A federal judge named Patrick Shebin who was known to accept bribes from the Mancinis was found dead in his car, the victim of an apparent suicide.
And the members of the Mancini family who were suspected in the killings of Waylon Boggs, Ted Klepper, and Joseph “The Snake” MacKenzie suddenly found iron-clad alibis to cling to, which prevented their respective grand juries from sending their cases to trial.
The Mancinis had known exactly what the Feds had on them and how to beat it.
Which meant Gio had tortured Fred for that information before killing him.
At Quantico, Carla—like every other agent in training—had been taught how to target the brachial nerve in a suspect's shoulder when discharging her weapon. This would disarm the suspect quickly and cleanly without the need for lethal force.
She aimed for the nerve location in the paper target's right shoulder, then shifted her sights down to the target's crotch instead.
Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam.
Because when my chance comes and you're in my sights, Gio, you'd better believe you won't be going into custody, Carla though bitterly. I'm not giving you a chance to make bail and spend the months leading up to your trial eating at fancy restaurants and getting fitted for thousand-dollar suits, all while your daddy and his mob lawyers come up with ways to make sure you beat the charges. I'm sick of watching oily pimps like you strut around, taking whatever they want and killing whoever gets in their way without ever having to answer for it. No more. I'm taking you out of the fucking headlines permanently, even if it costs me my goddamn badge.
“Your aim looks to be a little low,” a voice behind her commented mildly.
Carla turned and saw the lanky form of Don Huss, the Assistant Special Agent in Charge for the Chicago office, standing in the doorway. As always, he had a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth to compensate for having given up cigarettes two years before, and the leathery edges of his blue eyes were crinkled in amusement.
“Not to me,” Carla answered, sliding the empty magazine out of her pistol and replacing it with a fresh one.
Don chuckled. “Well, just the same, I reckon I'll pretend I didn't hear that in case the Bureau shrink asks me how you're holdin' up again,” he answered in his laconic Texas drawl. “I think you'd better go ahead an' hand that target over to me so I can make sure it goes in the circular file instead of some psych eval.”
Carla sighed and nodded, hitting the button that made the target advance on its track with a steady mechanical whine. When it was close enough, she pulled it down and handed it over to Don, who looked over it with raised eyebrows.
“You sure are hell an' Jesus with a pistol, darlin',” he observed with an appreciative whistle. He folded the target up and tucked it into his pocket, shaking his head. “Glad you kept that dead eye nice an' sharp, since you're goin' back out into the field.”
“Yeah, well, I doubt I'll be out there any time soon,” Carla replied sourly. “It took almost a year for Fred to establish his bona fides so he could get close enough to the Mancinis to be invited in. And now that they've figured out we're sending undercover agents into their family, they'll probably be even more paranoid about it.”
Don nodded mildly. “That's all true, as far as it goes,” he agreed, “but we figure we can get the ball rolling a little faster this time. See, last night, the Chicago PD broke up a ring of MDMA dealers in a gay club on North Halsted. One of the guys who was busted for possession was Louie Grammatica. That name ring a bell?”
Carla's eyes widened. “Mario's lawyer. You've got to be shitting me.”
“I shit you not,” Don chuckled. “As you can imagine, Louie's mighty troubled by the idea of the Mancinis learnin' about his proclivities. Takin' it up the tailpipe's still a hangin' offense to them Sicilian boys. But he's told us that Mario's lookin' for a separate lawyer for Gio, to keep his various operations insulated from each other and prevent conflicts of interest. If we promise Louie immunity an' witness protection, he'll agree to get one of our agents into the Mancinis' inner circle posing as an attorney they can trust. I seem to recall you havin' a law degree.”
“Me and half the agents in this office,” Carla pointed out.
Don shook his head. “Half the agents in this office didn't spent seven months listening in on these gangsters' conversations. You know the players, what they're into, what buttons to push. If anyone's gonna build an airtight case to put these goombahs behind bars, we both know it's gonna be you.”
“How do you know I'll let Gio go to trial?” Carla asked, thinking about the paper target again. “Even I don't know if I can do that.”