And just when his men were about to pronounce him superhuman for the way he was handling the boy’s death, just when they were about to add this scene to the Mick Sinatra mystique, Mick angrily grabbed the nightstand next to the bed and threw it full force out of the closed window, crashing the window and decimating the stand.
Everybody were so shocked by his sudden rage that they backed up themselves, afraid they could be next. Leo ran to the window, leaned out, and waved off the guards who weren’t sure what had happened and were already advancing toward the house.
Leo looked at Mick. “You okay, boss?”
“A kid,” Mick said, as if he still couldn’t believe it. “They killed a kid?” Then his voice rose. “What fucker alive is bat shit crazy enough to do something like this? Who did this?”
“One dead motherfucker, that’s who,” one of his men answered.
All of the men froze. Then looked at him. Mick looked too. Only he wasn’t seeing what they were seeing. He wasn’t seeing a man cocky enough to even attempt to appease him. He saw what was bothering him about the scene to begin with. Too methodical. Too staged. Like a show rather than a shooting. And his instincts took over. He lifted his gun and pointed it straight at that cocky man’s head. “Drop the weapon,” he said.
But the man lifted it instead, ready to take Mick out. Mick, however, shot him before he got the chance.
All the other men backed away. They all looked at Mick. Terrified for their own lives. But Mick wasn’t thinking about them. “He’s wired,” he said. “My life I will bet on it.”
Leo, unable to accept that one of his men could be stupid enough to rat on Mick, hurried to the dead man and tore open his shirt. And Mick was right. The guy was wired, not only for sound, but for video too.
“Motherfucker!” Leo yelled, as he ripped it all out.
And just as he did, just as those listening and watching realized the gig was up, they accelerated the game. The sound of gunfire was suddenly heard outside.
Mick looked at Danny. “Stay with Shane and call for men to get my children to safe houses!”
“Yes, sir!” Danny said, as he pulled out his cell phone.
Mick, Leo, and their other men raced downstairs and out of the front door.
But what they saw staggered them.
All of the new guards were already down, all with bullets through the brain, as if this shit had been orchestrated to the last man. And the car that penetrated their defenses, the car that had just moments before gunned-down those guards, was now racing toward the very steps where Mick Sinatra himself, the prize, stood at the top. They raced for a sidelong collision with Carissa and the parked limo. Carissa pressed on the gas and accelerated the limo out of harm’s way, and Mick’s men began firing at the car whose occupants were only just beginning to draw.
But as Mick’s men were in a shootout with the men in the car, Mick drew out his big guns that he kept concealed in his coat. With one gun in either hand he began running fearlessly down the steps, thinking about Shane and the fact that these very men were probably the ones who killed him. He was firing nonstop, as the car raced wildly toward the very steps he was running down. But unlike his men, he was hitting every man he aimed for, including the driver.
When the driver went down, the car lost control and careened into the bottom step in a hard crash. But the acceleration was too great to stop its’ momentum. The car flipped in the air as if it was riding a wave, and crashed back down, belly up, as if a monster truck had just crushed it. If Mick’s shots didn’t completely kill every one of those men inside, the horrific way their automobile landed did.
And Mick stood there, at the top of a mangled empire, looking, not as a man under siege, but as a businessman assessing risk. He was less concerned about what his next move needed to be, and more concerned about his enemy’s next move. Their move would determine his move because it wasn’t clear to him why they would hit Flo. She no longer worked for him. And why would they mistake Shane for his son?
But before he could fully incorporate it, another car drove onto Flo’s estate. Mick and Leo and his surviving men drew their weapons ready to fire again. Until the door opened and Barkley, one of Mick’s men, stumbled out. “They hit Silvio Fontaine,” he yelled, blood on his chest. “And Paul Ricci’s place too!”
“Who fell?” Mick asked him.
Barkley shook his head, as if he was reliving a horrific scene. “Who didn’t?” he asked. “At least twelve of our men went down. I counted at least twelve.”
“It’s willy-nilly, boss,” Leo said to Mick. “It’s like they’re toying with you. Fontaine and Ricci are two of your operatives. They don’t know shit about your current activities. They’re ghostbusters. What the fuck do they have to do with anything? And what would Flo know? She doesn’t even work for you anymore. It’s willy fucking nilly! It’s like they’re trying to toy with you.”
“Or distract me,” Mick said, his eyes still intense, his mind racing in too many different directions.
Leo looked at Mick. “Distract you from what?”
“They’re after something big,” Mick said.
“But what?” Leo asked.