.... by D. Grant DeMan
His crew had appeared as five turbaned afghan-cloaked Kyrgyz travelers to Kabul on a perilous camel journey through the Hindu Kush. Among them Capo Raspini "Razzberry" Rosso winced with every bactrian jostle jarring his seventy-five-year-old bones, most definitely not a duck soup trip. Upon arrival he was relieved to find all in order. They got the guy clocked. Planning was everything. Now he could do a piece of work here.
At once he appreciated Carmine's foresight in securing the M40A1 sniper rifle to its tripod bolted in the center of the hotel room. Peering through the Unert l scope, Rosso found the cross hairs distance-adjusted exactly in line with a slit window slicing through the thick concrete wall of a luxurious apartment 304.5 meters distant. Though he was aware the magazine held five rounds of match grade 7.62 mm ammunition, no doubt the one in the chamber would be ample -- he'd thrown a lot of lead in his day. Ready now to perform the magic burn, he checked his watch.
This was personal -- a matter of honor and respect.
It had been a year since he had witnessed his old compare, that Omerta-busting babbo traitor Cincinnati Cy, shooting his mouth to John Walsh's America's Most Wanted television program. "Old Razzberry Rosso - he got a Valentine birthmark on his chest you know - is some kinda psycho, but also a Capo di tutti capi wannabe. I learned from him like a kid looks up to his own father. He was my concigliere as well. Hey - they say he iced thirty people. I put the figure at five times that and runnin', and alla time using fed meateaters for lookouts. Ain't that something? So there's a million clams on his head? They'll never find him. He's got money and juice stashed all over. A master of makeup. Hell, he could now be a little old broad rocking on the porch of a Florida whore house as we speak, and no one the wiser."
Rosso smiled from his Biloxi recliner, adjusted his crocheted violet shawl while stretching his legs, musing, "The little gavone got the wrong state, but the correct getup. Guess I taught him good." These support stockings feel mighty, well uh, supportive; he reflected, too bad real guys don't naturally wear them. Pushing the gold rimmed spectacles up his bulbous nose, he once more returned his attention to the television, and the bearded fugitive now moving into focus:
America fights back on America's most wanted: Usama Bin Laden is wanted in connection with the August 7, 1998, bombings of the United States Embassies in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania and Nairobi, Kenya. These attacks killed over 200 people. CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING THIS PERSON, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FBI OFFICE OR THE NEAREST U.S. EMBASSY OR CONSULATE. REWARD: The United States Government is offering a reward of up to $5 million for information leading directly to the apprehension or conviction of Usama Bin Laden.
"Son of a bitch! This guy is worth more than me. He's number one on the Bureau's list and that puts me number two." Razzberry scratched his head and picked up the telephone. "Carmine, get over here. We got a job to do."
Carmine was expert, and before long Rosso found himself bundled up and flown god-knows-where until he wound up in some barren land on top of a camel in a posh Persian carpeted foam-fitted chair which eased the bony bounce parts. Nevertheless the ordeal would have killed a lesser man. "When a guy wants something bad he'll walk through fire to get it," he said.
Now he observed the roof guards with their Avtomat Kalashnikova AK-47s and peered through the scope awaiting the tall one with a cane, wearing a gold-fringed robe, for his research told him Osama Bin Laden was six-four or six-six. He'd pass the window, and Razzberry knew in his bones that the tall Arab felt safe there, not reckoning upon a determined enemy who could penetrate even this hostile land Bin Laden had won for the Mujahedin during the glory days of Al-Qaeda. "He's one smart rich son of a bitch," Rosso whispered, "but he's going to meet Allah at the hand of a richer and smarter son of Sicily."
"A bigshot engineer --- killer of bambinos," Razzberry felt the bile rage within. Wonder if the FBI will mail me my five million reward, he chuckled thinking of the fallout gag he'd pull on them when this was over. His trigger-finger was beginning to numb when a splash of gold told his gut to squeeze. The sharp crack propelled a deadly high velocity bullet to its mark - instantly elevating Number Two to Number One on the FBI list.
Three months later in his villa on an unnamed Caribbean island the victorious Rosso celebrated his seventy-sixth birthday overjoyed that many of the old brugad were still with him. Field man Carmine presented him with a Cappo ring and a gold retractable toothpick. Then everybody got naked for the pool and spa while others romped with babes in a cornucopia of food, wine and dance beneath a big red-on-white banner proclaiming Razzberry Rosso: "NOW THE MOST WANTED IN THE UNIVERSE! $FIVE MILL REWARD SAYS THE FBI AND INTERPOL!"
So raucous had the party become that no one noticed the dark green figure lodged in the top of a coconut palm three hundred yards away where a fugitive took a good swig of Irish Mist, smacked his lips and deliberately aimed his loaded sniper rifle. The visage was of the newly anointed Number Two climbing the ladder of esteem by knocking off Number One. It was a sainted mission of honor and respect, he mused.
Centering Rosso's heart-shaped birthmark in the cross hairs the man known as Whitey squeezed the trigger.
'Vox Populi', get started! Send in your comments and critique on
- - -
