25. Maria #2
“Never call that moron ‘Sir’. He’s an NCO.
‘Sir’ is reserved for Commissioned Officers, and that means he’d need to know how to eat properly with a knife and fork.
Which he can’t. So, call him “Boss” like I do, or “Leader” or something.
But never “Sir”, okay?” He’s grinning as he says it, and even Grant has to smile at that.
“Got it. In that case, ‘Yes, Boss’. Come on, Abe, finish your food. We’ve got guns to shoot.”
“Atta girl,” says Regan approvingly, as he pours himself another cup of coffee, puts his feet up on the kitchen table, and reaches for a fishing magazine one of the men’s customers had left behind some time last week, looking like he’s planning on doing nothing at all for as long as possible.
“Washing up needs doing, Regan,” Grant says. “Then get the truck fully checked out and serviced. Last thing we need is to break down on an interstate with a bunch of AR-15s in the trunk. Get to it.” Regan sighs dramatically.
“Work, work, work…”
The old quarry sits about half a mile from the garage, hidden away behind a stand of pine trees and long since reclaimed by nature.
Grass and wildflowers grow through cracks in the ancient concrete loading area, and saplings have begun creeping up the rocky slopes where machinery once carved stone from the mountainside.
Abe explains it’s part of the parcel of land that they bought for their business, but which they don’t really have a use for at the moment.
No one ever comes up here, except occasionally local kids drinking beer around a campfire.
Which apparently makes it the perfect place to teach me how to shoot people.
The thought sends another nervous flutter through my stomach.
“You alright?” Abe asks quietly beside me as he unloads equipment from the truck bed.
“Sure,” I lie.
He glances over at me with those calm, unreadable eyes of his.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Maria.”
I look away toward the mountains.
“I’m scared.”
“Good.”
That surprises me enough to look back at him.
“Good?”
“Means you understand this ain’t a game.”
He says it matter-of-factly, not unkindly. Just truthfully.
The morning sun is already warm, though the mountain air still carries a little coolness beneath it.
Abe’s wearing jeans and a faded gray t-shirt stretched tight across shoulders broad enough to block out half the world when he steps in front of me.
He carries two hard plastic gun cases as though they weigh nothing.
I carry the paper targets.
Teamwork.
“I thought maybe you’d say something inspirational,” I mutter.
“I just did.”
That actually makes me laugh a little.
We spend the next ten minutes setting things up. Abe places old bottles and cans along a fallen tree trunk near the far rock wall of the quarry, then staples paper silhouette targets onto sheets of plywood propped against the stone.
The silhouettes make my stomach tighten again.
Abe notices.
“We start simple,” he says. “Safety first. Everything else second.”
From one of the cases he removes a handgun.
A Glock.
Black. Squat. Ugly.
Not dramatic like in the movies. Not shiny or elegant. Just purposeful.
He checks it twice before handing it to me grip-first.
It feels surprisingly heavy.
“Finger nowhere near the trigger unless you’re actually firing,” he says immediately.
I jerk my finger away guiltily.
“Sorry.”
“You’re learning.”
His patience somehow makes me more flustered, not less.
I’m hyper-aware of everything suddenly—the warmth of the sun, the smell of pine trees, the distant sound of insects, the size of his hands compared to mine, and the roughness of his fingertips when he adjusts my grip.
“No tea-cupping,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“The grip.”
“Oh.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, as he steps behind me. Well… behind is perhaps not quite the right word. Around me might be more accurate. Abe is so enormous that standing close beside him feels like standing next to a tree trunk that somehow learned to talk.
“Lean forward a little, and widen your stance.”
I do.
“More.”
“I’m trying.”
One huge hand settles lightly against my hip and adjusts my stance a few inches.
“There.”
My pulse does something ridiculous.
Honestly, this is absurd. We’re supposed to be preparing for a rescue mission involving heavily armed mobsters, and instead I’m busy noticing how warm Abe’s hand feels through my jeans.
“Relax your shoulders.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m Italian. We tremble dramatically. It’s cultural.”
To my delight, Abe actually snorts softly at that.
“Alright,” he says. “Aim at the bottle. Nice and easy. Don’t fight the gun.”
“I wasn’t planning on wrestling it.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Good plan.”
I line up the sights the way he showed me.
The world narrows strangely.
Bottle.
Front sight.
Breathing.
The gun goes off with an almighty crack, and I yelp in shock.
I open my eyes, which I somehow seem to have squeezed tight shut without meaning to. The bottle remains entirely unharmed.
Abe calmly reaches over and lowers the gun before I accidentally point it at the moon.
“Well,” he says after a moment. “Good news is you didn’t shoot me.”
“Oh my God!”
“You also didn’t shoot yourself.”
“Abe!”
“That’s two successes already.”
I stare at him.
Then—despite everything—I burst out laughing.
The tension breaks instantly.
Abe smiles too, small and brief and devastatingly attractive on a man who smiles so rarely.
“Again,” he says gently.
And this time when he steps behind me, guiding my arms into position, I relax into the solid warmth of him instead of stiffening nervously. His chest brushes lightly against my shoulder blades as he adjusts my elbows.
“Slow squeeze,” he murmurs near my ear. “Don’t yank.”
The second shot explodes outward.
The bottle jumps clean off the log.
I gasp.
“I hit it!”
“You did.”
“I actually hit it!”
“You did.”
I spin around so fast I nearly collide with him.
“Abe! Did you see that?”
His eyebrows rise slightly.
“No. I closed my eyes and prayed.”
I smack his arm, which is like smacking a refrigerator.
“Ow!”
“Careful,” he says solemnly. “You don’t want to damage your trigger finger.”
“Oh, you are impossible.”
“Probably.”
But he’s smiling again.
And somehow, standing there in the sunshine with empty shell casings glittering on the dusty ground around our feet, I suddenly don’t feel quite so helpless anymore.
It’s lunchtime and yet again, we’re all back together in the kitchen.
“Okay, gang. Kick-off is getting close. Time to tell you the plan.”
“Plan? What plan?” asks Regan. “I thought it was simple. We go there, we rescue Sandro, then we come away. What else is there to plan?”
“That’s why I’m in charge of the thinking, Regan and you’re…”
“I’m what?”
“You know what, Regan?”
“What?”
“I’m really not too sure. Tell you what, when I find out what you are, I’ll let you know. How’s that?”
He gives Regan a savage smile and a playful slap on the cheek, that I am pretty sure Regan would not tolerate from anyone else.
“Right. To business.” He pulls up a map on his laptop.
“Tony’s house is here.” He points to a small red marker pin.
“I’ve searched the area around. There are three entrances to the property.
Two here at the front, one above the other, leading to the first and second floors respectively, and a side rear entrance leading to an alley round the back where trash is collected.
We will be going in through the two front doors simultaneously, at exactly four thirty in the morning.
That time is important. I’ll explain why later. ” He looks up, and we all nod.
“Okay, here’s the floor plan of the property, with as much detail as we can provide.” He passes us each a copy of the detailed floor plan for all six floors that he and I spent much of yesterday making on his architectural software.
“Abe and Maria. You will go in through the first-floor front door, using a small timed charge. You will use flashbangs and smoke grenades to cause noise and confusion, so make sure you’re wearing your helmets with your goggles and night vision.
You will secure the first floor first, neutralizing any opposition as you go. Okay so far?”
Abe nods, and I hastily nod too, doing my best to take everything in, and hoping I can remember it all when the time comes. Hoping I don’t fuck up and embarrass myself, or worse, put Abe’s or Papa’s life in danger.
“Good. When—and only when—the first floor is fully secured, you will proceed down the staircase here to the basement. Get down there as soon as you can and once there, make your way to the electrical fuse box here—he taps a pen down on the location of the fuse box—and disable the fuse. Then proceed with caution through the basement area, neutralizing all opposition as you go. Your main task is to find Sandro. We assume he’s down there, he might be locked up, so take the bolt cutters.
Once you’ve got him, all you have to do is get him up to the top floor, that’s the fifth floor counting from street level, or sixth in total if you include the basement where you will be. Got it?”
“Got it. Is there an elevator?”
“Nope, just stairs. Abe, depending upon what shape the guy’s in and whether or not he’s been drugged, you may have to carry him. But whatever the case, you must bring him up the top floor. That’s essential. Understood?”
“Yes, Grant. Secure first floor, head down to the basement, pop the fuse, grab Sandro and come on up to the fifth floor.”
“Excellent. You got it.”
“What if he’s not there?” I ask.
“Well, Maria, if he’s not there, then one of two things will happen.”
“What are they?”
“Either we find him elsewhere in the house…”
“Yes?”
“Or he ain’t there, and we’ve fucked up.”
“Oh.”
“That’s the chance we’re taking. Remember working out the percentages?”
I nod, remembering how I had been the one who’d been most certain, and suddenly feeling a lot less sure than my bullish “ninety-five percent” of the other night. Still, there’s no going back now. It’s way too late for second thoughts.
“Good. While Abe and Maria are going in at the ground floor, Regan… you and me… we’re going in at the second floor. Again, we’ll set an explosive charge, and we’ll go in with flashbangs and smoke, okay?”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“Good. I’m not expecting much action on the second floor, because this is mostly the living room and kitchen areas.
There’s just one small office, but it’s an important one, because that’s where they monitor their security systems. Might be one guard.
Might be two. We need to get in there as quickly as we can to destroy their camera system and comms system. We also set the jammer going.”
“Right.”
“What’s a jammer?” I ask.
“It’s this.” Regan points to a squat, olive-drab electronic unit about the size of a lunchbox, its casing scratched and dented from years of use.
Two stubby black antennae protrude from the top alongside a folding directional paddle antenna that looked vaguely military.
A thick battery pack clips into the underside, and the side panel carries a row of toggle switches marked CELL, GPS, WIFI, and VHF/UHF in faded white stencil lettering.
There isn’t a brand name anywhere on it.
Just a small serial plate scratched almost smooth with age and handling.
“What does that do?”
“It jams all electrical comms systems within a small radius.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they can’t talk to each other, and they can’t call the cops, either. In fact, no one can… leastways, not within the area it’s jamming.”
“Ah, I see. Very clever. You guys think of everything.”
“We pride ourselves in providing a fully-inclusive service, madam,” he grins and gives me a wink.
“Anyway,” continues Grant. “Once we’re done on the second floor, Regan and I will head upstairs, one floor at a time, searching the rooms and neutralizing any opposition as we go.
The master bedroom is on the third floor, so that’s the floor we’re expecting to catch up with Tony himself.
He’s our main concern, just like Sandro is you two’s main concern.
So effectively, Regan and I’ll be clearing a path for the two of you, Abe and Maria, to follow us up to the top floor, where we’ll all meet up.
Shouldn’t be much happening on that floor, seeing as it’s only the listening room and another room that Maria thinks is unused.
Doubt anyone’ll be listening to Diana Ross at two a.m., so we should be good.
And that’s it. That’s the plan. Got it?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Sure thing, Grant, consider it done.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, puzzled. “That leaves us all at the very top of the building, on the fifth floor, right?”
“Correct.”
“So, forgive me for pointing this out, but how the hell do we get back down again?”
Grant smiles.
“We don’t.”
“What do you mean… ‘we don’t’?”
“I mean, we don’t come back down again. It’ll be far too late.
I estimate we’ll have twenty minutes at best to grab Sandro and be out of that place.
And I say at best… it all depends on police patrols and how soon we get noticed.
We might have less. No way of knowing. It’s bang in the middle of New York, don’t forget. ”
He smiles at this.
“Pretty audacious plan, Boss, think we can get away with it?” Even Regan sounds a little anxious.
“In truth, my friend, I’d put our odds of making it back here in one piece at maybe one in two, at best.”
“We’ll need some luck then,” says Abe, yawning and stretching like he’s discussing the price of gas or something.
“Yeah, reckon we will,” replies Grant. He turns back to me. “You feeling lucky, Maria?”
I smile back, though thinly.
“But I still don’t get it. What happens on the fifth floor once we’re there?”
“Ah... then we will have finished Plan A. We’ll put Plan B into action.”
“And what’s Plan B?”
He just smiles and taps the side of his nose.
“You’ll find out when you need to know.” He glances at the clock. One p.m. “Right, this is it. Grab a sandwich, then let’s get everything stowed and ready. We need to be out of here by two.”
“Why, what’s the rush?” I ask. “The journey’s about what… eight or nine hours?”
“Yeah, but that’s via the interstates. We want to avoid those. The less camera footage the better. We’re taking the scenic route.”