Warren Murphy: Syndication Rites

The Gabinettos were hulking brutes with broad shoulders and massive fists. Unlike their fellow paisans, there were no nicknames for the four sons of Francesca Gabinetto. A distinctive sobriquet for any of them would have been redundant. To say "Gabinetto" was to say it all.

Their dark, looming shapes were throwbacks to some primordial time in Earth's history. In fact, many who met them thought the Gabinettos looked as if they'd be more comfortable splashing around a Cretaceous swamp. Even their normal mode of communication, which involved a great deal of shouting and hand waving, seemed to be from another age.

This night, the shouts were silenced, the hand gestures stilled. This night, their primitive silhouettes moved with silent purpose within the confines of the warm office.

They peered out the window at the dark shape that sat behind the wheel of the battered station wagon.

"You think he's waiting for this guy?" Emilio Gabinetto whispered. As he spoke, he nodded across the room.

A body lay on the floor near the open door to the rear storage room.

Mark Howard's hands had been tied clumsily behind his back. Dried blood darkened a spot on his light brown hair. His chest moved up and down rhythmically under his blue sweatshirt. He was unconscious, but alive.

"Don't matter," replied Fabio, the oldest of the Gabinetto brothers and therefore their leader. "I figured if that was the guy what's been whackin' everybody, we'd give him to Don Scubisci for a parole present. Now there's two of 'em, it's too complicated. We'll just kill 'em both."

"Shh!" hissed Jennio Gabinetto. He was still peering out through the miniblinds. "He's almost there."

The other two behemoths peeked outside.

A huge figure was sneaking up on the parked station wagon from behind. They watched in satisfaction as Mario, their youngest brother, crept up to the driver's door.

"We whack him, den dis guy, and maybe we can finally get outta here," Fabio grumbled. He jerked his head toward the sleeping man across the room.

Outside, their brother had reached the car door. A hand as big as a small snow shovel reached for the handle. With a wrench, he tore the door open, swinging up the gun he held in his other massive hand.

Through the picture window, the three waiting Gabinettos heard a muffled pop. Their brother was still standing at the car's open door as Fabio turned to the others.

"Okay, one of youse guys aerate him," he said, pointing to Mark Howard. "I'll get on the phone wit Holy Pauli and tell him it's done."

Fabio hadn't taken a single step toward the telephone when he heard a stunned gasp from one of his brothers. He twisted back to the window just in time to see the big shadow that had obscured the station wagon tumble over backward.

"Dey popped Mario!" Jennio Gabinetto said, shocked.

As he spoke, a figure emerged from the car. The man had pulled on a ski mask. As he stepped over the lifeless body of the youngest Gabinetto, they could see the rifle in the masked man's hands.

"Dammit!" Fabio growled. "Ma's gonna kill me."

The armed man was heading for the front of the office. Fabio was about to order his brothers to shoot through the window when he noticed another figure slip from the shadows behind the car. This one was followed by four-no, five more. All carried rifles braced against their chests. Each man wore a ski mask and jungle camouflage.

"I taut dese guys din't use guns," Emilio Gabinetto hissed even as he pulled his own weapon from his holster.

Fabio and Jennio already had guns in hand. "Shut up," Fabio whispered. He was staring at the door. He'd lost sight of the lead commandos seconds before.

When the shooting began an instant later, the suddenness startled the three crouching men.

Bullets chewed the wood around the doorknob. Even as the hot lead screamed into the office, a booted foot kicked the door open. A masked commando rolled into the room, rifle up and searching for targets.

Fabio laid him out with a single shot to the forehead. The dead man was falling to his knees as the next wave of soldiers leaped through the open door. The heavily armed men dove behind desks and chairs, all the while shooting at the Gabinettos. Returning fire, Fabio and his brothers took cover behind a row of filing cabinets.

More shooting echoed from the rear storeroom. Fabio heard the sound of another door being kicked in.

"Dere's more coming in the back!" he yelled. As he fired at the shadowy figures, Fabio suddenly thought they might be coming to collect the guy he and his brothers had knocked out. One thing was sure; if Fabio Gabinetto was going down, he'd make this was a hollow victory.

He swung his gun toward the back of the office, ready to plant a few rounds into the unconscious man.

His eyes went wide.

The guy was gone. The open storeroom door was only a few feet from where they'd dumped him. "Dammit!" Fabio growled. He smacked Jennio in the side of the head with his gun butt. "I told you we shoulda whacked that guy," he snarled. As Jennio rubbed his head with his free hand, Fabio turned his attention back to their attackers. With an angry scowl, he resumed firing at the mysterious masked men.

MARK HOWARD HAD COME around more than an hour earlier. Feigning unconsciousness, he'd watched the activity in the office through slivered eyes.

There didn't appear to be any way of escape. Though his bonds were loose, he couldn't very well wriggle out of them in full view of his captors. He'd lain quietly on the floor, his body cold from his own sweat, with no hope of survival.

His shocking salvation came when the door to the office was kicked open amid a barrage of bullets. The new arrivals quickly got into a gunfight with the men who'd grabbed him while he was skulking around the rear door of the Miami Raffair office. Mark seized his chance. Hands still tied behind his back, he had crawled desperately on toes and knees into the back room.

In seconds, Mark slithered out of his bonds and was upright, running for the rear exit. He had almost reached it when fresh gunfire erupted through it. As bullets pierced the steel door, Mark dove through an open doorway to his left. He landed roughly on the floor of a small office.

Mark was scampering to his feet just as the first gun muzzle appeared around the door frame. It moved in tentatively, like the sniffing nose of a curious animal.

He was cornered. The only door was the one he'd just come through. There were no windows. As his eyes darted around the room, Mark saw a familiar shape lying on a chair.

His heart knotted at the sight of his gun. He pounced on the weapon, tearing at the holster's Velcro straps.

His stalker in the hallway heard the sound. The man twisted around the corner just as Mark lifted his gun. With a look a fierce triumph, Mark squeezed the trigger.

It didn't budge.

He suddenly remembered he'd left on the safety. Problem was, it was so long since he'd bought the damn thing, he didn't remember where the safety switch was.

And as he twisted and shook the weapon in helpless frustration, the masked man who had just entered the small room raised his own gun, ready to fire.

Mark's eyes grew wide. He felt his breath catch as the rifle was aimed at his chest. The world slowed to a crawl, then stopped completely. Distorted sounds came in amplified waves to his suddenly acute ears.

Shouting from out front. Fresh shock above the roar of gunfire. Nearer, the rustle of fabric as the gunman raised his elbow. Hand shifting in slow motion, finger tensing on the rifle's trigger. To the right, a deafening explosion as the wail to the small office suddenly burst in.

For Mark, the world tripped back to normal time. In a hail of plaster dust, the upended body of Emilio Gabinetto soared through the wall. Before the gunman could fire, the flying Gabinetto had slammed into him with the force of a speeding freight train.