Read Online Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) by Dani Amore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dani Amore
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that, sir,” she said, but he had already slammed the door shut.
“Screw you, too,” she said.
16.
She drove the Buick because she couldn’t stand the way the others drove. Amanda was a fast, aggressive driver, ignoring the first rule of driver’s safety: never let your emotions affect your driving.
In the front passenger seat was Rupert, who continually leaned his head back as Amanda yelled at traffic on his side of the car, as they usually sped by. Her hot breath licked his face as she screamed obscenities out the window.
Macaleer and Daniels sat in the back seat, quiet as church mice.
“My grandmother died ten years ago,” Amanda said. “The day of the funeral, on the way to the cemetery, we drove about five miles an hour. At the time I thought it was wonderfully appropriate seeing as how that’s how fast Grandma Dorothy drove when she was alive.”
The three junior agents were intently studying traffic. Trying not to bring the brunt of Rierdon’s anger upon them. “I just don’t get it,” she said. “How stupid do you have to be to still not understand the difference between the slow lane and the fast lane? How many stand-up comedians have worn out that whole line of comedy? For years! Jesus Christ!
Vincenzo Romano is getting away with God knows what while I’m sitting out here on I-275 with a bunch of motherfucking assholes who shouldn’t even be allowed to get behind the wheel. They’re not qualified to drive the fucking zamboni at a Red Wings game.”
Amanda Rierdon looked at the line of cars in front of her. They represented a very small portion of the obstacles that were placed before her every day. It was just like the Bureau. You had the incompetent and the written-offs in the slow lane, mixed in with the young and inexperienced. In the center lane, you had the up-and-comers who still had a ways to go, and you had the has-beens who were on their way down.
And then you had the fast lane. Where the superstars traveled, disobeying ordinary rules and regulations, comrades on the way to the top.
Amanda’s lane.
“How did we track him down?” Rupert asked. He asked tentatively. Amanda hated reticence in a man. It was so weak.
“Excuse me,” Amanda said. “Did you say ‘we’?”
Rupert’s retort was to turn and look out the window.
A car cut in front of them. Amanda blasted the horn then swerved around him and blasted the horn again.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Amanda said, putting her hand back on the steering wheel. “He’s at the Prescott, as you all know. Some uniforms are meeting us there, strictly as backup. You’ve all had a chance to go over the logistics, the layout of the rooms and hallways. We go in hard, we go in fast. Macaleer, I want you covering the back. Daniels, you watch the front. Rupert and I will take him in his room.”
Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes, nearly rear-ending the car in front of them.
Amanda looked at the digital clock on the dashboard, then at Macaleer. “That is, if we can get to Ann Arbor before Abrocci retires to goddamn Florida.”
17.
Vincenzo Romano stood stark naked in the middle of his bathroom. The bright light made his skin look even more gray and unhealthy. He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d seen plenty of dead guys in his lifetime, and right now, he felt like he was seeing another one.
He looked down. His thick, gnarled feet stood in stark contrast to the white marble tile. His toes were gray, the hair thick and black. He could barely see them because his gut stuck out and blocked his view. His entire body was round and curvy, thick with fat and lasagna, pesto and wine, biscotti and espresso. Romano looked back up at the mirror. He had never felt so fat, so old, so ugly.
He tore his eyes away from his own body and looked around the room. It was a huge master bath with a whirlpool, two pedestal sinks and a toilet with a bidet. The walls were wallpapered with a Renaissance theme.
Right now, the
“Screw you, too,” she said.
16.
She drove the Buick because she couldn’t stand the way the others drove. Amanda was a fast, aggressive driver, ignoring the first rule of driver’s safety: never let your emotions affect your driving.
In the front passenger seat was Rupert, who continually leaned his head back as Amanda yelled at traffic on his side of the car, as they usually sped by. Her hot breath licked his face as she screamed obscenities out the window.
Macaleer and Daniels sat in the back seat, quiet as church mice.
“My grandmother died ten years ago,” Amanda said. “The day of the funeral, on the way to the cemetery, we drove about five miles an hour. At the time I thought it was wonderfully appropriate seeing as how that’s how fast Grandma Dorothy drove when she was alive.”
The three junior agents were intently studying traffic. Trying not to bring the brunt of Rierdon’s anger upon them. “I just don’t get it,” she said. “How stupid do you have to be to still not understand the difference between the slow lane and the fast lane? How many stand-up comedians have worn out that whole line of comedy? For years! Jesus Christ!
Vincenzo Romano is getting away with God knows what while I’m sitting out here on I-275 with a bunch of motherfucking assholes who shouldn’t even be allowed to get behind the wheel. They’re not qualified to drive the fucking zamboni at a Red Wings game.”
Amanda Rierdon looked at the line of cars in front of her. They represented a very small portion of the obstacles that were placed before her every day. It was just like the Bureau. You had the incompetent and the written-offs in the slow lane, mixed in with the young and inexperienced. In the center lane, you had the up-and-comers who still had a ways to go, and you had the has-beens who were on their way down.
And then you had the fast lane. Where the superstars traveled, disobeying ordinary rules and regulations, comrades on the way to the top.
Amanda’s lane.
“How did we track him down?” Rupert asked. He asked tentatively. Amanda hated reticence in a man. It was so weak.
“Excuse me,” Amanda said. “Did you say ‘we’?”
Rupert’s retort was to turn and look out the window.
A car cut in front of them. Amanda blasted the horn then swerved around him and blasted the horn again.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Amanda said, putting her hand back on the steering wheel. “He’s at the Prescott, as you all know. Some uniforms are meeting us there, strictly as backup. You’ve all had a chance to go over the logistics, the layout of the rooms and hallways. We go in hard, we go in fast. Macaleer, I want you covering the back. Daniels, you watch the front. Rupert and I will take him in his room.”
Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes, nearly rear-ending the car in front of them.
Amanda looked at the digital clock on the dashboard, then at Macaleer. “That is, if we can get to Ann Arbor before Abrocci retires to goddamn Florida.”
17.
Vincenzo Romano stood stark naked in the middle of his bathroom. The bright light made his skin look even more gray and unhealthy. He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d seen plenty of dead guys in his lifetime, and right now, he felt like he was seeing another one.
He looked down. His thick, gnarled feet stood in stark contrast to the white marble tile. His toes were gray, the hair thick and black. He could barely see them because his gut stuck out and blocked his view. His entire body was round and curvy, thick with fat and lasagna, pesto and wine, biscotti and espresso. Romano looked back up at the mirror. He had never felt so fat, so old, so ugly.
He tore his eyes away from his own body and looked around the room. It was a huge master bath with a whirlpool, two pedestal sinks and a toilet with a bidet. The walls were wallpapered with a Renaissance theme.
Right now, the
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