Judge & Jury - James Patterson [2]
I took a step closer, zooming in with the lens.
“No problem. That’s Dominic Cavello!”
Two
“THIS IS A GO!” I barked into the mike attached to my shirt collar. “Target is a bald male in black glasses, seated in a wheelchair at a table on the left-hand side of the deck. It’s Cavello! He is to be treated as armed and likely to resist.”
From where I was, I had a firsthand view of the next few minutes of action. Tom Roach and Robin Hammill jumped out of the van in the parking lot and headed for the entrance.
We had manpower, backup all over the place—even agents posing as bartenders and waiters on the inside. I had a Coast Guard cutter half a mile offshore, with an Apache helicopter that could be mobilized if necessary.
Not even Dominic Cavello would turn his brother’s daughter’s wedding into a firefight, right?
Wrong.
A couple of hoods in light-blue tuxedos were taking a smoke break outside when they spotted my team coming out of the van. One headed back inside while the other blocked their approach. “Sorry, this is a private affair. . . .”
Tom Roach flashed his shield. “Now it’s open to the public. FBI.”
I zoomed back to the other wiseguy hurrying out to the wedding party on the deck. He ran up to the crippled old man in the wheelchair.
I was right! It was definitely Cavello! But our cover was shot.
“We’re blown!” I yelled, fixing on the commotion on the deck. “Everybody close in on Cavello! Manny, you and Ed stay put and cover the dunes. Taylor,” I called out to an agent posing as a waiter, “wait for Tom’s crew.”
Then Cavello jumped out of the wheelchair, suddenly the healthiest guy in the world. Steve Taylor put down his serving tray and pulled a gun from under his jacket. “FBI!” he yelled.
I heard a shot and watched Taylor go down and stay down.
Chaos erupted. Guests were scurrying around the deck, some shrieking, others ducking under tables. A few of the well-known mob bosses were hurrying toward the exits.
I refocused on Cavello. He was hunched over, slinking through the crowd, still in disguise. He was making a path toward the stairs leading down to the beach.
I took out my Glock and hopped off the ledge I’d been perched on. Then I ran for the clubhouse along the shore road.
I stayed near the white clapboard clubhouse, then ran in the restaurant’s front door and through to the deck. I could still see Cavello. He had peeled off his black glasses. He shoved an old woman out of his way and leaped over a wooden fence—then he was running toward the dunes.
We had him!
Three
“MANNY, ED, he’s headed toward you!”
I saw where Cavello was going. He was trying to get to a helicopter up on the point, obviously his helicopter. I pushed through the crowd, shoving people out of the way. At the edge of the deck, I looked down.
Cavello was stumbling over the grassy dunes, making his way along the beach.
Then he ducked behind a tall dune, and I lost sight of him.
I shouted into the radio, “Manny, Ed, he should be on you any second now.”
“I got him, Nick,” Manny squawked.
“Federal agents,” I heard Manny shout through the radio.
Then there were shots. Two quick ones—followed by four or five more in rapid succession.
My blood turned to ice. Oh, Jesus. I leaped over the fence, then ran down the dunes toward the beach. I lost my footing and fell to one knee. I righted myself and hurtled in the direction of the shots.
I stopped.
Two bodies were lying faceup on the beach. My heart was pumping. I ran to them, sliding in the sand, which was stained dark with blood.
Oh, dear God, no.
I knew that Manny was dead. Ed Sinclair was gurgling blood, a gunshot wound in his chest.
Dominic Cavello was fifty yards ahead, holding his wounded shoulder but getting away.
“Manny and Ed are down,” I yelled into the mike. “Get help here now!”
Cavello was running toward a helicopter. The cabin door was open. I took off after him.
“Cavello, stop!” I shouted. “I’ll shoot!”
Cavello looked back over his shoulder.