as the guard fell to his knees and then the ground, dark liquid shooting from his neck.
Vincenzo looked back at the two remaining guards. They still stared through their holes.
Good, fuck ’em.
He crawled over and unstrapped the hand cannon from the fallen guard and then chambered a round. With the resolve of a Fuccini family man, he stood, wiped the sweat off his forehead and aimed at the guard on his right, at least twenty feet away.
Vincenzo fired and then fired again, the recoil knocking him back a step each time.
The second shot wasn’t necessary. The first knocked into the man high in the chest area, throwing him at least five feet in the air before he fell, a clump of human waste.
Damn that recoil. Didn’t expect that.
He turned to the other guard who watched him now, his weapon leveled at Vincenzo.
“Don’t make me fire, Vinny,” the guard pleaded. “I have orders to keep you four safe. You are not the enemy. They are.” He pointed to the outside wall. “I will fire to save my life, but I don’t want to. Let’s walk out of here together.”
He needed to wipe sweat from his forehead again, but resisted, letting it slide down, tickling him as it went.
“Okay, you’re right. Let’s leave. Can you drive?” Vincenzo dropped his aim.
The guard lowered his weapon. “Yeah. I’ll drive.”
In that second, Vincenzo lifted his gun back in place and fired round after round into the guard. The man had no chance.
Alone inside the hangar, Vincenzo walked over to the guard and looked down at him as he gasped for breath. Blood pooled around the man’s mouth.
“Next time, don’t call me Vinny.”
He chambered a round, aimed at the guard’s face, and fired from one foot away. The man’s head exploded and disappeared in a wet mush of human skin and bone. Vincenzo looked back down at the body and the dent in the hangar floor where the head had been.
A shame. A fucking shame.
He headed for the only open door in the hangar. No one remained alive in the building and it didn’t sound like anyone was alive outside either. Not a single bullet had been fired outside or inside since he’d killed the guard who had given him the goggles. Nothing else came from the bullhorn. Only the crackling fire from the fully engulfed van.
As he neared the door, he removed the goggles and stepped up to the edge of the door frame. He dropped the guard’s gun. In all his thirty-eight years, he had never seen this many dead men. A major battle had taken place and he was the only man left standing. His father would be so proud. Not a scratch on him. That was what family bosses were made of.
The peace accord had been handed to him on a platter, he realized. Now, with all three crime bosses dead, and many Gambino family member’s bodies strewn about, their seconds would be named. Vincenzo’s father, and by extension, himself, would garner the respect due to an original family. The fact that Vincenzo would walk away from this carnage was enough to make him a hero. His name would go down in the mafia history books for years come.
Yeah, as long as there’s no asshole only half-dead, a gun in his hand, waiting for me to walk by.
He looked out and scanned the territory surrounding the hangar. Nothing moved.
“Okay, I surrender,” he shouted, in case anyone was alive to hear him. “I’m coming out.”
Vincenzo stepped into the open, his hands raised.
Two feet from the door and no one had taken a shot at him. No one popped a head up or said anything. He took a few more steps. Still nothing.
His stomach couldn’t handle the tension. At any moment, he was convinced that someone was going to sit up, like a fucking Jack-in-the-box, and fire a round into his eye.
But no one did.
The moon sat high, the fire crackled to his left, the insects of the night remained quiet, and no one shot at him.
Amazing. Fucking
Vincenzo looked back at the two remaining guards. They still stared through their holes.
Good, fuck ’em.
He crawled over and unstrapped the hand cannon from the fallen guard and then chambered a round. With the resolve of a Fuccini family man, he stood, wiped the sweat off his forehead and aimed at the guard on his right, at least twenty feet away.
Vincenzo fired and then fired again, the recoil knocking him back a step each time.
The second shot wasn’t necessary. The first knocked into the man high in the chest area, throwing him at least five feet in the air before he fell, a clump of human waste.
Damn that recoil. Didn’t expect that.
He turned to the other guard who watched him now, his weapon leveled at Vincenzo.
“Don’t make me fire, Vinny,” the guard pleaded. “I have orders to keep you four safe. You are not the enemy. They are.” He pointed to the outside wall. “I will fire to save my life, but I don’t want to. Let’s walk out of here together.”
He needed to wipe sweat from his forehead again, but resisted, letting it slide down, tickling him as it went.
“Okay, you’re right. Let’s leave. Can you drive?” Vincenzo dropped his aim.
The guard lowered his weapon. “Yeah. I’ll drive.”
In that second, Vincenzo lifted his gun back in place and fired round after round into the guard. The man had no chance.
Alone inside the hangar, Vincenzo walked over to the guard and looked down at him as he gasped for breath. Blood pooled around the man’s mouth.
“Next time, don’t call me Vinny.”
He chambered a round, aimed at the guard’s face, and fired from one foot away. The man’s head exploded and disappeared in a wet mush of human skin and bone. Vincenzo looked back down at the body and the dent in the hangar floor where the head had been.
A shame. A fucking shame.
He headed for the only open door in the hangar. No one remained alive in the building and it didn’t sound like anyone was alive outside either. Not a single bullet had been fired outside or inside since he’d killed the guard who had given him the goggles. Nothing else came from the bullhorn. Only the crackling fire from the fully engulfed van.
As he neared the door, he removed the goggles and stepped up to the edge of the door frame. He dropped the guard’s gun. In all his thirty-eight years, he had never seen this many dead men. A major battle had taken place and he was the only man left standing. His father would be so proud. Not a scratch on him. That was what family bosses were made of.
The peace accord had been handed to him on a platter, he realized. Now, with all three crime bosses dead, and many Gambino family member’s bodies strewn about, their seconds would be named. Vincenzo’s father, and by extension, himself, would garner the respect due to an original family. The fact that Vincenzo would walk away from this carnage was enough to make him a hero. His name would go down in the mafia history books for years come.
Yeah, as long as there’s no asshole only half-dead, a gun in his hand, waiting for me to walk by.
He looked out and scanned the territory surrounding the hangar. Nothing moved.
“Okay, I surrender,” he shouted, in case anyone was alive to hear him. “I’m coming out.”
Vincenzo stepped into the open, his hands raised.
Two feet from the door and no one had taken a shot at him. No one popped a head up or said anything. He took a few more steps. Still nothing.
His stomach couldn’t handle the tension. At any moment, he was convinced that someone was going to sit up, like a fucking Jack-in-the-box, and fire a round into his eye.
But no one did.
The moon sat high, the fire crackled to his left, the insects of the night remained quiet, and no one shot at him.
Amazing. Fucking
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