Prologue: The Beginning
The room was practically pitch black. The only source of light was from the natural moonlight; it shone through the many windows in the bedroom. The pillows were on the floor, and the blanket splayed. Long toned legs flailed about, as they wrestled with the sheets below. The alarm had been set prior to bed, and it wasn't set to go off for another five or so hours. But unfortunately for Jane, her cellphone had beaten her alarm clock to the punch line; the ringtone was obnoxiously loud. The bedroom was a complete mess, with articles of clothing scattered throughout, but even so, she knew exactly where her cellphone was, amongst the jungle. Without much difficulty, or the need to open her eyes, Jane grabbed her cellphone off the nightstand and answered it, out of habit after so many years of doing so.
"Rizzoli."
"Jane." It was Korsak's voice; loud and clear, and alert. "We have another one."
"Oh, come on!" Jane looked over at her alarm clock. It was two-thirty in the morning. "Please tell me I'm dreaming, and that this isn't real."
"Sorry, Jane."
Jane sighed. "Where?"
"The docks."
And that's when Jane noticed the background noise. Korsak was definitely by the docks; if he wasn't, this was one elaborate prank he was playing.
"I wouldn't dare wake you if this wasn't an emergency, Jane. We need all hands on deck."
Jane rubbed her eyes, and in her raspy voice said, "Jesus. It's the third one this month, Korsak."
"You and I both know this is just the beginning..."
"Yeah. Of my worst nightmare."
"Yeah, well, it's mine, too."
"Give me twenty minutes. I'll pick us up some coffee."
"Bring your boots, Jane. You're going to need them. We're in for a long night."
Jane ended the call with another sigh. She couldn't bear any more of Korsak's good news. She tossed her cellphone on the bed, and flopped face down on the warm covers. Whatever remnant of sleep had evaporated, and in its place was a sense of helplessness, and maybe, just maybe, a dash of despair. She didn't want to admit it, but Korsak was right. This was just the beginning. The month of September had only began eight days ago, and they already had three bodies in the morgue.
The reason behind the violence, and body count, was simple, yet so complex. The answer: a turf war. It was turf war between the Irish and the Italians. The Italian mafia were a powerhouse in the City of Boston. They've long held a stronghold on Boston's racketeering, money laundering, and loan sharking market. Anything that generated greens, the Italian mafia had a hand in. But that's where things start to complicate. The Irish mob were young and bold, and had plenty of fresh blood. They were overstepping where they didn't belong. There's a rumor, that Paddy Doyle wasn't the one that initiated this violent turf war. No. It was his daughter. The heir to Doyle's clandestine empire. The daughter was eager to prove herself of worth, to the world, to the disbelievers, and more importantly, to all those that dare defy her.
Jane could not wait to put a face to the infamous CHB. In the short amount of time since she burst onto the scene, she's already made a reputation for herself for being ferocious, cunning, fearless, and downright mad. She was a woman hidden in the shadows of the underworld. The Intelligence Unit was having a difficult time tracking the ever elusive criminal mastermind; they don't so much as have her name, much less a picture. They had zilch. And that's when she took it upon herself to bestow the woman a fitting nickname, for many reasons. She named Doyle's daughter CHB: cold hearted bitch.
There was no end in sight for this maddening turf war. The Italians will continue to resist and retaliate, while the Irish will continue to advance and strike fear into the hearts of all Bostonians. And until such a time, Jane wasn't going to get a wink of sleep; she was certain of it.
Jane stripped off her boxer shorts and raggedy t-shirt. She pulled on a pair of dress pants, and a plain button down shirt. She made sure to grab her cellphone off the bed. She also grabbed her blazer from her closet hanger. Early fall night air in Boston chilled her to the bone.
- o -
The underground parking lot was empty; the main gates were closed after nine o'clock. The lot was below ground; it gave the place a cool draft. The lot was fortified with concrete pillars, which in turn, created plenty of blind spots. It was the perfect place, for the perfect crime. The lot was also filthy dirty. It only sweetened the deal. Whatever trace evidence they happen to leave behind would be rendered useless. It was a public lot. No exclusivity meant no probable cause.
There were five vehicles parked in a circle; two were sedans, and the rest were SUVs. Inside the manmade circle, was a man on his knees; he had his hands restrained behind his back with a zip tie. It wasn't a matter of if, but a matter of when. Regardless of how much he pleaded, or how hard he sobbed, it wasn't going to change the fact that he wasn't walking out of here alive. Whether he cooperated or not, his fate was sealed; he was going to die. Now that being said, he did have options; he did have a choice. If he should choose to cooperate, she'll let him die painlessly. But should he choose to resist, and be a dim-witted dick, she was going to have him die a slow and painful death; and that, she can guarantee him. Whatever his choice may be, it won't alter his outcome, but it'll definitely alter the process.
"Please..." Aldo begged for the umpteenth time, "I already told you everything I know."
"No. You haven't. That's the point."
"Look, I'm just the fucking middle man. I'm not privy to the details. I have a seller, and he has products he wants to move. I simply find a buyer, and broker a deal for the two parties. That's it, man, I swear! Please, you have to believe me."
"First off, I'm not a man." Her three inch heels clinked against the concrete floor, as she closed the distance between their bodies; she got up close and personal. "And secondly, you're lying."
"No! I'm not!" Aldo shook his head feverishly, "I'm telling you everything I know! I swear it!"
"See, right there, you just did it again. Whenever you lie, your left supraorbital brow ridge raises ever so slightly. Though the twitch is subtle, it's also quite obvious, given the fact that you have extraordinarily symmetrical facial features."
"Huh?"
"It sticks out like a staphylococcal infection on a thumb."
Snot oozed from Aldo's nostrils as he said, "Please, lady, speak English."
"Sticks out like a sore thumb."
Then without warning, she kicked him, dead center, in the chest. It sent him flying backwards. She proceeded to place her three inch heels over his groin; she paid particular emphasize on his testicles. More than ninety-six percent of a man's pain receptor when he gets hit in the groin originates from the testes, not the penis itself.
"This is your last chance."
"What do you —"
"Wrong again."
She dropped her heels down another inch.
Aldo hollered in intense pain.
If she pressed down any further, the sharp blade-like heels were going to pierce his testicles; not that she minded, if that's what it took.
"Stop! Hold it!" Aldo gave in; he waved the white flag. "Giovanni!"
She eased her foot, as a sign of encouragement for him to continue. "Go on."
"The buyer's name is Michael Vikram. He's some Russian tycoon that's looking to branch out, and expand his business portfolio, if you know what I mean. The seller's Lou Giovanni. The shipment's coming in from Peru. It's due to arrive sometime this week, but I don't know the exact time and date. But it should be easy to spot. Lou was saying something about coffee beans. I think that's the cover they're going to use to get the shipment through USBP. There. I told you everything I know. And that's the truth."
She observed him, if only just for a minute. She eased her foot off, completely. "Excellent. See. That wasn't so hard now, was it?"
"That's easy for you to say. Giovanni's going to fucking kill me if he knew I snitched on him." Aldo shivered at the mere thought, "You have no idea what they do to snitches, lady."
"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Brioschi. You're awfully optimistic. But here's the thing: they can't kill you, if we killed you first. Basic application of logic. It makes sense, yes?"
"But...I...I told you everything!"
She said coldly, "Stand him up."
One of the men holstered his gun, and pulled the weeping man to his feet.
"Give me two hundred jumping jacks."
"Huh?!"
"If you stop, I'll shoot you. Execution style."
"What —"
"And...go!"
Aldo didn't so much as hesitate. He did as he was told. Without the usage of his arms, he could only complete the exercise using his lower extremities; that would have to suffice. He worked out, every now and then, he was familiar with jumping jacks. But never, in a million years, did he expect to be doing them under such circumstances, and such duress.
Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds. That's how long it took Aldo Brioschi to complete two hundred jumping jacks. By the time he was done, a thin veil of sweat glistened on his forehead.
"Do you know why I made you do jumping jacks?"
Aldo shook his head. He couldn't speak; his breath was still caught in his throat.
"A healthy resting heart rate is between 60-80 beats per minute. You look relatively fit. It would be an educated guess to say your resting heart rate would be around 68 beats per minute, give or take. At 68bpm, and taking into account that the current room temperature is around 26.5°C, if I was to sever your carotid artery, with your height and body weight, it'll take you ten minutes to bleed out. And that's where the jumping jacks come in. By pushing your resting heart rate well above 130bpm, when I slice your carotid artery open, your heart will continue to pump vigorously, due in part to the oxygen deficiency from the jumping jacks. You'll bleed out in less than a minute. Quite a significant difference, would you not agree? Isn't physiology and cardiology simply fascinating?"
Aldo's face said it all, "What?!"
She took a scalpel and she slashed it across Aldo's throat. The incision was precise, and every bit as deadly, due in part to the years of medical training she received.
Blood gushed from Aldo's open wound like a geyser; it showed no signs of slowing down. And like she predicted, it took him fifty-seven seconds to bleed out; less than a minute's time.
"Let's get out of here."
"You nervous?"
She handed him the scalpel. "Not in the least."
"Don't lie to me, Maura. I can tell when your nerves are gnawing at you."
"I'm not nervous. I'm agitated. There's a difference."
"A distinction without a different."
Maura rolled her eyes, "Just drive."
- o -