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“The truck was emptied, but this was left behind.”
Cody hands me one of those plastic bracelets people seem to like so much. This one is orange and black—the colors of Marcello’s gang. It’s ripped up, likely caught on something in the truck.
“They all wear them,” Beni tells me.
“Are they this stupid?” I ask. “I’ve taken out members of the south gangs before.”
“You haven’t been around,” Beni says with a sneer. “Word got out. They got bold. I don’t think they realize you’re back.”
“They’re going to know now.” I flag Jonathan over.
“I need everything you can get on Marcello’s crowd,” I tell him. “Now.”
“On it.” Jonathan jogs over to his truck and grabs his laptop.
“I know where Marcello lives,” Paulie says. He moves to stand over me with his hand on the butt of his gun. “I can take care of him.”
“Where he lives is the last place he’ll be.” I look into Paulie’s face, debate filling it with a slug from his own gun, but resist. “You are staying with Rinaldo. I’m dealing with this lot.”
“I’m in charge of security here,” Paulie says as he puffs out his chest.
“Yeah,” I agree with a nod, “and you failed.”
Paulie’s fingers tighten around his weapon, but he doesn’t draw it out. I rather wish he would so I’d have an excuse to put a hole in his head. No such luck.
“I will take care of it,” he repeats slowly.
“No, you fucking won’t.” I step up closer to him. I have to tilt my head to look into his face, but his size does not intimidate me. “You are going to do exactly as you are told and stay right by Rinaldo’s side like an obedient little puppy. Capisce?”
His hands are trembling as we stare at each other. He bares his teeth slightly and seems as if he’s about to say something else, but we’re interrupted by Jonathan’s voice.
“Got something! Come take a look!”
Paulie breaks eye contact first and stares at the ground as I shove past him to take a look at the computer.
Jonathan’s brought up various images and names, including security camera footage from their own hangouts and meeting places. He has a list of the places where they gather and when. It takes only minutes to know where I can find them later tonight.
They’ve crossed a line—physically and metaphorically.
They’re going to pay.
*****
Sometimes you just have to go with the direct approach.
Marcello’s gang is known for its hangouts. They’ve put down roots in every establishment from Marquette Park all the way south to Ninety-fifth Street. They have worked hard to implant themselves on the streets of Auburn Grisham, and no one dares cross them in their own territory.
Fuck that.
I open up the Camaro and fly off the Dan Ryan Expressway to Seventy-first Street, nearly going airborne as I race over a slight hill. I slow down enough to make the turn and then barrel through two red lights. Focused on my goal—my targets—I don’t give a shit about traffic laws.
There’s a crappy little bar where Marcello and his group all hang out on weekdays—the whole lot of them. They do their business there, terrorize the neighborhood in general, and usually end up killing at least one of their own every month.
How they flourished so quickly in my absence is beyond me. I’m not sure I completely believe Beni’s assessment that they became so bold when they discovered I was no longer in Chicago. I’d been gone before. Something or someone has to be driving them up north.
I’ll think about that later.
Pulling into the alley next to the door of the small, run-down bar, I let the engine roar once more before I turn it off. I’m not going for stealth here. Reaching over to the floor of the passenger seat, I grab my assault rifle and step out onto the pavement. A bunch of graffiti defaces the side of the building, depicting various gang symbols and a bunch of names in stylized letters. Everything is orange and black as if Halloween never ended.
