter. I'll take her.”

 

“Of course she's your daughter, and of course you feel that way, but you have to think it through. With all due respect, Maggie and I are both younger and more in shape than you are. The odds of me getting her out of here in one piece are a hell of a lot higher. But if you split off from us and run for it on your own, Bogyoke's men will have to split up, which will lower the chances of them finding any of us. Once we've all gotten away, we can meet up at The Azalea Room and call your guys down there to protect us.”

 

Turo considered this. “Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. You've dealt with these slant-eyed terrorists before, so you're in charge of this show. Just make sure Maggie makes it out of here alive and unharmed.”

 

“You have my word on that, Turo. Now come on, follow me. I found Fournier on a map before I got here. We should be able to get there pretty easily.”

 

They walked through the vast, impeccably-manicured graveyard, passing rows of gothic crypts and monuments. There were many marble angels perched on the headstones in various poses—smiling, weeping, praying, brandishing swords, spreading their wings.

 

At last, they reached the tall, narrow mausoleum with “Fournier” chiseled over the doorway. The narrow doors had panes of stained glass depicting Michael the Archangel wrestling with Satan as crimson flames danced around their feet.

 

The doors were ajar, and a light flickered inside.

 

Brock walked in with Turo right behind him. Greg and Hammer stood waiting in their costumes, with Maggie kneeling on the floor between them. Her hands were tied behind her back, and a gag was tied around her mouth. Hammer's AK-47 hung from his shoulders on a strap, and Greg had a handgun tucked into his belt. A lantern rested on the stone slab in front of them, casting their giant shadows on the rear wall.

 

“Thank you for joining us, gentlemen,” Greg said, using the accent once more. “Before we conduct our transaction, please be so kind as to turn around and place your hands on the wall, so my associate can make sure you are both unarmed.”

 

Turo set the valise down, turned, and put his palms against the cool stone wall. Brock did likewise. Hammer stepped forward, frisked them both quickly, and nodded to Greg.

 

“Excellent. Now please, hand the money to him so he can verify it's all there.”

 

Turo picked up the valise again, handing it over. Hammer opened it, pawed through the stacks of bills, and nodded again.

 

“We've done everything you asked, Bogyoke,” Brock said. “Now let her go.”

 

“Hmm.” Greg narrowed his eyes, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “I think not. I think now that we're here, there are many opportunities for us to use the resources of your criminal operation to advance our cause. And I think your precious daughter would be the perfect insurance policy to retain when embarking on such a business venture. From now on, Mr. Ricci, you and all the assets of your little empire will be at our disposal.”

 

Brock snatched the AK from Hammer, snapping its strap and slamming the rifle butt into Hammer's stomach. As he did, he was careful to use the choreographed moves Ben had taught them, so it would look like a savage blow without actually doing any damage.

 

Greg reached for his gun, but Brock swung the rifle around, firing several blanks into Greg's chest. The squibs went off as planned, and the fake wounds exploded with blood. Brock aimed the rifle at Hammer just as he was starting to get back on his feet and unleashed another short burst of blanks. Hammer's squibs popped, too, the dyed red corn syrup splattering against the marble slab.

 

Hammer and Greg slumped to the floor, playing dead.

 

Brock untied Maggie's hands and pulled the gag off. “You came for me,” she said breathlessly. “Both of you. Thank you...”

 

“No time for that now,” Brock barked, turning to Turo. “I've got her. Go on, run! The rest of Bogyoke's men will be here any second!”

 

Turo stood firmly in place, his hands behind his back, his expression neutral.

 

“What are you doing?” Brock demanded. “Are you trying to get us all killed? Run!”

 

“Why should I?” Turo asked quietly. “I'm not afraid of guns filled with blanks. Especially when I have this.”

 

His right hand emerged from behind his back, holding a .22 pistol.

 

Brock stared at it, his heart sinking. “Where did you get that?”

 

“I hid it in my crotch,” Turo said evenly. “Adamo was right. Most men won't frisk another man there. Oh, maybe actual guerrilla fighters would...but not a bunch of half-assed bikers and con men, which is all you are.” He leaned over, addressing Greg and Hammer. “You can both get up now, I think. There'll be plenty of time for you to bleed on the floor soon enough.”

 

Slowly, Hammer and Greg got up, facing them. Hammer pulled off his ski mask, glaring at Turo.

 

“Of course it's you,” Turo sighed. “I should have known.”

 

“Daddy, I can explain everything...” Maggie began.

 

“Can you?” Turo sneered. “What possible explanation could you give for betraying me to a pack of greedy thieves and vultures? How much of my money did they promise you? What did it take for them to convince you to turn on me, after everything I've done for you?”

 

Maggie's expression hardened. “Not much.”

 

“Okay, so it seems like you know the whole score,” Brock admitted. “Fine. It was a scam. But it was all my idea, from top to bottom. I'm the one you want.”

 

“Bullshit,” Hammer spat. “I'm the one who called him in to help us get our money back from you. None of this shit would have happened if it wasn't for me. You want to torture someone, kill someone—here I am. This begins and ends with me. Go for it. Just let the others go.”

 

“A noble display, but you can all save your breath,” said Turo. “None of you are leaving this graveyard alive. Not after what you've done to me. Now come on, let's get out of here. I want to shoot you in the open air, so the bullets don't ricochet on the walls.”

 

He gestured to the doorway with his gun. They filed out in a line, stepping out onto the grass between the headstones.

 

“She's your daughter, Turo,” Brock whispered. “And she's pregnant.”

 

Turo's face crumpled with rage and anguish. “I don't care. I'd rather let my bloodline die right here, tonight, then let this ungrateful bitch live to spawn another rotten, spoiled, poisonous little traitor to the name Ricci. Everything I've ever wanted for my family has been stolen from me. This is all that's left.” He cocked the pistol.

 

“All right,” Brock said. “If you're going to kill us, you're going to kill us. Clearly, there's no talking you out of it. But before you pull the trigger, just answer one question for me. How did you figure it out? How did you know Maggie's kidnapping was a setup?”

 

Turo smirked and called out, his gun still leveled at them. “Adamo, you can bring him over now.”

 

Adamo stepped out from behind a nearby crypt, holding his Desert Eagle. Robby walked behind him, adjusting his glasses.

 

“We found the other two bikers,” Adamo rasped. “They're tied up a couple of rows away.”

 

“Robby,” Brock sighed. “Of course.”

 

“Hiya, Brock,” Robby said with a smile. “After you demonstrated what an unreliable fuck you are, I figured this whole plan was pretty much doomed. So I went to Turo and came clean. Told him the whole thing, and in exchange, he's gonna make sure I get to stay a made guy, even after the mistakes I made. But I guess you made a few of your own, huh, pal? Like thinking I wouldn't dime you out.”

 

Brock's lips pulled into a grim smile. “Actually, 'pal'...that's exactly what I thought.”

 

He pressed the stud on the left cufflink, activating the device Ben had installed in it. It was a simple transmitter, no different from the ones inside medical alert bracelets.

 

Except the people who received this particular signal weren't paramedics.

 

Over a dozen young black men emerged from their hidden positions behind the surrounding gravestones, aiming massive handguns at the gangsters. The chrome on their weapons gleamed in the moonlight.

 

Turo looked around, panicked. “What the hell is going on? Who are these men?”

 

One of the men stepped forward, holding a pair of gold-plated .44 pistols with pearl handles. The gold necklace he wore had the letters “R-GUNZ” engraved on it.

 

He pointed at Robby. “That him?” he asked Brock.

 

“Yep,” Brock answered. “His name is Robby Nickels, and he's the piece of shit who sold the smack to your son up in Ditchfield.”

 

R-Gunz looked Robby over for a moment, then fired a bullet directly into the bridge of Robby's nose. Robby fell to the grass, dead, his glasses split neatly in half.

 

“Nice shot, big guy,” Brock said. “I know it won't bring him back, but I sure hope it helped. Now, about the second part of our deal...?”

 

R-Gunz nodded to his soldiers. They aimed their weapons and fired at Turo and Adamo. The gangsters dropped their own guns, jitterbugging on the grass as their bodies were riddled with bullets. When the shooting finally stopped, the two men slumped to the ground as clouds of gun smoke coiled above them.

 

Satisfied, R-Gunz holstered his pistols and walked over to Brock, shaking hands with him. “Pleasure doin' business with you. If you ever make it out to California, be sure an' look me up.”

 

“Will do,” Brock said.

 

R-Gunz motioned to his soldiers, and they withdrew, disappearing into the night.

 

Hammer stared at Brock, dumbfounded. “Jesus. You are just full of surprises, aren't you?”