Shock Waves(31)

He gave it up. A lifetime in the brotherhood had taught him that there was no end to possibilities for treachery. It was a waiting game of watch and learn from here on in. Unfortunately, the price of knowledge was climbing all the time. In cash. In lives. In time away from paying business.

And it was time to go. The cars were ready, and Reina steeled himself for the short hike through open daylight, his moment in the sun. The tremor made him smile, and he chided himself silently, realizing that he was behaving as an old man might, afraid to walk downtown and cash his frigging welfare check because the little boys who hung around the corners might be waiting for him.

Bullshit.

Giuseppe Reina feared no man, no army. He had an army of his own, and they had proved themselves in battle more than once. If anyone should be afraid, it was the bastard who would dare to challenge Don Reina on his own home turf.

He rode the elevator down with gunners all around him taking up the space and forcing civilians on the other floors they passed to wait and catch a different car. No point in taking chances with the smiling girl-next-door type who might be carrying a pistol in her handbag or the faggy-looking character whose briefcase might contain explosives, a machine gun, anything.

If Reina recognized that he was paranoid, it did not bother him. His paranoia was no more than a survival tool, essential in the urban jungle that he called his home. The moment you relaxed your guard, the jackals made a meal of you.

Reina was nobody's meal, and when they came for him, they could expect to get their frigging teeth pushed down their throats. No matter who it was — Minelli, Aguirre, any of the others. He was not afraid of them. It was their place to be afraid, their place to watch their backs and hope he was not creeping up behind them in the dead of night. Or in broad daylight.

Ground floor, and one of Reina's hardmen stepped out of the elevator, looking both ways across the lobby like a scout preparing to convoy old ladies across the street. No sign of danger, and he gestured for the rest to follow, taking the point with one hand inside the open front of his suit coat.

Don Reina cleared the elevator, and the doors shut behind him. The gunners closed around him in a ring of flesh, preventing anyone from getting a clear view — or shot — at him. They walked in lock-step toward the tall revolving doors of the apartment house.

Outside, three Lincolns filled the curb as far as he could see through tinted doors and windows. Drivers standing by their cars, arms folded over jackets that concealed bolstered hardware. Other gunmen at the head and tail of the stationary convoy, eyeing pedestrians and rooftops from behind dark glasses, suspecting everyone, trusting no one.

Another fifty feet and they were clear. Now almost to the doors, the sidewalk, Don Reina knew that he was being overcautious, even foolish.

Still...

The lead car suddenly disintegrated, swallowed by a burst of oily flame that raced along its length, consuming car and startled driver, hurling bits of twisted steel high into the air. The shock wave shattered tinted windows and revolving doors drove Don Reina and his storm troopers to the carpet, cringing from the rain of splintered glass.

The second car went up immediately, rising on its rear wheels like a stallion fighting its tether, riding a mushroom of flame that blackened the sidewalk and crisped the chauffeur where he had fallen after the initial blast. A scorching hell wind raced across the lobby of the windowless apartment house, fierce heat baking into Don Reina where he lay, beneath a burly bodyguard.

And number three exploded almost as an afterthought, the secondary detonation of its fuel tank spewing gasoline in all directions.

Giuseppe Reina felt the burning dampness, knew that he had wet himself. He looked at his trousers before he scrambled to his feet, and saw the evidence firsthand. His face was livid with embarrassment and anger as he called his troops together for the brisk march upstairs.

To change his pants.

Police would be arriving shortly and there would be the questions, endless questions that he would not answer even if he could.

And Don Reina had some searching questions of his own, that would be asked in private, away from the bright lights and snooping damned reporters. He would continue asking until he got the necessary information. Then...

There was a score to settle.

But first he had to make himself presentable, destroy the evidence of sudden, aching fear that gripped him like an icy hand.

He had to gird himself for war.





14




The delegates were in, except for Reina, who was clearly going to be late if he arrived at all. They had arrived throughout the morning and the early afternoon, parading past the burned-out hulks of limousines that had been moved but not concealed. In private, capos huddled with their underbosses and their consigiieri, checking rooms for listening devices, hidden cameras, ensuring that they were alone before they settled down to business.