Frank Bellamy Meets the Angel of Death: Series 2

By Septimus Paul

After avenging the death of his son, Frank Bellamy receives an offer he is forced to accept. The five-member New York Mafia Commission "politely suggested" he accept their invitation to become the boss of the Washington, DC, crime districts. The FBI and the CIA step in and pressure him to accept the offer.

The FBI and the CIA, in collaboration with the Russian government, need Bellamy's help to crush an international drug ring and identify the main players in Russia and the US. To do so, he has to work closely with a Russian FSB agent, the Angel of Death. The Angel is a ruthless but seductive Russian assassin, whose personal agenda is to kill Bellamy who months earlier had killed her lover, Hans Klaus. He had killed Klaus to prevent him from assassinating the US president. (Read Frank Bellamy: The Assassins.)

Bellamy also finds himself threatened by the New York Mafia who now resent his interference in their drug activity. Moreover, the Russian Mafia want his head because Klaus had worked for them. He is suspicious of the CIA whose interest in the drug distribution business may not be what it seems. In addition, he is uncertain who the Angel of Death actually represents: the Russian government, the CIA, the Russian Mafia, or her family's poppy-growing and opium-distribution business in Afghanistan.

Before it's all over, Bellamy knows he may have to dispatch the Angel to hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889604761

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Frank Bellamy Meets the Angel of Death

Series 2

Septimus Paul

Copyright © 2023 Septimus Paul

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88960-466-2 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-476-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

The power to terminate the life of another is awesome. No greater power exists. Frank Bellamy has experienced that power. Like the grim reaper, he could collect a target's soul, terminate his life, and crush all his dreams and aspirations.

He held that power at the tip of his trigger finger.

He disliked close-up killings. It forced him to ponder what thoughts flowed through his target's mind before his inevitable death. Did he silently pray, accept his fate, or cling to the fading hope that his life would be spared?

Even worse, would he grovel and plead for mercy, using the existence of his kids and wife as reasons to save his pitiful life?

He was about to experience again that awesome power.

But tonight, he was not a paid assassin.

He was a father seeking justice.

Revenge kills are always more satisfying when one stared into the eyes of the one to be killed. The victim must be informed of the motive behind his execution. He must relive the act. Otherwise, something is lost…it doesn't bring full closure.

Mario's execution would be from close range, not a bullet fired from a safe distance.

Bellamy could feel the sweat crawling down his back into his waistband. He had been breathing the hot stifling air of Mario's car for quite some time. The foul air consisted of a mixture of weed, alcohol, and tortillas.

He had been waiting for Mario to emerge from the Hispanic strip club, its colorful neon lights beckoning invitingly with every blink across the parking lot. It was a slow midweek night. In the last hour, he hadn't seen too many men enter or leave the nightclub. Those who did, he surmised, were deadbeats who had no plans that began after the rising sun. The working-class folks were already in bed or in the middle of their night shift.

Mario was a tattooed member of the former group…a deadbeat thug.

Shortly after 3:00 a.m., Mario finally emerged. He staggered out the door, the neon lights above flickering off his body like a blinking Christmas tree. He was accompanied by two men.

That wasn't good. Bellamy had expected him to be alone.

The three men staggered through the parking lot, speaking and laughing loudly. The unintelligible Spanish words they hurled at each other filtered through the cracked window of the car. The two men then broke away, shouting more words over their shoulders. It was with a sense of relief that he watched Mario staggering through the parking lot as he approached the car. Bellamy watched him closely as he opened the car door and slid into the driver's seat with a loud grunt. The strong odor of tequila had crept into the car with him.

Keep your hands on the steering, Bellamy whispered. He pressed the muzzle of the .38 into the back of Mario's neck. Mario shifted his hands slightly from the steering wheel. Your piece is not under your seat. It's stuck to the back of your neck.

"Quien eres?" he stammered.

Your worst nightmare, Mario. You can go either quickly or slowly. It's your call. The answers you give will determine how you go. But you are going.

Do I know you? The words came out in a sort of stutter and a heavy Spanish accent.

Frank Bellamy.

The sound of the name had an immediate effect. Oh, Virgin Mary! Please! I have a wife and five kids back in Colombia. His head turned slightly into the muzzle.

Don't turn around. I had a son too, Mario. You and your people took him out.

That was all Moranci and Padmore. His breathing had grown louder. I was just the driver.

Start the engine and drive, Driver. We are going to the Chesapeake River where it's nice and quiet.

Can we talk?

Oh, we will. Just shut to hell up and drive. I hope you are not too tipsy to do that.

I am good, he stammered.

Nothing sobers up a man faster than the muzzle of a gun jammed against his neck. The engine sputtered several times before starting. It could use a tune-up, thought Bellamy.

The river is about fifteen minutes away. Stay within the speed limit. We don't need company.

Bellamy remained crouched forward in the back seat, the .38 now pointing to the unshaven stubble of hair on the side of Mario's face where he could see it from the corner of his eyes. Mario made several feebler attempts at conversation. Bellamy silenced him. They drove in silence along Route 50 through Annapolis and beyond the US Naval Academy.

Mario kept glancing out the window as if trying to get his bearing. How much further?

Take the next exit, said Bellamy. And follow the direction to the river…Sandy Point. Stay to the right and drive around the strips. Don't puncture your tires. Mario drove the car around the unoccupied cashier booth. Bear left and follow the trail. Bellamy had him ease to a stop alongside the stone barrier jutting out into the river like a jetty. Cut the engine and get out.

It was deathly silent along the shores of the river. In the distance, one could see the blinking headlights of vehicles crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. In the semidarkness of the car, Bellamy could see Mario's hands trembling noticeably on the steering. His breathing had also increased in short gasps.

Mr. Bellamy…

Put your hands on your head.

Mario slid out of the front seat, the gun still poking him in the back of his head.

I didn't do anything, Mr. Bellamy. I swear to you. It was all them.

On your knees.

He got down, looking up at Bellamy, his hands still on his head. His widened eyes looked petrified. He had heard everything he needed to know about Bellamy. He was ruthless. He lived for moments like this. Moranci hired me to follow Detracelli and the boy. They didn't say anything about killing him.

He is dead. I need more.

I don't know anything.

The first shot echoed like a cannon as it punctured Mario's right armpit. He screamed like a banshee and fell forward on the grass. The second shot embedded itself in the back of his left knee and exited through his kneecap. Mario's piercing scream echoed through the darkness and over the calm waters of the Chesapeake River. He wrapped himself in a fetal position, one hand cradling his knee and the other cupping his armpits.

I am going for your right knee.

No. No. What do you want to know? Please. I will tell you.

You mentioned Padmore! What did he have to do with it?

He was working with Moranci against Detracelli.

Padmore! Bellamy sounded surprised. He was Detracelli's right-hand man…his lapdog.

Not anymore. Moranci and Padmore were planning a coup against Detracelli. The plan was to have your son take you out. Then we kill Detracelli and blame you for killing him.

Detracelli was Moranci's and Padmore's boss. They all reported to him.

That's the plan I heard them discussing. They were going to overthrow Detracelli.

But they killed my son. Why kill him?

I don't think they planned to kill him, Mr. Bellamy. But he came out of the cabin with a shotgun in his hands…after he had killed Detracelli. We got there after the kill. It happened quickly, Mr. Bellamy. Padmore pulled the trigger.

Padmore shot my kid? Bellamy stated incredulously.

Detracelli's plan was for your boy to set up a meeting between you and Detracelli at the cabin. He did that. Your boy would then kill you for killing his father. After all, you had killed his father to marry his mother. He wanted you dead. And Detracelli gave him the go-ahead to take you out. He moaned loudly, still hugging himself. I need a doctor. You must get me to a hospital.

Just keep talking. Was that what Detracelli told him…that I killed his father?

Yeah. He convinced him that you had killed his father to get his mother. They said that you had married his mother soon after his father's death.

I didn't kill his father.

Well, the kid bought it. Detracelli said he believed you did.

You guys convinced him to kill me? Bellamy's voice had grown hoarse. And he believed Detracelli?

Not me, Mr. Bellamy. It was all Detracelli…he and Padmore.

And he believed them?

Yes, sir. After the Mafia bosses in New York signed off on your execution, every hit man was after you. The talk on the street was that you were hired to kill the president of the United States and that the FBI was closing in on you. The Mafia big boys couldn't risk having you fall into their hands. You knew too much. The way I heard it, Detracelli wanted to use the kid to set you up.

How did Moranci get involved in all this?

I need a doctor, Mr. Bellamy.

Talk.

Padmore kept Moranci informed of Detracelli's plans. He told Moranci that the kid had set up a meeting at your cabin. Moranci saw an opportunity. Padmore, Moranci, and I would show up after Detracelli and your son had killed you. They would then take out Detracelli. Moranci planned to explain to your son that Detracelli had ordered you to kill his father. That both you and Detracelli were responsible for his father's death.

I don't get it. How would that get him Detracelli's district?

Remember, the Commission had an open contract for your death. Moranci would take you out and then convince the Mafia Commission to give him Detracelli's Washington district. Your boy was not to be killed, Mr. Bellamy. It was an accident.

He wouldn't have killed me.

Mario's eyes opened wide as he stared at Bellamy's face. He would. He wanted you dead, Mr. Bellamy. He even asked Detracelli to allow him to squeeze the trigger. He couldn't wait to take you out.

You bastards!

Not me. I just listened…at the office and in the car. They planned it for weeks. He moaned loudly again, still clutching his knee and shoulder. I need a doctor. I am hurting.

Keep talking.

Your son shot Detracelli before we got there. We don't know what went down between both of them. We heard gunshots just before we got to the cabin. Your boy had taken him out. Can you believe it? He cocked his head to the side as he searched for Bellamy's face. The kid got Detracelli. By the time we rushed to the cabin, there the kid was on the porch, waving this darn shotgun. Moranci shouted something, and Padmore fired. It wasn't supposed to end that way. I wasn't even packing, Mr. Bellamy. I drove them there.

The anger had already risen in Bellamy. They had turned his stepson against him…a young man he had raised as his own. Then they killed him.

That's too bad, Mario. You were there. He paused before adding, Like I promised, it will be quick.

Please, Mr. Bellamy, don't…don't do this. His voice cracked; his body trembled, and his pleading eyes locked into the cold unblinking eyes of Bellamy. My wife, my kids…I am not a bad man. I just deal coke…that's it.

Well, son, you were in the wrong place with the wrong men.

Both palms came together under his chin. Oh, Virgin Mary, help me, speak to Mr.…

The gunshot exploded through the silence of the night. The back of Mario's head crashed into the gravel. He was already dead before the alcohol-laced vomit sprayed out of his mouth. Bellamy watched the blood ooze out of his forehead, run down his cheek into the folds of his neck.

Death had come quickly. Yet Mario had had enough time to relive what he and the others had done to Michael.

Bellamy wiped the gun clean and hurled it into the river. He got into Mario's car and drove out of the park.

*****

Frank Bellamy had paid his dues to the Mafia. He had served them well, doing all their dirty killings. He never questioned a hit. Rather, the less he knew about a victim, the better he slept. The bosses called, he responded. No questions asked.

Except one.

The night Detracelli called him into his office and ordered him to kill Julius, Michael's father. Julius was his best friend. He was the only man he completely trusted. Bellamy had a host of questions, and Detracelli had all the right answers.

Detracelli had found out from one of his many sources that Julius had been arrested in Mexico. He was carrying a load of Detracelli's drugs. He had cut a deal and was cooperating with the Mexican government and the US Drug Enforcement Administration. Julius could bring down his drug empire, and with it, the Mexican drug cartel. Julius had to go. The Mexicans were adamant: Get rid of him. He is your man.

He gave Bellamy the contract because he mistakenly believed that Bellamy was having an affair with Julius's wife. He could not have been more wrong. He was not. Julius, Marian, and Michael were like family to him. No illicit shenanigans were involved. Bellamy, Detracelli thought, would jump at the opportunity to take out Julius.

Detracelli had no right, he thought at the time, to give him the kill. But in retrospect, he was happy that Detracelli had turned to him.

He was able to warn Julius that Detracelli was after him.

When Julius returned from Mexico, Bellamy met him at the airport and warned him. Run! Run! Run! They are coming after you.

The following day, Marian found Julius's body floating in their swimming pool. Did he commit suicide, or did he fall in drunk?

The coroner ruled it an accidental drowning. The drunk victim had slipped and fallen into the pool.

Detracelli called it a perfect hit…one of Bellamy's best.

Bellamy, however, believed that Julius had committed suicide to protect his family. Detracelli and the Mexicans would have come after Marian and Michael if he had simply disappeared. No one outran the mob. He knew that. Why else would he have said to Bellamy at the airport: Take care of Michael and Marian. I know you love them as much as I do.

Bellamy did love them. Two years later, he married Marian. Detracelli insisted on picking up all the expenses for the wedding. Bellamy didn't argue. It was the least Detracelli could do to make amends. Bellamy raised Michael as his own son, got him through high school and through law school.

He could not bring himself to forgive them for what they had done to Michael and the relationship he had shared with him.

*****

It was a long wait. Bellamy dozed off a few times on the couch. He had rearranged the couch so that it faced the door. Finally, Padmore's apartment lock turned. The face of Bellamy's digital watch read 3:33 a.m.

Padmore flicked on the lights. Recognition was instantaneous. He was staring down the muzzle of a P226 held in the hands of Frank Bellamy.

Drop your piece on the floor…slowly.

Padmore's huge frame blocked the door, the light from the corridor pouring around him into the room. He looked like a sumo wrestler…fully dressed. He said nothing. He simply exhaled a breath of resignation. He seemed to sense that his words would be useless to the ear of the man staring at him. He parted his windbreaker and slowly removed his Glock from his waist and dropped it on the floor.

Turn around. We are going for a ride.

He turned and stepped back out into the corridor, Bellamy at his heels, Padmore's Glock in his hands. Neither man said another word to each other. There was nothing to be said…they both knew the drill. They took the elevator down to the first floor and got out. The reception area was deserted. Bellamy followed him out the double glass door to the parking lot.

Bellamy opened the trunk of his car. Padmore looked down at the open trunk, glanced at Bellamy, sighed loudly, and forced his huge frame into the trunk. It was a tight and extremely uncomfortable fit. Again, nothing needed to be said. They had done this to others many times before. Bellamy slammed the trunk shut.

The drive to the Potomac River was short, about fifteen minutes from Georgetown. Everything in downtown Washington, DC, was a few minutes away…except during rush hour. Bellamy pulled into a deserted dirt area under Arlington Bridge and opened the trunk of his car. Padmore was curled up in a fetal position in the cramped space of the trunk.

Get out, Bellamy said.

Padmore seemed surprisingly calm. He is not going to beg, flashed through Bellamy's head. Good. I hate to hear them beg.

He got out and twisted his upper body from side to side to get the blood flowing. He was a massive man, a former college heavyweight wrestler. It was his wrestling skills, not his intellect, which had first endeared him to Detracelli. He turned out to be a loyal lapdog, doing all his boss's dirty work.

I expected you, he said.

Bellamy watched him closely as he continued to unwind, his fingers curled around the trigger of the Glock. He expected Padmore to make a move.

Were you?

We didn't get you at the cabin. We should have waited for you to show up. But Moranci panicked. Then after Mario's tortured body was found a few days ago, I knew it was only a matter of time.

Why didn't you run?

From you! He crossed his arm over his stomach and chuckled. Where would I go?

Moranci could have protected you. He has an army of thugs on his payroll.

He shook his head from side to side. Moranci! He is holed up in a cave somewhere. He cut me loose after Mario's body was found.

Bellamy laughed out loud. What did you expect? It's Moranci. I have one question though. Why did you betray Detracelli? He trusted you with everything…even his life. I mean, you two went back over twenty years.

He didn't respect me. His jaw tensed as he spat the words out. He never did. After all these years, I was always…just his muscle. You were there. You heard the way he spoke to me. After a while, it got to me. When a man shows you no respect, you tend to lose respect for him. He turned his head and gazed at the calm waters of the Potomac River. The muscles on his jaw relaxed.

But Moranci! Why Moranci? You knew he was always about himself. He wanted Detracelli's district. He would use anyone to get it.

He was going to give me DC.

And you believed that? Bellamy couldn't believe that Padmore fell for that. The District of Columbia is the most lucrative part of the Metropolitan District. All those politicians and federal workers…he wasn't going to give away that drug market. Certainly not to you. You betrayed Detracelli. Do you think he would ever trust you?

We made a deal. I delivered. I delivered Detracelli.

He used you, Padmore. You know what…you are still a fool. And you will die as one.

Padmore lowered his head and chuckled. He called me that a lot…a fool.

You also delivered Michael to Moranci. Bellamy paused and turned his head to the side as if to get a better look at his face. How could you, Padmore? You knew how much he meant to me.

He was a good kid. I liked him. It was an accident. We didn't plan to shoot him. But we thought he was going to take a shot at us. It happened so fast.

Did you and Detracelli have to bring up Julius? You told the kid that I had killed his father.

Perhaps, we shouldn't have told him. But that was no lie. You did.

I didn't kill Julius.

Padmore stared at Bellamy intently as though attempting to digest what Bellamy had said. You didn't.

No.

You didn't drown him?

I didn't. He did that himself.

I will be damned. Detracelli went to his grave believing you had.

Well, you will go to yours knowing I didn't. Do you want it standing or on your knees?

Standing. Padmore dropped his hands at his side and thrust his chest forward. His eyes held Bellamy's. He seemed at peace with himself. A man who had come to terms with the inevitable. For a split second…no more than a split second, Bellamy considered lowering his gun.

The thought flashed through Bellamy's head, I wonder what the hell is going through his mind. This is for Michael.

I am sorry, Frank. I really liked him.

Those were his last words. For another split second…perhaps, a fraction of a split second, Bellamy considered walking away. If God forgave fools, children, and drunkards, Padmore checked two boxes. But Bellamy was not God. He lifted Padmore's Glock, took aim, and shot him twice in rapid succession between his eyes. He fell back like a sack of cement.

Two down, one to go.

*****

Bellamy knew that the contract to kill him had come from the Mafia Commission. Detracelli had just been following orders. When the Commission ordered a kill, one simply obeyed. He had become a liability. He knew too much about their operations. He knew where every bone was buried. Bellamy had done work for all five family bosses. Those five families controlled the Commission: the Genovese, Colombo, Lucchese, Bonanno, and Gambino. Whenever they needed a clean job, he got the call. He was a walking encyclopedia of mob assassinations. His knowledge, however, was a threat to all five members and a handicap to his own life expectancy.

Yet here he was…voluntarily… sitting before them, waiting for their judgment. He had known from the outset that he could not take out Moranci without their approval. Padmore and Mario were minor players. Not Moranci. Moranci was a made man of Sicilian heritage. He was protected.

The five family heads sat around the oval table…four expressionless faces and one smiling face. Gumbell, the head of the Gambino family, seemed to always have a permanent smile etched into his wrinkled face…even when he pronounced a death sentence. One could not gauge his thoughts from his facial expression. He sat at the head of the table, two family members on either side of him. A sixth chair was vacant. Out of respect, Gumbell had explained, for the recently departed Detracelli, an honorary member of the Commission.

Seated on two chairs about six feet apart were Bellamy and Moranci. Their chairs were positioned about fifteen feet from the table so that the Commission members could see and interpret every muscle they twitched. Three of Gumbell's muscles stood just inside the door of the conference room. Gumbell was not a man to take chances.

Bellamy and Moranci had just finished their respective presentations.

Any questions? Gumbell asked as he glanced around the table at the other four members.

In unison, the heads shook from side to side like programmed robots. Bellamy and Moranci both knew the score. If they had no questions, it meant that a decision had already been made. The hearing was a mere formality. They had already met in private. The Commission doesn't like drawn-out debates. It tended to arrive very quickly at a consensus. Debates led to winners and losers, which created bad blood and killings. Rather, it considered who was most affected by the matter at hand and worked at appeasing that individual.

In the present situation, the entire Commission was affected.

Gumbell started. You are both at fault…one way or the other. You made up your own rules and disregarded the Commission. Disrespect. He shook a finger at them. That's what it was. In the old days, you would both be buried in Jersey or anchored at the bottom of the Hudson River.

The four heads assented in unison. Or, the Genovese head added, cemented into the foundation of a high-rise building.

Gumbell shot him an icy glance. He was not too happy with the interruption. Obviously, it was agreed that he would be the spokesperson. But he agreed. Yes. Or incinerated like our good friend Jimmy Hoffa. He turned back to Moranci. Moranci. We hear you. There was a contract on Bellamy. The FBI had tagged him as the assassin assigned to kill the president. They were closing in on him. He turned his head slightly to look Bellamy in the eyes. We couldn't let them arrest you, Frank. Everyone breaks. Everyone. You do understand the position we were in? His eyes held Bellamy's. He expected an answer.

Yes, Bellamy answered.

It was fortunate that you were able to get the real assassin…this Hans Klaus from Austria. The FBI sang your praise to the media. He thought that was funny. The FBI showing their gratitude to one of us! The other four members saw the humor; they chuckled along with him. They kept your true occupation to themselves. But don't be fooled. They now know who you are.

Yes, they do, Bellamy assented.

This Hans Klaus assassin entered our territories unannounced. We had no idea he was here. All signs pointed to you, Frank. We had no choice. He paused again.

Bellamy was slightly taken aback. Was Gumbell apologizing for signing off on the open contract to execute me? Gumbell apologizing!

That was something no one in the room had ever heard him do.

I understand, Bellamy said.

But all that's over. It's behind us. You are back in the family.

Thank you.

But, Moranci. He turned his head back to Moranci. He was searching for the right words. His son! You killed his son! The contract was on Frank, not his son. You know our rules. No wives, no parents, no kids. We don't kill family members…not without… he waved his hands airily, permission from the Commission. And it must be something serious.

But his son killed Detracelli, Moranci said. We couldn't let him walk.

Nonsense, Bellamy interrupted. You said earlier that you shot Michael before you found Detracelli's body. You didn't know that Detracelli was dead nor how he died. The hate, distrust, and anger were apparent in Bellamy's sharp rebuttal. He had been struggling to restrain his temper from the second Moranci had walked into the room and throughout his defense.

We heard the gunshots, and he was carrying a shotgun.

Bullshit! You murdered him…to leave no witnesses.

Gumbell glanced at his three muscles. He seemed reassured that he had made the right decision to position them inside the room.

Bellamy continued, He has been spitting out one lie after another to justify his actions.

We will handle this, Frank, Gumbell cut in. We got this.

That murdering son of a bitch has to go.

Moranci attempted to get up. Don't you dare talk about my dead mother.

The three muscles took a step forward.

Sit down, Moranci. Gumbell turned his head to Bellamy who was about to get up. You have your own problems, Frank. He paused for effect. "You killed Padmore and the Colombian without talking to us. And now we have a situation