Sleeping dogs, p.1
Sleeping Dogs, page 1
Sleeping Dogs
Gordon Carroll
Copyright © 2021 by Gordon Carroll
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1. Italy
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Gordon Carroll
1
Italy
March
Anthony Carlino patted the soil around the newly planted vine with loving hands.
Hands that had once been responsible for shedding rivers of blood.
The soil, heavily laden with water, clumped around the base of the plant. The combination felt exactly right to him. Cool and firm—strong—filled with the promise of life.
Like spring itself.
He smiled. The gentle heat of the Italian sun rained lightly on his hair and the nape of his neck.
Some days he wore his favorite broad-brimmed, floppy cloth hat, but summer was still a way off, and this fine March day was not overly hot. The breeze flowing in from the ocean felt cool, tinged with a hint of salt that felt good to the touch and tasteful to the tongue.
Grapes from these very vineyards had produced the wine he drank in celebration of his wedding to his beautiful wife, dead and buried five years now, God rest her soul.
Anthony Carlino did not overly imbibe, as did many of his compatriots. He’d only been drunk three times in his entire life.
Once, while still a young lad, when he had first been inducted as a runner for the Cosa Nostra.
The second, after having been stabbed. An old woman from the village worked to save him from the deep wound in the upper thigh that nicked his femoral artery, nearly ending his life. The only sedative the old woman had was wine … and so.
The third, and last, after making his first kill.
Anthony Carlino did not get drunk the night of his marriage.
He did not get drunk the day his son, Nickolas, was born.
He did not get drunk the day his daughter Carla was born or even when he was made the Capofamiglia by the Cupola.
No, Anthony Carlino had learned early on that losing control of one's senses was an efficient way of getting killed … or worse … losing face. Some of his friends and many of his enemies had made the mistake of thinking him out of control because of his occasional outbursts of anger. But these were part of a carefully constructed facade. He did get angry at times; this much was true, but he never lost control. Not ever. His mind always stayed calm and detached—thinking, calculating, planning. And that was why he was still alive when so many of his contemporaries were not.
Kneeling, he spied an errant string sticking out from a knot tied around a guiding stake. He snapped open his lighter, a golden work of art—a gift from his Bella on their twentieth anniversary.
He rarely cried at the thought of her passing. Not anymore. Mostly now, he was just thankful for the many years they enjoyed together.
Giving the soil a final caress, breathing in the rich earthy smell, Anthony Carlino stood. A cold ache in his knees and lower back was becoming a near-constant companion. He winced and rubbed the spot as a burst of gunfire erupted from close by. The sounds were suppressed—or at least as suppressed as automatic gunfire could be with expensive baffling devices attached.
Most people would not even know what the muffled pops were, but Anthony Carlino had been too long in the business not to recognize the distinct sound signature of automatic weaponry. Just as he had been too long in life not to know they had come for him.
No matter that he had retired five years ago. No matter that he was now just a simple vinedresser. An old man with no power or worth.
No, none of this mattered.
There were always grudges, generational feuds, secret hatreds, unrequited revenge.
Those rivers of blood for which he was responsible.
The biblical notion, “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword,” was never more evident than in the Mafia. And so he knew, without doubt, that the sounds were intended for him.
Anthony Carlino moved toward the little shed, just thirty impossible yards away. Inside was a double-barreled shotgun that his grandpa had given him when he was nine. The weapon, still in perfect condition and always loaded with slugs as thick and heavy as a large man’s thumb, rested to the side of the door.
When he was halfway there, a small war exploded behind him. The last of his bodyguards staggered backward from the courtyard and into the vineyard, blood pouring from his scalp and several holes in his pressed suit. He fired twice at his attackers and then shook and fell as bullets obliterated his chest.
A small army appeared, spreading out in line formation. All were armed. Anthony Carlino continued to run for the shed, but his old legs were no longer capable of the speed of youth. He could never hope to make it before they killed him, but Anthony Carlino’s mind had already calculated that he had no chance against them with just his hands. Making it to the gun was his only hope.
Two of the men ran after him, shotguns pointed at his back. Twin booms of the big guns sounded in unison, and he felt the double impacts, like Chuck Norris kicks strike him in the center of his spine and just above his right kidney. The pain was minimal for an instant, and then lightning shot down from Heaven, and he almost shamed himself by screaming. His muscles locked, dropping him face-first into the moist dirt. Agony engulfed him as the Tasers ran their five-second cycles. When they finished, he lay there, eyes closed, chest still, not breathing.
The closest of the men reached him and, sliding a gloss-shined shoe under his stomach, turned him onto his back. Anthony Carlino reached up and grabbed hold of the shotgun, wrenched it from the surprised man’s grasp, spun it expertly around and shot him in the face.
Instead of blood and brain exploding, as Anthony Carlino expected, an electric arc snapped and crackled from the probes lodged in the man’s cheek, a dangling base hanging by wires attached to the probes. He racked another round into the chamber and turned it toward the second hitman, but he was a hair too slow. He felt his body lock tight as another Taser round caught him in the chest before he could pull the trigger. An overwhelming sensation of lightning from God engulfed Anthony Carlino’s every thought. And then the heavy stock of carbon-fiber from the butt of the man’s gun connected with his forehead, sending him to the land of dreams, where rivers of scarlet washed over him, filling his soul with memories of a red, brighter than wine and thicker than blood.
2
The sun crested the horizon to the east, casting a beautiful purple blaze over the snow-capped mountain peaks that stood proud and seemingly impassible to the west. Trotting up the side of the hogback at an easy pace-eating gait, Max searched for something to kill, his mood foul—ugly. The night’s hunt had been unfruitful and frustrating. Twice he’d caught the scent of predators, once on the rocks by the brook and another near the copse of trees in the valley. But both times, his prey eluded him.
Behind him was the reason.
He waited for Pilgrim to catch up.
Usually, Pilgrim was sound asleep when Max left for the hunt. Max preferred to hunt alone. It was safer that way.
Safer for Pilgrim.
But his feelings for the big animal had subtly changed since Pilgrim survived the battle that Max had thought would surely kill him.
Max had smelled the scent of death on him.
The big dog was slower than Max, but he’d healed well, and although he was old, he didn’t fall too far behind.
But he was noisy.
A fat, gray rabbit hopped out from beneath a sparse bush five yards to his right. Max’s lightning-fast reflexes almost cost the animal its life, but he checked himself and took note of Pilgrim finall
Max thought he should have probably left the old dog at home. He wasn’t going to catch much at this rate.
The breeze, slight as it was, came from down the mountain, bringing the sounds and smells from below up to him. He heard the cars and detected the rolling dust they produced long before he saw them.
Pilgrim didn’t catch it at all.
But Max let it go.
He recognized two of the scents from months ago. Two men. Max had almost killed one of them. And he would have killed the other, but the Alpha stopped him.
The cars wound their way up the road heading for the house. Max looked to Pilgrim, but still, he hadn’t caught their scent. Max nudged him and stuck his own nose in the air. Pilgrim copied Max’s behavior, scenting in quick little head bobs and jerks. It took him a few seconds, but then he got it.
Max ran to cut the men off.
Pilgrim followed as best he could.
Max didn’t wait for Pilgrim this time. He smelled something other than the men. Something other than the cars, weapons, guns, oil, or gunpowder.
He accelerated his pace, leaving Pilgrim far behind. Max would beat the men to the Alpha … and he would be waiting.
3
The small caravan reminded me of when Senator Alvin Marsh and his entourage arrived on my mountain not so long ago. The senator had hired me to find a little girl named Keisha who had been kidnapped by a man named Jerome. Jerome was buried next to an old snitch of mine from my police days about fifty yards from where I stood.
This time, instead of government black SUVs, the group was made up of three custom-built, black limousines decked out with chrome wheels and high gloss waxed paint jobs.
I had just sunk an ax head into a thick stump I use as a type of anvil after finishing up a cord of wood and was about to head inside for a flaxseed shake when I saw the cars rounding the bend toward my house. I was beginning to see why Batman had his Bat Cave and Superman his Fortress of Solitude. After all, I do have an office. I pay big bucks for it in downtown Denver, just down the street from the baseball stadium. With a secretary and everything. Where clients are welcome to call and make an appointment. This barging in on my off time at my home was beginning to get old.
Glancing at my watch, I saw it was only 0730—that’s early morning for those who don’t know military time. I spent some years in the Marine Corps and then some more years as a cop at the Sheriff’s Office before getting canned for going after the guy who murdered my wife and daughter, events which led me to become the glamorous private investigator I am today.
I still needed a shower and a change of clothes, seeing as how I was still dressed in running shorts and a blue tee-shirt with the logo “The Just shall live by Faith” splayed across the front. The neck was wet with sweat, as was my forehead. I bet I smelled nice too. Not exactly ideal for meeting new clients, who I assumed were riding in the cars that were pulling up. Either that or they were real classy killers come to get me.
Turned out both were sort of the truth.
The trio of vehicles stopped, and Nick Carlino stepped out of the back of the middle car. Big Sal, his bodyguard, unfolded his giant frame from the front passenger seat and squinted at me. The driver of each vehicle stayed inside their respective cars, while three big, tough-looking Mafia types piled out of each of the other two cars and formed a protective circle around Nick as though they thought I was going to attack him.
A younger guy got out of the car with Nick and stood beside him. I recognized him as Nick’s nephew. He was a muscular kid with some nasty scars on his throat, courtesy of Max, from an unexpected visit Sal and the kid paid to me a few months ago.
The whole thing had been a misunderstanding, but still, it didn’t turn out well for them.
The kid looked at me, his eyes hard.
Nick walked up to me, his circle of protection moving like water, facing away from him, watching everywhere else. I noticed all of them were sporting fully automatic SMGs (small machine guns). It’s the kind of thing one tends to notice.
The guards flowed past me, allowing me access to the circle. It was a well-executed, precision movement worthy of a crack military drill team.
Color me impressed.
Nick held out his hand. I shook it.
“Nice place you have here,” said Nick.
Nick’s a good-looking guy, slim but not skinny, jet-black hair, no beard or stash, very expensive gray suit. Italian gangster all the way.
“Thank you,” I said.
I waved my hand at the circle. “Do you always travel like this?”
Nick didn’t smile. “Dangerous times call for dangerous measures.”
I was pretty sure that wasn’t the way the saying went, but correcting Mafia godfathers could be tricky, so I let it go. “Dangerous times?”
“We have much to discuss,” said Nick.
“Want to come inside?” I asked.
Before he could answer, Pilgrim came trotting over the berm from the west and approached. Two men pointed guns at him, but Sal waved them down. Pilgrim came through the circle and sidled up beside me, his tongue lolling and tail wagging. He was breathing hard and limping a bit … but not too bad. I scrunched his ears and rubbed his head, so happy he was alive. Pilgrim had a run-in with an old friend of mine turned enemy, and I almost lost him. Instead, I lost the old friend turned enemy—and I’d kill him again right now rather than lose Pilgrim. I saw Nick’s nephew take a step back, his hand inside his suit coat, the unmistakable sign of reaching for a gun.,
I shook my head, looking him in the eye. “He’s not the one you need to worry about,” I said. I shifted my eyes behind him, and he jerked around. Max was sitting, not three feet away, still as death. He’d somehow breached the circle without anyone seeing him.
I saw the kid’s face go pale, and he started to shake a little.
Couldn’t blame him. Not after what Max did to him last time.
“Go lay down, Max,” I said.
Max looked past the kid to me as if considering. Then he turned and casually walked out of the circle and out of sight around the front of the house.
I knew he wasn’t far … and … that he was watching.
Nick’s gaze followed Max till he was gone, then turned back to me. He nodded. “That’s actually scary,” he said. “And I don’t scare easily.”
I nodded. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“This one, though,” said Nick, pointing at Pilgrim, “this one’s cute. Mind if I pet him?”
“He loves attention,” I said.
Nick knelt down and played with Pilgrim’s giant head, his face up close and personal to inch-and-a-half-long canines. If he’d seen the damage those tusks had caused just a few months earlier, he might have thought twice.
Nick stood up. “Yes,” he said, “inside would be good.”
The circle flowed around us as we made it to the front door.
“You need your men to search it first?” I asked, remembering the senator’s guards.
“No,” said Nick. “We are friends, you and I.”
I opened the door, and Nick, Sal, Nick’s nephew, and I went inside, Pilgrim following. Nick’s nephew kept his eyes from mine as he brushed past and entered my home. Pilgrim went to his water bowl and lapped noisily. Nick laughed at the sound. When Pilgrim finished, he went to his bed and thumped down. He was asleep almost instantly.
