The Grillo War

By Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

Warren’s head bounced off the pillow when he heard the board squeak, for he knew that squeak well. It was on the fifth step leading upstairs to his bedroom from the front hallway. Since he had no pets, he instinctively knew that it must be a human coming up those stairs. And there was only one reason for someone to be coming up his stairs at this time of night.

He eased his hand down between his mattress and the wall and latched onto a .45 automatic as he flipped off the covers and rose out of bed. He took a moment to slip both pillows under the blankets to make it look like he was still sleeping there, then glided over and put his back into the corner on the far side of the bedroom, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The bedroom door was already ajar and he watched as it slowly and silently opened a little farther. Warren could see three dim human shapes out in the hall in the
reflection of the mirror on his dresser beside the bed. They, he knew, could not see him in the corner where he was hiding because of the utter darkness inside the room.

One of the men stepped over the threshold, but remained behind the door from Warren’s perspective, and began firing a silenced revolver into the mass under the blankets. The other two followed suit. Bullets passed through the covers, pillows, mattress and box spring, and thudded into the floor.

Warren knew it was only a matter of moments before they realized that he wasn’t in his bed. He judged the distance, moved out into the center of the room and fired his gun through the door. The blast sounded like a thunderclap in the small room. The bullet hit the first man in the neck, nearly severing his head, and he dropped like a sack of wet corn

The other two men stopped firing and cringed.
Warren didn’t chance shooting through the wall because he didn’t know where the studs were or the wiring was that could deflect his shot, so he slowly moved a little more to his left and closer to the dresser.

Not knowing the layout of the room, the second man saw Warren’s shape in the mirror and fired, shattering the glass which tinkled to the floor.
Warren fired through the door three times in rapid succession, putting the bullets eight inches to the right each time. The third round took the second man in the chest and he fell backwards with a grunt.

Then Warren raced over to his right and crouched beside the wall as the third man fired five quick shots through the door, the last of which broke the door into two pieces lengthwise, and half of it slapped onto the floor.

Warren stayed crouched knowing he could either shoot the third man if came into the room, or hear him if he turned and ran.

He turned and ran. Warren heard his footsteps thump the length of the hall and start down the front stairs.

Warren jumped to his feet, raced out of the room but, instead of following the man down the front stairs, he took a left and raced down the back stairs by the kitchen. When he arrived on the first floor, he looked around the corner into the living room and saw the third man running for the front door on the far side of the apartment. Warren stepped out and fired. The bullet nailed the third man square in the back and it threw him against the front door with a thud. He slithered onto the rug with a flop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald
• Release date: Oct 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982951217

Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

Mr. Fitzgerald lives south of Columbus, Ohio, and is hard at work on his next book.

Book preview

216

THE GRILLO WAR

by Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

* * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * *

THE GRILLO WAR

About 81,000 Words

Copyright © 2018, Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE GRILLO WAR

CHAPTER ONE

Warren’s head bounced off the pillow when he heard the board squeak, for he knew that squeak well. It was on the fifth step leading upstairs to his bedroom from the front hallway. Since he had no pets, he instinctively knew that it must be a human coming up those stairs. And there was only one reason for someone to be coming up his stairs at this time of night.

He eased his hand down between his mattress and the wall and latched onto a Glock pistol as he flipped off the covers and rose out of bed. He took a moment to slip both pillows under the blankets to make it look like he was still sleeping there, then glided over and put his back into the corner on the far side of the bedroom, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The bedroom door was already ajar and he watched as it slowly and silently opened a little farther. Warren could see three dim human shapes out in the hall in the reflection of the mirror on his dresser beside the bed. They, he knew, could not see him in the corner where he was hiding because of the utter darkness inside the room.

One of the men stepped over the threshold, but remained behind the door from Warren’s perspective, and began firing a silenced revolver into the mass under the blankets. The other two followed suit. Bullets passed through the covers, pillows, mattress and box spring, and thudded into the floor.

Warren knew it was only a matter of moments before they realized that he wasn’t in his bed. He judged the distance, moved out into the center of the room and fired his gun through the door. The blast sounded like a thunderclap in the small room. The bullet hit the first man in the neck, nearly severing his head, and he dropped like a sack of wet corn

The other two men stopped firing and cringed.

Warren didn’t chance shooting through the wall because he didn’t know where the studs were or the wiring that could deflect his shot, so he slowly moved a little more to his left and closer to the dresser.

Not knowing the layout of the room, the second man saw Warren’s shape in the mirror and fired, shattering the glass which tinkled to the floor.

Warren fired through the door three times in rapid succession, putting the bullets eight inches to the right each time. The third round took the second man in the chest and he fell backwards with a grunt.

Then Warren raced over to his right and crouched beside the wall as the third man fired five quick shots through the door, the last of which broke the door into two pieces lengthwise, and half of it slapped onto the floor.

Warren stayed crouched knowing he could either shoot the third man if came into the room, or hear him if he turned and ran.

He turned and ran. Warren heard his footsteps thump the length of the hall and start down the front stairs.

Warren jumped to his feet, raced out of the room but, instead of following the man down the front stairs, he took a left and raced down the back stairs by the kitchen. When he arrived on the first floor, he looked around the corner into the living room and saw the third man running for the front door on the far side of the apartment. Warren stepped out and fired. The bullet nailed the third man square in the back and it threw him against the front door with a thud. He slithered onto the rug with a flop.

Warren considered sneaking outside to see if these men had any backup, or if a car was ready to whisk them away when they had finished with him, but decided against that. This was obviously a professional hit. And professionals knew that hits can go wrong, planned for that possibility and left a man or three outside in case the target survived and was unwise enough to try to leave the scene for whatever reason.

He decided to play it safe and let the local cops check for backup.

Instead, he called the nearest headquarters of the Virginia State Highway Patrol to report the crime since he lived just across the river from D.C. in an incorporated area. Then he dialed his boss’ office, knowing that chances were good that Gerry was there, as he always seemed to be.

He was.

Johnny Savini was sitting behind the wheel of a powder blue Cadillac Seville with the driver’s window halfway down sipping tepid coffee. He was parked across the street and two doors down from Inspector Warren’s apartment. Across his lap lay a Remington Model 7400 30-06 carbine with an infra-red scope and a nine inch silencer.

It was cold as a witch’s third tit at this time of the morning, but Savini didn’t mind. His pride was keeping him warm. He felt proud because the big boss had personally given him this commission, and that was the first time the big boss had ever spoken directly to him in the twelve years Savini had worked for him. That meant the big boss was watching the progress of this commission personally and its success would only bring him closer into the big boss’ trusted inner circle, and that would mean fame and money and dames galore.

Savini had a weakness for fame and money, and he had a particular fondness for the dames. So he had assigned his best boys to carry out the big boss’ wishes and they had never failed him yet.

He glanced up at Warren’s front door again, as he constantly had over the last thirty minutes. It shouldn’t be too long now, he thought. Two bullets in the brain and that Warren the Marshal nuisance would be history, and the fame and the money and the dames would be rolling his way.

Oh, how Savini loved the dames.

He checked the rear view and both side mirrors, then glanced up at the front door again—for some reason it was painted dark red—expecting his boys to be coming out any second.

What was taking them so long? Yeah, they had to be stealthy, but this was taking all night. He took another sip of coffee and thought it had gone too cold to drink, when heard the shot.

Shot?

There should be no shot!

He knew something had gone very wrong.

After a short pause, he heard three more shots in rapid succession. There was a long pause then he heard another shot and had the sinking feeling that his boys may have botched this commission, and that Warren the Marshal might have survived. And if Warren the Marshal survived this night, the big boss was going to be pissed. Which meant that he could forget the fame and the money and the dames now. He just hoped he could get out of this mess with his head still on his shoulders.

Unless . . ..

He shouldered the Remington, looked through the scope and aimed it at Warren’s front door, then panned it across every visible window, hoping the sum bitch would show just one hair on his ass. He briefly considered going in there and finishing the job himself, but decided not to. If his boys couldn’t sneak up on and kill a sleeping marshal, what chance did he have of breaking in and getting him if he was wide awake and mad as hell.

None.

And the coppers were surely on their way now.

But he couldn’t just abandon this commission . . .

. . . Or was it time to pull the plug? There was always a time to abandon a commission when things go wrong, he knew, but he had never been in this situation before. Every hit he had ever supervised had gone off like clockwork.

He heard sirens in the distance, getting louder, and made up his mind to—

No! He was not ready to leave his men, not yet, not while there was still a chance that one or more of them might make it out. He would wait another minute or two.

The sirens got louder over the next two minutes until they were within a mile, so Savini cranked up the Caddy and drove slowly down the street and took a left. By the time he rounded the block and cruised down Warren the Marshal’s street and past his apartment again, three State Trooper cars were parked in front of Warren’s place, with six coppers racing up the steps and inside the front door.

Savini cruised past Warren’s apartment muttering, There will be a next time, my sweet boy. You just wait.

A dozen State Troopers and two complete forensic teams were stomping all over Warren’s apartment when Gerald O’Malley stepped over the corpse at the front door and walked in.

O’Malley was Chief of Covert Operations, U.S. Marshals, Justice Department, and the wisest and most caring man Warren had ever known, and the best boss a marshal could possibly have. The two men had formed a tight, personal bond through the years and O’Malley thought of Warren as the son he never had, and Warren thought of O’Malley as the father he never had.

O’Malley was six foot five with a sizable paunch; his hair had gone totally silver over the past few years. He never trimmed the hair that grew liberally from his nostrils and ears.

Joe Ballard followed closely behind O’Malley. Ballard was a short, feisty fellow who was solid muscle and strong as an ox, particularly for his size, and an extremely dangerous fellow. He was ex-Marine and damn proud of it, complete with a bulldog tattoo on his right forearm. 

In his wake came Stevens, Carr, Melvin and Durant, who comprised Ballard’s team. Warren had only worked with Ballard and his men twice in the past and didn’t know the other four men’s first names. They were muscle: well-armed, well-trained, and good men to have in a pinch.

Warren was sitting on the couch in the living room and watched them enter and walk over to him.

Are you all right? O’Malley asked.

Warren pursed his lips and nodded once. He glanced at the corpse lying at the front door, then up at his boss. There are two more face down upstairs, bleeding all over the place.

Professional hit? Carr asked.

I’m sure of it, Warren said.

Who have you pissed off lately? Stevens said.

As if we didn’t know, Durant added.

If you are right about all this, O’Malley said, then we had better plan accordingly. Warren, you are now in protective custody. Pack some things. You cannot come back here until we have this situation sorted out.

Dawn was breaking when the marshals escorted Warren out his front door and down the walkway in a tight formation.

Johnny Savini had parked his Caddy four blocks away, made his way through numerous backyards and taken position behind a hedge in someone’s front yard where he had a good field of fire on the front of Warren’s apartment. He was about two hundred yards away, he guessed, and well within a safe killing distance for his 30-06.

When he saw the six men leave the apartment, he shouldered the Remington and looked through the scope, trying to get a bead on Warren the Marshal, if Warren was among them. But they were in a tight bunch, with three men on one side, and two on the other side of a man in the middle that he could not see clearly, or at all, really. Some big man, an old guy, blocked the man in the middle completely. He briefly considered taking out the big man, then he just might be able to get a bead on the guy in the center.

But what if that guy in the middle wasn’t Warren? Savini asked himself.

He didn’t want to die killing the wrong man, so he could only watch as they got into two cars and drove away.

The marshals drove into D.C. and, after flashing their badges past security, parked in the underground lot below the main Justice Building at 950 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW, and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Warren followed O’Malley down the corridor and into his outer office. Doris, his secretary, whose iridescent blue hair seemed to get bluer and more iridescent every year, smiled as they walked past her and into the inner office, with Ballard, Stevens, Carr, Durant and Melvin right behind them.

Steve and Sam Secor, Charles Burke and Pete Manheim, four fellow marshals and friends of Warren’s, were already there and stood when they entered. They shook hands all around.

Another man Warren didn’t recognize was sitting on the couch against the wall.

Steve and Sam Secor were identical twins. Identical in every way. Not only did they look, act and sound alike, they possessed a spiritual and kinetic bond that enabled them to mentally communicate in rudimentary ways across distances where they could not see or hear one another. Warren and others close to them got downright spooked sometimes with their abilities.

Charles Burke was a wildman. At five foot six, he weighed a modest one fifty-five, all of it stringy muscle. He had a quick wit and an even quicker temper. He had a tangle of black, bushy hair and he liked to laugh loudly over something funny, and growl when he was mad. He was famous for throwing punches for the slightest reason, and infamous for the time he got into a knock-down, drag-out fight with a perp and actually ripped the other man’s throat out with his teeth. No one who knew him wanted to tangle with him, or even get him the slightest bit mad.

Pete Manheim was the exact opposite of Burke. He was tall, red-haired, slim, mild-mannered and had never gotten into a fight in his life. He never carried a gun because he was afraid he’d shoot himself in the foot. Pete was a thinker, a planner, a researcher, and a good one.

Warren knew that Mannheim had earned two PhD’s, one in mathematics and the other physics, by the time he was twenty-five. When he accepted a teaching position at CalTech, he was asked, Are you a mathematician or an astronomer, and he answered, I don’t know, because once you get that high in math and physics, they blend together and you can explain the cosmos with numbers.

He pretty much washed out as teacher because he kept going off on obscure tangents during his lectures that had nothing to do with the class being taught, that was light-years above the students’ comprehension. Then Justice recruited him because he could apply mathematical principles to any situation.

Warren felt luckier just having him around.

Everyone sat except Ballard and his men who stood behind them, stiff-jawed and erect, with one hand holding the other wrist behind their backs.

So, you think it was Grillo, then? O’Malley asked.

No doubt, Warren said.

What do you want, exactly? Who do you need? O’Malley asked him.

I want a full electronic incursion into Grillo’s house, businesses and affairs.

That’s the what. Now how? O’Malley asked.

I want my wizards. Every man in that room knew that the term, Wizard, was an expression used within the U.S. intelligence community to describe teams of FBI and CIA agents who specialize in the latest and most sophisticated surveillance and information gathering equipment and techniques. Their expertise is so far removed from most people's experience, including Warren and his team of marshals, that they seem to perform magic. I want Robert Falwell and his people to insert a microscope up his ass.

Anything else? O’Malley asked.

I want everything the FBI, IRS and the NYPD has on him.

Speaking of that. O’Malley motioned to the man sitting on the couch. This, gentlemen, is Special Agent Doug Light of the FBI.

Light stood and walked over beside O’Malley. Light was in his mid-forties with a little grey at the temples. He wore a baggy, crumpled suit and brown loafers. We have kept a Level 1 security on Grillo’s main house and grounds since you first ask for it yesterday, Inspector, Light said  If he was inside his house when you left there, then he is still there.

He was, Warren said. I’ll bring him down if it’s the last thing I do. And, if I can prove he put out this contract on me, I’ll . . .. He left that thought unspoken. I understand that Grillo is the main heroin importer for the entire U.S.. Is that true, Special Agent Light? Would you know?

As a matter of fact, Light said, I would know. I worked the streets in the city for eleven years, undercover, before being recruited by the Bureau. Grillo is heroin, although we could never pin anything on him personally.

Then you can be of invaluable help to me. Warren looked at O’Malley. I want him on my team during this investigation.

I’ll make the call to get him assigned to you, O’Malley said.

Robert Falwell rolled over when the phone beside his bed rang. He picked up the receiver and put it ear. Hello, he said in a mousy whisper.

Mr. Falwell?

It was Simmons. Falwell could tell by the voice.

Who else?

Mr. Falwell, I have been asked to inform you that you and your team have been assigned to a case.

For whom?

All I know is that someone has asked for you by name and he is going to call you at home in one minute to give you the details.

Someone?

Yes, sir. His name is, let me see, I have it here somewhere . . ..

Falwell could hear papers rustling.

Here it is, Simmons said. An Inspector Warren of the Marshal Service has asked for you and will be calling you presently.

Inspector Warren! Falwell was suddenly excited. Yes, he had worked for some blithering idiots in his day, but Inspector Warren was one of the few exceptions. And yes, Warren had his faults; he could be overbearing, harsh, mean and uncaring, but he was brilliant.

Falwell considered Warren a kindred spirit and an equal, which was an honor he bestowed onto no one else.

Falwell’s phone beeped, indicating he had another call.

Thank you, Simmons, Falwell said. It seems Inspector Warren is calling me now. He pressed down on the receiver and released it. Hello, Inspector Warren.

Good morning, Robert. I have a fat, juicy case that requires your special talents. Would you like to give me a hand?

Robert couldn’t remember the last time someone actually asked for his help. All they ever did was tell him what they wanted.

Count me in.

Please come to the main Justice Building at 950 Penns—

I know where it is.

The Secor brothers will meet you in the main lobby and escort you upstairs.

I’ll be there in forty minutes.

CHAPTER TWO

Warren was sitting in O’Malley’s office talking to his boss when the door opened and the brothers escorted Falwell inside. Warren marched across the office and greeted Falwell with a firm handshake. Welcome, Robert, and thank you for coming. Please sit down.

Robert Falwell was two inches over five feet tall. He had an oversized head, a pot belly and feet like flippers. His knees knocked together when he walked and he seemed to have four different colors to his hair. It went from pure white in the back, to rust red on the sides, to brown on top, to black in the front—none of which was died.  He had more spaces than teeth in his mouth, but Warren didn’t care.

Falwell was pure genius. He could take the most complicated electronic equipment and make it sing. He could crack any computer, read any mode of communication and electronically track any man over any distance. Falwell had been invaluable on the crunch case and Warren would definitely need him again on this assignment.

When both men were seated, Warren handed Falwell a folder two inches thick.

Here’s the FBI’s file on George The Grinder Grillo. His real name, as it turns out, is Angelo Franco Grillo. Whatever he calls himself, we’re going to take him apart, bone by bone. We’ve got another team doing the research on Grillo this time, so I want you to blanket his property, read every mode of communication and make sure he doesn’t leave without us knowing about it.

Falwell got a faraway look in his eyes. Would you like some protection to accompany you into New York City, Warren asked him.

It appeared that Falwell had not heard him as he stared off into space.

Warren opened his mouth to repeat himself, when Falwell said, Yes, please.

I’ll put Burke at your disposal.

Then, without a word, Falwell stood, left the building, drove home and read the Grillo file twice. Then he called his team of wizards and asked them to meet him in the Ops Room in the third sub-basement of the Hoover Building.

Johnny Savini sat on the edge of the bed in a cheap hotel room staring down at his cell phone lying on the table. After several attempts, his left hand finally latched onto the phone and turned it over. His right finger poised, unmoving, over the buttons for many long seconds, as he tried to work up his nerve. This was, with doubt, going to be the most difficult call he had ever made.

But at least he had to call in to report his failure. That was some consolation, anyway. He was under strict orders not to come to the homestead because he could not afford to establish a link between himself and the family under any circumstances, other than to use his cell phone.

He slowly dialed the fifteen digits and put the phone to his ear. He heard the now familiar series of clicks and tones as the call filtered through all the different processing points. At last he heard a gruff, Yeah?

Savini recognized Danna’s voice. Elio, this is Johnny. Tell Candiotti that Plan A went awry.

Awry? What the hell does that mean?

Savini huffed into the phone. That means it didn’t happen. Do you get it? He wanted to spell it out for the idiot, but was under strict orders not to discuss anything in detail. This was an unguarded line that could be intercepted by the NSA or FBI at various points along the line.

Tell Candiotti that I followed him to his office, Savini said.

Uh, yeah, I’ll tell him. You stay put in case he wants to talk with you.

Right, Savini said, and he disconnected the call.

Falwell sat in an alcove in the Operations Room in the third sub-basement under the Hoover Building, collecting his thoughts. The Ops Room was nearly an entire acre of the most sophisticated electronic equipment ever devised by man. From this room, Falwell could communicate with virtually anyone, intercept any mode of domestic, electronic communication, and keep track of anything or anyone, clandestinely. Only the National Security Agency, or NSA, had more far-reaching equipment.

Being a section chief, Falwell had two satellites at his disposal, one geo-stationary and one orbital. He programmed the geo-stationary satellite to focus onto Grillo’s home and grounds and then moved the orbiter directly over Grillo’s home each pass. 

The geo-stationary satellite could intercept the communications transmitted and received from the satellite dish on the roof—there was one—and every activated cell phone—there were six—and maintain a good optical view of