Toxic behemoth a kaiju t.., p.1
Toxic Behemoth: A Kaiju Thriller, page 1
Toxic Behemoth
David Bernstein
Copyright 2014 by David Bernstein
Chapter 1
Midnight in Brooklyn.
The warehouse district along the Hudson River was like a ghost town, save for the multitude of rats and cockroaches that took up residence below and within the grime-layered and filth-encrusted structures. The rain came down in sheets, pelting the warehouse roof with a rumble that made Michael think the precipitation was laced with stones. He had no idea what was going on, but knew that waking up tied to a chair was not a good thing. A low-hanging, cone-shaped light shined from directly overhead, encompassing him in a circle of light that extended six feet out in all directions. The rest of the place was shrouded in shadow and he was barely able to make out his surroundings, but he knew he was in some kind of warehouse. He could just make out the stacks of crates and barrels along the walls. The air had a musty, mixed with saltwater odor to it.
Michael was a good-looking man. He had a slim build, stood just over six feet tall and had piercing blue eyes that held a person’s gaze. His jet-black hair lay slicked back over his dome and the one-inch scar along his right cheek gave him an intimidating quality that fit his profession, almost making him appear even more handsome in a dangerous way.
His head throbbed where he’d obviously been clobbered. The last thing he remembered was being picked up to go to a meeting with the boss, Mickey Samson, a meeting he had been wired by the feds for, as part of his prison-avoidance and relocation deal.
Two months ago, he was stopped in his Mercedes after someone had called 911 and reported a man driving a Mercedes with his license plate number and fitting his description pointing a gun at other vehicles. After his vehicle had been searched, the cops found a .45 hidden under the passenger seat.
A ballistics test was performed. The weapon had been used in the murder of Frank Nicholas, a downtown lawyer known to have ties with organized crime. Of course, it was true, because Michael was the guy who killed Nicholas with a single shot to the back of the head.
But he’d gotten rid of the weapon. He’d given it to Vinnie, the boss’ son. At the time, Michael thought it odd that Vinnie had wanted to dispose of the weapon, but he handed the piece over anyway.
After every hit, the weapon he’d used was always discarded. He would either toss it into the Hudson River or melt it down. Michael always took care of his own weapon disposal, needing to know that it was taken care of properly. When Vinnie had asked for the .45, Michael hadn’t been prepared for such a thing and was caught off guard, something that rarely happened to him. But who was he to argue with the boss’ son—the man who, one day, would run the family business. Besides, he had thought at the time, no one was going to find Frank Nicholas’ body.
The corpse had been tossed into the cement foundation of a high-rise building going up in lower Manhattan, never to be discovered. Unfortunately, the cement mix hadn’t been up to code. Cracks formed and the foundation had to be replaced. Frank Nicholas’ body was discovered intact with the bullet inside the skull. The finding never made the news, the cops keeping the fact that they had a semi-preserved corpse and bullet to themselves, just in case the shooter had been foolish enough to keep the gun.
As soon as the weapon had been found in his car, Michael knew he’d been set up. He recognized the weapon when the cop showed it to him, a .45 Sig Sauer painted a dull black, the serial numbers having been melted off with acid.
It had to be Vinnie who had set him up, he thought, hence the reason the man had wanted the gun. Two plus two always equaled four. He should’ve been more careful, insisted he be the one to get rid of the weapon.
Michael had no idea why he’d been set up, but it was clear his days of working for the Samson family were over, and he wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life in prison, apart from his wife and children. So he decided to make a deal.
He didn’t like ratting. Never had ratted. Never shared secrets with others that he was told in confidence. He was a standup kind of guy. Rats deserved death. But on this occasion, squealing was justified, because his employer’s son had broken the code first. He wouldn’t give up the old man. Michael was sure Mickey had nothing to do with the set up. Therefore, he made the deal to get Vinnie, who was the next in line to take over the family business anyway, assuring the feds that Vinnie would roll over on his father in seconds. Vinnie was a coward and a loud mouth who liked to talk, hence the wire Michael was wearing.
While he’d been in holding, awaiting a visit from the feds, Michael wondered why Vinnie wanted him put away. Why not just kill him? The only thing he could come up with was jealousy, and that rotting away in prison was far worse than meeting one’s maker.
Michael was close to Vinnie’s father, and Vinnie was a screw up. Nevertheless, being the boss’ son, Vinnie had power and would one day become boss—if he wasn’t killed first. This allowed the crazed weasel to do as he pleased. Others feared him, knowing when he took control, things would change, and everyone wanted to be on his good side. Plus, he was certifiable, like the time he’d killed a bodega owner for short-changing him fifty cents.
Michael should’ve known something was up at the time Vinnie had asked for the murder weapon. He should’ve refused to hand the gun over. It hadn’t felt right, but he ignored his gut. He would’ve gotten shit from the man, but it would’ve been worth it over the shit he was in now. He could’ve kept an eye on the psycho, taken him out quietly if he thought the man was gunning for him.
Of course, hindsight is always 20/20, as the saying goes, and he was facing a murder charge now, which meant freedom by the time he was an old, feeble man, or worse—he would spend the rest of his life in prison. And if he ratted, which no one thought he ever would, Vinnie would have the right to have him killed.
Michael figured his best course of action was to go straight, make a deal. He figured, even if he didn’t sing to the cops that he’d be killed in prison. Hell, Vinnie was a nutcase, and Michael was afraid to leave his family unprotected. He had a wife and two kids to think about. He’d made bad decisions, led a dangerous life, but things changed. It always came down to the individual and his family, and that’s what he decided to protect when he decided to rat.
Once the feds got wind that Michael wanted to make a deal, they swooped in like hungry jackals. They wanted the old man, Vinnie’s father, a notorious mob boss that had eluded prosecution since he took power of the family over twenty years ago—the witnesses always disappearing or recanting their stories. They would get him by getting to Vinnie.
Michael agreed to wear a wire and gather information. In exchange, he would skate on the murder charge and enter the witness protection program with his family, including his wife’s mother. Along with prosecuting the old man—Vinnie’s doing, should he rat out his father—Michael wanted the feds to make sure Vinnie was sent away and could in no way escape prison time. He wanted assurances that there would be no deals or witness protection for that scumbag. Of course, they agreed.
Now, he was tied to a chair in the middle of some warehouse along the river. A foghorn blared in the distance.
Shit, the wire, he thought, wondering if they’d found it. Did they know he was ratting to the feds? His pulse quickened. The last thing he remembered was entering Vinnie’s Lincoln Town Car.
Even though he lived the life of a mobster, he never thought he’d be in this position, betrayed by his employers and taken captive. People in his line of work always stayed in the present, only thinking of the future in terms of how much money they’d have stashed away when they finally retired.
Then the shit hit the fan and his world had been turned upside down. And for what? He still didn’t know the reason for Vinnie’s betrayal, but he’d show Vinnie by turning the tables on him. He would have loved to see the man’s face when he found out who turned on him. The whole underworld, friend and foe, would be in shock that Michael had sung to the feds. And as he sat comfortably in his new home, with his new name, he would relish knowing how Vinnie was rotting away in prison. He felt bad for involving the old man, but that was the price for having an idiot son.
The witness protection program sounded good, not ideal, but better than his alternative. The minute he’d agreed to wear a wire, the feds were ready to scoop up his family and place them in protective custody. But Michael knew that wouldn’t work. If his boss got wind that his family had vanished, the man would get suspicious of something. Michael would be a dead man.
Now, sitting tied to a chair, he knew his witness protection deal was most likely over.
He heard the echo of footsteps in the distance. People were approaching. He tensed, trying to prepare for what was to come, knowing death was most likely not far off.
“Nothing to say, you dirty rat?” Vinnie’s voice said from the shadows.
“I’m not a rat,” Michael said.
Vinnie, a hulking man with a protruding chin and sunken eyes, strolled into the light. Two of his goons—Johnny and Scottie—stood by his sides.
Shit, Michael thought, feeling his throat tighten. Johnny and Scottie were real lowlifes, men that liked to punish for sheer enjoyment. Vinnie only brought them around when he wanted to torture someone, to really put a hurt into a guy and keep his own hands clean.
Michael thought about saying the “safety” phrase, It sure is hot in here, but he had no idea if he was still wired. Once he said that, the feds would swarm the place, unless Vinnie had found
First, he needed to get as much information on Vinnie as possible, fulfill his part of the deal with the feds. He’d already gotten some stuff at an early meeting, but nothing damning. Vinnie might be a wild killer, but he was always careful with his words.
Vinnie walked up to him, a toothpick sticking out of his mouth. The two goons circled behind Michael. He tried not to show his trepidation, but he stiffened, unable to help it. He knew the deal. The goons were a scare tactic. Not being able to see the men, not knowing what they were going to do and when they were going to do it, was frightening.
Vinnie pulled the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it at Michael’s face. “You thought you could cut a deal?”
“Look, Vinnie, you know I’d never rat, so what’s this about?”
Vinnie nodded, a grin spreading across his face. He rubbed his stubbly chin, looking as if he was thinking about something, then shot in and punched Michael in the gut.
Pain radiated throughout Michael’s torso as the breath was forced from his lungs. He couldn’t draw air back in, the psycho having hit his solar plexus.
“Hurts, don’t it?” Vinnie asked.
When the ability to draw in a breath finally came back to him, Michael wheezed in a breath. “Please, Vinnie . . . Tell me what this is all about.”
“No. I’m going to let my boys go to work on you. Make you tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“I got busted. Set up. I don’t know by who, but I’m not ratting. You know—”
Vinnie backhanded him, causing Michael and the chair to fall over.
“Damn it,” Vinnie said. “See what you made me do? You got me so mad I lost my cool and hit you in your pretty face. I could’ve broken your jaw, and then what?”
Vinnie hit hard, but it was nothing Michael hadn’t felt before. Feeling a trickle of blood dribble down his chin, he said, “What the fuck is this all about, man?”
Vinnie ordered his goons to pick Michael up.
“You see,” Vinnie said, pacing back and forth within the circle of light. “This is why I brought you guys.” Michael realized Vinnie was speaking to his men. “We’re dealing with Michael Scofield. Hitman extraordinaire. Tough guy.” Vinnie shook his head. “He won’t crack easy, fellas.” He stopped and stared past Michael and at his men. “So get to it.”
“Wait,” Michael said. “I’ve earned enough respect to have you tell me what’s going on. Who’s accusing me of being a rat?”
“We’ve got our sources. That’s all a gun-for-hire like you needs to know.”
Michael was starting to worry, but he kept his poker face on. This could all be a test, though he doubted it. “Did I rat on you when you killed that bodega owner over on 19th? Or when you killed Jimmy Tulips?”
Vinnie shook his head as if disappointed. “I should just shoot you in the head and be done with it like I promised my old man, but I love a good show, so fuck him.” Vinnie stepped close and lowered his head to Michael’s chest. “Yeah, I killed those men. Blew their fucking heads off.”
Shit. Vinnie knew about the wire and he had most likely gotten rid of it. “It sure is hot in here,” Michael said, regardless, hoping that somehow, he was still wearing the listening device.
Vinnie’s eyebrows knitted together. “Huh?”
“I said, ‘it sure is hot in here.’”
“I’m quite comfortable,” Vinnie said. He glanced at his goons: “You guys warm?”
“No, boss,” Scottie said.
“Not at all, boss,” the other said.
“Is that some kind of code?” Vinnie asked. “You waiting for the cavalry, because they ain’t coming.” He pulled out the listening device that had previously been taped to Michael’s groin. It was smashed, the plastic splintered.
“Tell me,” Michael said, knowing he was going to die. “Why’d you set me up?”
“Because I don’t like you.”
“Bullshit. We never saw eye to eye, but that’s not it. What happened? Is it about the lawyer, because I didn’t talk?”
“Bullshit,” Vinnie shouted. “You’re a fucking liar and I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer.”
“You’re a coward, Vinnie. You can’t even own up to the truth to a dead man.”
“I ain’t no coward. It was time for a change. The old man’s time is up. He’s sick. All he talks about is you. How upstanding you are. How I should be more like you. Well fuck that and fuck you.” Vinnie came in and hit him across the face with a right. Michael’s head jerked sideways, his neck cracking from the momentum. Pain shot into his head. He grunted as he straightened himself out, his neck barking. He dabbed at his stinging lips and tasted fresh blood.
“So this is all about your jealousy? Jealousy of a lowly hitman? A non-made man? An outsider for hire?”
“You ain’t no outsider, asshole. You’re as part of this family as . . .”
“Go ahead, say it,” Michael said, egging the man on. There was no reason to be cautious with his words. He wasn’t leaving the warehouse alive and they were the only weapon he had left to use against the man. Inflict as much mental pain and anger onto Vinnie before he met his maker. Vinnie said nothing, so Michael spoke up. “I’m as important to your father as you are. How’s that feel?”
Vinnie smiled, which surprised Michael. No, scared him. He’d expected the man to hit him again, maybe have one of his goons beat on him or slice him up.
“You know, there’s nothing I can do to you that will hurt as much as what I’m going to do to your family.”
“You leave them out of this,” Michael said, feeling as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. “I swear, if you touch them—”
“You’ll what?” Vinnie said, cutting him off. The big man chuckled as he ran a hand over his head. In a mocking tone, he said, “I swear if you touch them—” Vinnie then shook his head and laughed. “Is that the most typical line used in situations like this, or what?”
“Sure is, boss,” Scottie said.
Michael got control of himself. “You leave them out of this. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. They aren’t a part of this, and you know it. We don’t touch our families.”
Michael heard movement from behind. There was muffled sobbing and the sound of multiple shoes scuffing against the cement. He knew the noise well, having shoved his victims forward to their graves as he pressed a gun to their heads. It was the walk of doom. Most people didn’t have the nerve to fight, hoping somehow they’d survive.
Then it hit Michael and the breath came out of him. It wasn’t possible, he thought. He quickly prayed it not to be true.
Then he saw them: his wife and kids. They had duct tape over their mouths and their hands were tied behind their backs. Johnny had the wife in his control and Scottie had the kids.
“Put them on their knees,” Vinnie said.
“Don’t do this,” Michael begged.
His wife, Bernadette, and his kids, Tommy and Bobby, were crying, tears streaking down their faces. Bernadette was staring at him, her eyes filled with panic. Snot ran from her nostrils. She was trying to say something, but he couldn’t understand her.
Michael fought against his bonds with all he had, but it was useless. The duct tape wrapped around his body and the chair held strong. “You fucking bastard!” he screamed. “This isn’t right. This isn’t right. You’re going to die for this. I’ll make sure you suffer.”
Vinnie laughed, his arms cradling his large belly.
Michael’s wife, Bernadette, was silently pleading for him to do something. His children were petrified, crying, faces glistening with tears. Scottie swatted Bobby, his youngest, when the boy wouldn’t stop squirming. Michael stared at the man, who only laughed, then pulled out a knife and held it to the kid’s throat. He felt a rage within him like he’d never known, as if hydrochloric acid coursed through his veins. He couldn’t allow this to continue, to let Vinnie hurt them. If he got free, he wouldn’t let these men live another second. They needed to die by his hands.
But through it all, he knew, deep down that there was nothing he could do. He was helpless and unable to protect his family.
