By some sixth sense, or maybe just because I’d stopped dead and he was tuned in to my soft footsteps, Angelo slipped up next to me.
I pointed, but he’d already seen.
We each surveyed the area, but it would have been difficult to spot anyone in the subtle shadows down here among the shipping containers. Angelo must have decided the risk was acceptable, because he gave a few hand gestures that told me to come in beside him and cover him as he opened the door.
I followed in his wake as we crept up to our target container; the blood on the ground was still drying and I could smell heavy iron in the air the closer we got to the door. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might explode, but my hands were steady and my senses heightened. When Angelo looked at me to see if I was ready, I gave him one firm nod.
I’ve got you.
He creaked open the door and we both waited.
From inside came a panicked whimper and a strange shuddering, rasping noise. I slid my phone an inch past my side of the door and turned on the flashlight for Angelo to get a look inside, but he paused so long that it was as if he’d turned to stone.
One second later, the full stench hit me. Blood. Blood and shit and something acrid above it all that I’d smelled on myself the night Angelo had been shot: the funk of terror-sweat, which has its own unforgettable odor.
Angelo advanced into the container, stepping to one side to avoid something on the floor. I followed cautiously, but it turned out there was no real reason to be so cautious, not physically. Still, I could tell from Angelo’s stiffness, from his hesitation, that whatever was in there was going to haunt me.
As my phone flashlight lit up the interior of the shipping box, I did exactly what Angelo had done: stopped and stared. I tried to make sense of the gruesome scene, but found it impossible. So much blood, everywhere, and so many bodies curling up on the floor in a strange ring around one live man, gagged and bound, on a metal chair.
Every dream I’d ever had about my family’s death came crashing into the waking world. Nauseated, my head spinning, I pulled my shirt up over my nose and mouth to try to block out the smell, and focused on Angelo. He was my only concern; I was his cover and no matter what, I would cover him.
He had already holstered his gun and was moving toward the man in the middle of all that carnage: Donnie Greco, shaking so hard that the front chair legs were clattering against the metal floor, making that odd scraping noise that I’d heard outside. I wondered for a moment why the man hadn’t just stood up and hobbled out of the container on his own, but then I saw the reason. The back legs of the chair were bolted to the floor.
Whimpers were still escaping him as we got closer, and he squinted away from the light of my phone. But when he saw Angelo’s face, his eyes went wide and the noise changed.
He wasrelieved.
He tried to say something, but Angelo ignored him. “Let’s go,” he said to me, already cutting through the bonds that held Greco in place.
Greco couldn’t walk. We had to support him between us, stumbling, the smell coming off him making me retch as we hurried back to the car, to Jack. He jumped out of the car when he saw us coming and ran around to open the back door. “What the fuck?” he muttered, recoiling when we reached the car and the reek coming off Greco hit him.
We threw Greco into the backseat and he curled up against the window in some horrible parody of childhood. He was a big man, and his reputation as a longtime Clemenza Enforcer had been violent, cruel and vicious. He was in a fetal position, arms wrapped around himself, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open.
I moved away from the car, breathing in the warm night air gratefully, trying to clear out my nose and throat, and leaned over with my hands on my thighs, trying to think about anything except what I’d just seen.
Angelo grabbed Jack’s hat off his head and held it out to me. “In there, if you’re going to,” he said softly.
“Did you just tell him topukein myhat?” Jack stepped forward as though to take it back. Angelo seized him by the arm and kept him away.
I took a few more deep breaths. My vision cleared, and while my heartbeat was still loud in my ears, it was slowing. “I’m okay,” I said, handing Jack’s hat back to him.
He snatched it from me and then turned on Angelo “What the fuck is thatsmell? What the hell happened—”
Angelo held up a hand as there was a noise nearby, voices calling to each other. We all strained our ears and eyes for a few seconds. But it was just the dock workers wandering around. “Get in the car,” Angelo said.
Jack had left the engine running as ordered. Angelo pushed me into the front seat this time, for which I was immeasurably grateful, and we all rolled down our windows. I could hear Angelo in the back seat questioning Greco in a quiet voice, but I couldn’t listen, not then.
I was too busy struggling with my own horror.
Chapter Twelve
We took Greco back to our motel room. It seemed inconsequential by then that Jack would see where we were staying. Besides, once he got over his surprise and anger, he was mostly confused. “But whowerethey?” he kept asking as we waited for Greco to finish his very long shower. “Bernardis?”
Angelo made coffee in his French press, and the heavy scent of it helped to wipe away the remaining stench that clung to my nostrils. We’d already trashed Greco’s clothes and I’d picked out some of mine for him to wear, since we were more similar in build than Angelo and he were, and most of my clothes were casual instead of the tailored suits Angelo favored. Unfortunately for Greco, the only hoodie I was happy to part with was my old FBI training sweater. It was testament to Greco’s state of mind that he didn’t even blink at it.
“You didn’t get pictures?” Jack asked, dumping sugar into the strong black coffee Angelo had poured out for him.
“No, I didn’t fucking getpictures,” I snapped, losing my patience. “And even if I had, you wouldn’t want to see them, Jacopo. Trust me on that.”
