Page 71 of Return of the Spider

He pulled off his hood. The Haitian gang leader stared in surprise and then open hatred at Guillermo Costa, disgraced Marine, former leader of Los Lobos, ex-con who’d supposedly learned his lesson and gone straight.

Costa said, “Who did that to my nephew Shay Mansion? Who strung him up like that?”

Prince shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re—”

Costa shot. Donovan jerked in her chair. The round pinged off the concrete next to the Haitian, who looked terrified as he raised his hands.

“Next one takes off your cojones,” Costa said. “Who did that to Shay?”

Prince swallowed and gestured with his head toward his cousin. “Valentine. It was his idea. He saw it through.”

“Wait!” Rodolpho screamed and put up his hands when Costa stepped his way, aiming at point-blank range.

“You killed my nephew and destroyed my cousin,” Costa said. He shot Rodolpho dead and swung his attention and weapon back to Prince, who had gotten the belt around his upper thigh and was tightening it.

Costa nodded at us. “Tell them where the heroin is, Patrice. They’ll find it anyway.”

The Haitian frowned.

“Your cojones?”

Prince angrily gestured with his chin. “South side of the warehouse. The blue fifty-five-gallon drums marked ‘Dust-Control Liquids.’”

“And the other kid?” Sampson said. “Tony Miller?”

The Haitian looked puzzled.

I said, “The kid who was tipping off our narcotics division about the location of your street sellers.”

Sampson said, “The kid who was stabbed multiple times and tossed in the Potomac.”

Prince hesitated as if considering his options, then relaxed and pointed at his cousin’s corpse. “Valentine’s idea too.”

“I don’t believe you,” Costa growled. “And even if it was his idea, you damn sure brought in the heroin that killed Shay’s father, my cousin’s husband. In every way, the world will be a better place without you, Patrice.”

Prince had a moment of panic, a moment to shrink from his fate. Costa showed no mercy and shot him in the heart, then stood there, watching impassively, as the Haitian gang leader slumped and died, his eyes dulling.

It had all unfolded so fast, I did not realize how deep into fight-or-flight I was until Costa dropped the clip on his rifle, cleared the bullet in the chamber, and put everything down on the floor. He stepped over Rodolpho’s body and took a seat on a folding chair by Officer Donovan, who was bent over, weeping.

He looked at us. “Sorry about all this, Detectives. It had to happen. You just got in Costa’s way.”

Costa patted Donovan on the shoulder and said softly, “You’re going to be okay, lady, whoever you are. Let’s get you free.”

CHAPTER

58

By nine ten onMonday evening, Gary Soneji had Bunny Maddox in the van, liquored up, doped up, and bound with duct tape. He was driving northeast by nine fifteen.

On an ordinary day, the trip from Richmond to the Pine Barrens might have taken him five hours, tops. But shortly after he got back on I-95 north heading toward the nation’s capital, he heard on the radio that a massive three-way gunfight was going on between police and two warring gangs in Davidsonville, Maryland, and roadblocks were being set up there and on the Beltway to prevent participants from escaping.

To give the area a wide berth, Soneji drove for hours through thick fog, sticking to state highways and dark county roads. It was shortly before dawn when he finally reached his isolated cabin. He pulled the van forward to the mouth of an old loggingroad that wound toward the rear of his property and the boundary with the state forest.

When he got out, a cold wind gnawed at him. He went around the back and opened the van. Bunny Maddox lay on her side in the trash and the leaves, eyes closed, wrists, ankles, and mouth duct-taped.

He shook the bottom of one red Chuck Taylor sneaker.

Bunny’s eyelids fluttered. She groaned, tried to sit up, but couldn’t; she closed her eyes again, probably still high from the barbiturates and vodka he’d made her ingest before putting her in restraints.