Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [134]
“Bet on this one,” Pins said.
Geronimo snapped down on the red wire and waited for the flash. Once again willing a device to his terms.
• • •
THE FOUR APACHES were jolted in their seats by the loud explosion. They were in Boomer’s car, at the far end of the parking lot.
They watched the bowling alley implode. Shards of glass and thick debris flew in all directions. The ceiling caved in, smoke and dust filtered through the air.
Mrs. Columbo gave out a low moan. Rev. Jim was crying and swearing in a rage of emotion. Dead-Eye balled his hands into fists, rubbing them against his legs. Boomer was a mask of stone, the flames reflecting off the darkness of his deep-set eyes. He felt inside his leather jacket, his hand gripping the sticks of dynamite Geronimo had given him. He pulled his hand away and turned the ignition on the car, shoved the gear into drive, and pulled out of the lot.
“Where we going, Boom?” Dead-Eye asked.
“To finish it.”
“We know where?” Rev. Jim wanted to know, glancing back at the smoke billowing from the bowling alley.
“We will,” Boomer said, looking through the rearview. “Pins wired Wilber. We’ll pick him up on the scanner on our way to Nunzio’s.”
“That where we going now?” Mrs. Columbo asked. Her voice was stoic, almost mechanical.
“That’s our first stop,” Boomer said.
“And the second?” Dead-Eye asked.
“To pick up a friend.” Boomer lowered his foot to the gas pedal, pushing the speedometer past seventy.
“Anybody we know?” Dead-Eye asked.
“Deputy Inspector Lavetti,” Boomer said, throwing Mrs. Columbo a quick look over his shoulder and rolling his window up, the night chill too bitter against his face.
“At least it’s somebody we can trust,” Rev. Jim said, slouching in his seat and closing his eyes to the sounds of the night.
20
THEY STOOD IN the center of Nunzio’s cramped basement, surrounded by red wooden wine barrels and thick crates marked with a government seal. Several of the crates had been eased open with the flat end of a crowbar. An iron door leading to steps and street level was locked and barred. A series of bare bulbs hung overhead.
“Everything you need, you can find inside the crates,” Nunzio said, approaching one and resting a tray loaded with five cups of coffee on it.
“Where did all this stuff come from?” Dead-Eye shook his head in awe. He took a cup from the tray and walked from one crate to the next, his eyes fixed on the astonishing cache of Ingram submachine guns, semiautomatics, grenades, launchers, timers, bullets, vests, knives, and liquid explosives.
“You’re not my only friends,” Nunzio said.
“We need one other thing from you,” Boomer said. He passed on the coffee, instead filling a plastic cup with wine from one of the barrels.
“Tell me,” Nunzio said.
“A private plane. With a pilot you trust. We’re going to need to move all the equipment out of state and my airport connection can’t help me walk in with this heavy a load.”
“You want him for the round trip?” Nunzio asked.
Boomer took a look at the Apaches before he answered. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll be comin’ back. One way or the other.”
“Where to?”
“Arizona,” Boomer said. “Small town, about thirty miles outside Sedona. I’d like to be in the air in about two hours. We picked up Wilber yappin’ away over Pins’s wire. In between the laugh and the brag, he talked about taking his crew back to Lucia’s compound.”
“They want to fight you on their turf,” Nunzio said. “Why not wait and take ’em out on your own ground.”
“We just lost two good cops on our own ground,” Mrs. Columbo said.
“You don’t even know the layout,” Nunzio said. “How many guns she’s got, what you’re up against. You gonna do it, do it right, Boomer. Don’t turn it into a suicide ride.”
“This is the right way,” Boomer said. “It’s the way it’s supposed to be. Us against them.”
“From the phones on that plane we can reach out to all our federal contacts,” Rev. Jim said. “Ask ’em to tell us what they know about her spread.”
“And then we tell ’em we’re going in,” Boomer said. “Ask them to follow us out a few hours later.”
“How