Never Say Die

Chapter 1

“If I’da known about this in advance, I woulda kept my mouth shut,’ said the bookkeeper.

Vinnie Donatello wasn’t buying it. “That’s total bullshit, Ira. Balducci’s people were about to let you take the fall for tax fraud, and you got pissed off. You knew exactly what would happen if you talked.”

“I didn’t know nothing about hiding out in the fuckin’ house where Honest Abe was born,” said Ira Goldblum, staring at the log walls with a pained expression on his doughy face.

Greg Brady laughed at that one, lowering himself into a chair directly opposite the bookkeeper. “Get over it,” he said. “You know how long you’d last back in Detroit.”

“We coulda gone down to Miami,” Goldblum whined. “They got the ponies running now, at Hialeah. We could make a few bucks on the side. I got a system.”

“And Balducci’s people could make you,” Blair Rooney said, returning from the kitchen with a sandwich on a paper plate. “They got a system, too.”

“You guys.” The witness scowled and shook his head. “I’m goin’ nuts up here.”

“Just two more weeks,” Marsh Lockwood told him, staring out the window at the tree line, twenty yards away. “You lose your mind, we’ll fly a shrink in from Milwaukee.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Goldblum said. “Nice little blond shrink, maybe. Watcha think?”

“I think you’re dreaming, Ira.”

“That’s the problem, pal. I need a dream girl, help me get to sleep at night. This back-to-nature shit is killing me.”

The safehouse was a one-time hunting lodge, upstate Wisconsin, east of Long Lake, in the Nicolet National Forest. It stood at the dead end of an unpaved logging track, five miles back from the nearest two-lane highway, in a clearing cut by hand from tamarack, dogwood, white oak, red maple, elm and sassafras. The single-story layout featured three bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, living room and bathroom, with detached two-car garage out back. The place was new to Lockwood and his team, but they had run the drill in other hideouts.

It would do.

They made an odd team, at a glance. Blair Rooney was a slender, red-haired Irishman. Greg Brady was a giant carved from ebony at six foot eight, the blackest great-great-grandson of the Congo you could ever want to meet. Vince Donatello was a stocky, olive-skinned Italian, constantly on edge about his weight. Marsh Lockwood was the senior member of their team, with sixteen years in service as a U.S. marshal. He was native white-bread all the way. Their mark had taken one look at the four of them and labeled them the Rainbow Coalition, after Jesse Jackson’s late, lamented pressure group.

The mark was Ira Goldblum, forty-something, balding with a body like a roly-poly punching bag; Armani suits helped cover some of it, but Goldblum was nobody’s dreamboat. Ira had been the chief accountant for Local 137 of the National Waste Handlers’ Union, in Detroit. The union represented garbagemen, and it was run by one Leonardo James Balducci, second-generation Mafia, with prior convictions that included statutory rape, assault with deadly weapons and attempted murder. Those had all been youthful indiscretions, though, and Leo B. had skated through the past two decades of his life without so much as an indictment or a traffic ticket

Until now.

Their pigeon had been cooking Leo’s books for eight years when the roof fell in. Local 137 was serving as a laundry for Balducci’s secret income, which included weekly takes from prostitution, drugs, extortion, usury and an expanding line of child pornography he brokered out of Scandinavia. When one of Goldblum’s flunkies was arrested with a teenage hooker of the male persuasion, he began to sing like Whitney Houston, spilling everything he knew about the union operation, plus a few things he dreamed up, for good measure. Enough of it proved true to put the squeeze on Ira, and it soon became apparent that Balducci was content to let his chubby Jewish accountant take the fall.

Which brought them to the former hunting lodge, where Ira would be chilling out until a federal grand jury opened hearings in Detroit in two weeks’ time. He had already given statements running upward of two hundred pages, with supporting documents and copies of the “special” books he kept for Leo B. but justice runs on certain tracks and has to stop at every station on the route, or else it gets derailed. Once the grand jury handed down a list of federal indictments—which was guaranteed—then Leo B.’s attorneys would begin constructing paper roadblocks, putting off the trial as long as possible, while Leo’s shooters beat the bushes for a certain book-keeper and tried to shut him up for good. It could take months, or even years, Marsh Lockwood realized, and while the lodge wasn’t intended as a long-term hideout, it would serve well enough, while Ira waited for his first appearance on the witness stand.

But Goldblum had a point: the place was boring. They had television, with a VCR hooked up, but no one on the team had thought of bringing any videocassettes along. Lockwood started working on a mental list of titles, thinking he could phone it to Milwaukee and have a runner from the service bring some tapes out. And some deli food, to keep their pigeon quiet for a while.

“I’m going to the can,” he said to no one in particular.

“Hey, thanks for sharing,” Ira cracked. “At least the joint’s got indoor plumbing, huh?”

“All the conveniences of home,” Lockwood replied. He turned from the window, leaving Goldblum to amuse the others with his wit.

“Hope everything comes out all right,” the pigeon told him, chuckling to himself. “Comes out all right! Ya get it?”

“That’s one thing about you, Ira,” Brady told him. “You’re a card.”

“You, too, big guy.” The bookkeeper was grinning ear to ear. “I figure you must be the ace of spades.”

The cleaner worked his way in from the north, no trail to guide him, but he had his compass and a hand-drawn map. He didn’t know who drew the map, and didn’t care, as long as it was accurate in all particulars.

The muddy access road off Highway 55 had been exactly where the map said it should be. Six miles due east, and he had left the stolen Chevy Blazer sitting in a turnout, with a set of new plates—also stolen—to confuse the police if any happened by.

The cleaner traveled light. He had a two-mile hike in front of him and was dressed for it, in denim jeans and jacket, with a black T-shirt beneath, and Doc Marten boots. No backpack, but he had a plastic Kroger shopping bag. Inside the bag, a matching set of Colt 191 A-l semiautomatic pistols, each with an extended magazine accommodating twenty rounds. Four extra mags, in case the job took more than he expected from a simple hit.

Besides the rat, he was expecting several Feds. They wouldn’t send an army to protect a piece of shit like Ira Goldblum, but they wouldn’t leave him open, either, knowing that the Family was out for blood. Three-agents minimum, he guessed, but no more than six. It was a high estimate, and he had enough hardware on hand to. waste them fourteen times apiece.

The afternoon was cool, and that was fine. He didn’t much like sweating, especially when the perspiration dribbled in his eyes and spoiled his aim. The ideal temperature for killing someone in the great outdoors was anywhere from sixty-five to seventy degrees. Above that, he would rather visit them at home and work where there was air-conditioning.

The safehouse wasn’t bad, all things considered. It could easily have been some corporate jerk-off’s weekend hideaway, someplace to bring the girlfriend while his wife thought he was out of town on business. Lay a little pipe and go home with the batteries recharged. Instead, the government had used taxpayers’ money to acquire the property and use it as a roost for stool pigeons.

He circled once around the safehouse, staying well back in the trees and watching out for any movement of the curtains that would indicate a watch on the perimeter. Their vehicles must be in the garage, he thought. A passerby might think the place was vacant, perfect for a little B&E, unless guided to the spot by someone in the know.

The lodge had one door, in the front, with windows on three sides. Around in back, the blind side, storm doors opened on a cellar that would almost certainly grant access to the ground floor via stairs or a ladder. It was worth a try, and for sure a damn sight better than a stroll up to the porch. If he was forced to go in through the door or windows, he would have to wait for nightfall, six or seven hours yet.

He knelt behind a massive oak and took the pistols from the shopping bag, cocked each in turn, made sure they both had live rounds in the firing chamber. Then he tucked the extra magazines inside his waistband, the metal cool against his flesh. He left the bag where it was, to rot or blow away.

From the garage, he had to cross roughly twenty yards of open ground. No facing windows, but you could never tell when someone would come out to check the grounds, fetch something from the cars. He kept both pistols pointed at the lodge until he reached the storm doors, knelt before them. Only then did he reluctantly put down his weapons, setting one on either side of him, and take the lock picks from a pocket of his jeans.

The padlock was a good one, but he knew his business. Forty seconds saw it open, and he set it on the ground beside one of the .45s Took time to check the hinges on the storm doors, ensure they wouldn’t scream out in the quiet of the woods and give his act away. A flight of wooden steps led downward, into darkness, and he took the pistols with him, one tucked in his belt as he reached back to close the hatch.

It was pitch dark in the cellar, and he took a moment while his vision adjusted. Once he got used to it, thin shafts of light were visible between the storm doors, coming through the floor above his head in spots where there was no rug over wooden planking. He could see enough to find a. second set of stairs, directly opposite, and navigate around some boxes stacked up in the middle of the floor.

The trapdoor opened in a narrow closet, with canned goods on the shelves behind him. Someone’s notion of a nifty little secret, but they hadn’t thought to bolt the latch shut the last time someone used it.

Once he had the trapdoor shut, the cleaner stood and listened to the house. A muffled sound of voices came from somewhere to his left, in the direction of what he supposed was the living room. He couldn’t say how many voices—two or three, at least—but he wasn’t intimidated by the numbers.

Feds were nothing special. When you shot them, they fell down like anybody else.

He held one pistol ready as he found the inner doorknob, cracked the door an inch or so and peered out through the slit. No one to challenge him that he could see. The next few seconds would be critical, because he was on the move, he had no fear of coming off as second best.

The cleaner stepped out of his closet, guns in hand, ready to crash the party.

One surprise for Ira Goldblum and his escorts, coming up.

The bathroom furnishings were sparse but adequate. Someone had left a well-thumbed Playboy magazine behind, and Lockwood started going through it, killing time with Miss July. He was in no great hurry to rejoin the others, listen to another round of Ira’s bullshit whining. Goldblum had been well versed in the risks and the requirements of the Federal Witness Program when he started talking to the FBI, and he could bitch from now till Doomsday without changing anything. As long as the Balduccis had an open contract on his head—in other words, as long as Goldblum lived—he would be running for his life, employing false identities and looking twice at every new acquaintance.

Either that or he would wind up in a sanitary landfill somewhere, maybe join the missing-persons list with Jimmy Hoffa and the rest of gangland’s greatest hits.

In human terms, Marsh Lockwood didn’t care what happened to the Mob accountant, once he did his part to ring the curtain down on Leo B. Conviction on a shopping list of RICO charges would eliminate Balducci as a force to reckon with inside the Mob, strike one more target off the federal hit list.

When Leo B. was safely locked away, then Ira Goldblum could be shuffled off to Phoenix, San Francisco, Newark—anywhere the Feds decided he would stand at least an even chance of living out his days. What happened after that was largely up to Ira—and considering his mouth, Lockwood thought he would be lucky to survive six months. without a full-time bodyguard.

Tough luck.

The Playmate of the Month was honey blond and well endowed, fond of skiing, skydiving and “watersports.” Her hot-tub layout made Lockwood feel a bit on the athletic side himself.

He had the gatefold open on his knees, examining a choice tattoo, when thunder rocked the lodge. The sound of small-arms fire vaulted Lockwood off the toilet, spilling Miss July at his feet. She held her enigmatic smile as he yanked up his trousers, grappled with the belt one-handed, reaching for his Smith & Wesson automatic on the run.

Two hours in the fucking safehouse, and it had already blown up in his face. The best that he could do was try and save it now.

And maybe, in the process, save himself.

The cleaner went in shooting, his eyes skimming over the four men spread around the living room, three with weapons showing. On his right was a massive black man, first gaping at the unexpected new arrival, then exploding from his chair. The cleaner shot him in the face, one hollowpoint enough to blow his head apart as if it were a melon stuffed, with fireworks.

That left three alive, but only two who counted at the moment. Over on his left, a skinny redhead; and a guinea had been setting up a card game by the window, but they had to react in a hurry, reaching for their guns and cursing as the cleaner swung around to bring them under fire.

He gave them two rounds each. The redhead vaulted over backward, crimson spouting from his chest. His shoulders slammed against the wall and left a dark smear as he slithered to the floor.

His partner had some moves, despite his chunky build. Some kind of fast-draw artist with his stainless-steel Smith & Wesson, pulling from a high-ride pancake holster on his hip and squeezing off two rounds in rapid fire.

The cleaner heard them whisper past his face and smiled as he returned fire, nailing down the guinea with a one-two in the bull’s-eye, opening his chest.

That left the rat.

He made a sorry spectacle, crouched down behind the sofa, crying and pleading for his life. What wasted effort. Any real man would have shrugged it off or made a last-ditch rash to grab the cleaner’s gun, but this one was a pussy.

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t wanna do this!” he blubbered. “They made me, don’t you see that? I can take it all back, change my statement—anything!”

“Too late,” the cleaner told him, stepping close enough to give the pussy one more chance. An easy grab from where he stood, one of his pistols almost touching Goldblum’s forehead.

“Please!”

He didn’t have to aim at that range, and he shot the whining bastard twice, to shut him up. Once more to grow on, as his body tumbled over backward, just because the cleaner hated cowards.

Done.

It had been all of sixty seconds since he stepped out of the closet, and he had twelve thousand dollars in the bag. How much was that per second?

Not too shabby.

He was turning toward the front door when a furtive scuffling sound behind him made him swivel, the twin Colts rising to confront another threat.

Marsh Lockwood smelled the blood and cordite as he burst into the living room. He saw the stranger, guns in hand. He swung around to face Lockwood, firing as he came, and the reports of two big .45s were deafening.

Lockwood hit the floor, returning fire, the Smith & Wesson autoloader bucking in his hand. He had twelve rounds, couldn’t afford to waste a single one of them if he was going to survive.

His first shot hit the stranger’s thigh, an inch or so above his right knee, rocking him. The second was a miss, lost somewhere between the target’s legs, but number three ripped through his groin and forced a gasp of startled pain. The bastard kept on firing, though, unloading with the .45s like there was no tomorrow.

And there wouldn’t be, Lockwood realized, for one or both of them.

His fourth and fifth rounds qualified as belly shots. The hit man staggered, his bad leg folding under him. The .45s were way off target as he went down, both blasting at the vaulted ceiling. Lockwood squeezed off three more shots and saw two of them hit, one in file chest, one underneath the chin, before his adversary sprawled out on the floor near Ira Goldblum’s headless corpse.

Lockwood kept the fallen shooter covered as he scrambled to his feet. The guy was dead, but Lockwood took time to disarm him, scooping up each .45 in turn and pitching it across the room.

That done, he made the rounds confirming what he knew already from the silence of the charnelhouse. His friends were dead, clean hits in every instance, and Ira Goldblum’s case had clearly been awarded to a higher jurisdiction than the federal courts.

Clean sweep. The bastards got it all, and only lost a shooter in the process.

Lockwood searched the dead man’s body, turning out his pockets, coming up with lock picks and some lint. The real pros didn’t carry ID on a hit, and this guy clearly knew his stuff, right up until the last.

“You should have checked the bathroom, asshole,” Lockwood told the corpse.

It was the same mistake they made with Dutch Schultz at the Palace Chop House, back in ’35. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Next step was to get somebody on the horn, report this mess and pass it on to other hands. Two problems there: the lodge wasn’t equipped with telephones, and while they had three walkie-talkies, to be used for walking circuits of the grounds, the radios wouldn’t reach back to Long Lake, much less to the federal building in Milwaukee.

He swore.

It meant that he would have to drive the eleven miles back into town and use a public telephone to call the cavalry. No choice, but it was still embarrassing. He hated leaving three dead agents in the slaughterhouse while he went off to spread the word of abject failure, but he saw no other way to go. Besides, his friends weren’t going anywhere.

They would be safe enough while he was gone, and he would scout the property before he left, make sure the shooter was alone.

He hoped the hit man hadn’t touched their cars. Eleven miles was one thing driving, but a hike that long would take him three, four hours, easily.

The cars would be all right, Lockwood finally decided. This guy hadn’t planned on anybody slipping past him, getting out alive, and.he’d seen no need for crippling their transportation.

Before he left the lodge, Marsh went around and picked up all the guns—five in addition to his own—and put them in a garbage bag he found beneath the kitchen sink. With his luck, he thought, some psycho hermit would come snooping while he was gone and grab the pieces, start some kind of rampage using service-issue weapons. He would take the pistols with him, just in case.

It was a small precaution, far too little and too late, but Lockwood’s options at the moment were distinctly limited. They would want scapegoats back in Washington, and Lockwood was the sole survivor of a first-rate, triple-A snafu. Not only that, but he had been in charge, responsible for the security arrangements once the safehouse was selected and approved by someone higher up.

My ass is grass, he thought, despondent as he walked toward the garage.

And he could hear the mowers revving up already, getting closer all the time.