Chapter 66
H E FLOORED IT, as if his boys’ lives depended on it. Probably they did. Maggione was the kind of coward who would kill your family. Then he held the Beretta out the window, looking for one clear shot. This was going to be close. No way to tell the outcome, either. Suspense city!
The hit man was sprinting across the infield, really moving now. Sullivan guessed the guy had been a decent athlete when he’d been younger. Not too long ago, either.
Michael Jr. watched from the dugout steps. The kid was a cool head, but that wasn’t necessarily helpful now. Sullivan screamed at him. “Get down! Michael, down! Right now!”
The hit man knew Sullivan was coming up behind him. Finally, he stopped and turned to make a shot of his own.
Mistake!
Possibly fatal.
His eyes went wide just before the Humvee’s grille caught him in the chest, moving at fifty miles an hour plus. The vehicle didn’t slow down until it had given the hitter a swift ride, then rammed him into the chain link of the backstop.
“You boys all right?” Sullivan yelled, keeping his eyes on the hit man, who wasn’t moving and looked like he’d have to be peeled off the fence.
“We’re okay,” Michael Jr. said, sounding shaky but still in control of his emotions.
Sullivan walked around to look at the punk, what was left of him anyway. The only thing keeping him on his feet was the steel sandwich he was trapped in. His head lolled lazily to one side. He seemed to be looking around through the one eye not totally obscured with blood.
Sullivan went and picked up the remains of the Louisville Slugger from the dirt.
He swung once, twice, again, and again, punctuating each blow with a shout.
“Don’t.
“F*ck.
“With.
“My.
“Family!
“Ever!
“Ever!
“Ever!”
The last swing went wild and missed; Sullivan put a huge crater in his hood. But it helped him remember where he was.
He got in the car and backed up to where his boys were watching like a crowd of zombies at somebody’s funeral. When they climbed inside, none of them spoke, but nobody cried, either.
“It’s okay now,” he told them. “It’s over, boys. I’m going to take care of this. Do you hear me? I promise. I promise you on my dead mother’s eyes!”
And he would keep his word. They had come after him and his family, and the Butcher would come after them.
The mob.
John Maggione.