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- Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Thriller by Alfred Bekker The size of this book corresponds to 111 paperback pages. Who was behind the deadly assassination attempt on Brian Imperioli? The mobster had a lot of enemies - and two sons whom he had disowned. But there are also old scores to settle that arose during the Vietnam War. Investigators Trevellian and Tucker have to concentrate on one lead. But is it the right one? Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell .
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Trevellian And The Bazooka Killer: Thriller
Inhaltsverzeichnis
Trevellian And The Bazooka Killer: Thriller
Copyright
Prologue
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Trevellian And The Bazooka Killer: Thriller
Thriller by Alfred Bekker
The size of this book corresponds to 111 paperback pages.
Who was behind the deadly assassination attempt on Brian Imperioli? The mobster had a lot of enemies - and two sons whom he had disowned. But there are also old scores to settle that arose during the Vietnam War. Investigators Trevellian and Tucker have to concentrate on one lead. But is it the right one?
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Bathranor Books, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
Alfred Bekker
© Roman by Author
© this issue 2024 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The fictional characters have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intentional.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
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Prologue
The killer was waiting on the third floor of a vacant office building in the South Bronx. From here he could see the access road to the Matthews & Partners premises. It was dark outside. Rain pattered against the windows, which could not be opened. The killer punched out a roughly circular piece with a glass cutter.
He then opened a long special case and took out a bazooka. He inserted the muzzle through the hole in the glass and adjusted the sight.
This will be the last road for the 'Great Old One', he thought with satisfaction.
1
A cool, stormy night in New York. A sharp wind whipped from the Atlantic through the dead straight rows of houses up to the South Bronx, the most run-down part of the metropolis of eight million people. Whole streets were under the control of aggressive drug gangs. In some areas, even the New York Police Department only dared to enter in manpower.
A black limousine turned into 132nd Street, a desolate cul-de-sac. On both sides, warehouses with corrugated iron roofs rusted away. Only some of the street lights were still working.
A seven-seater Chrysler Voyager van followed closely behind the sedan.
Both vehicles drove onto the premises of Matthews & Partners, a plastic packaging factory that has since gone bankrupt. There had been a devastating fire in the main hall two years ago. The building was completely burnt out. It still stood there as a ruin that had not yet been renovated.
Soot-blackened concrete walls towered four storeys high. Only the steel girders were left of the roof.
The doors of the van opened.
Half a dozen armed men jumped out. Men in dark turtleneck sweaters and balaclavas that left only their eyes uncovered. They were armed with MPs, automatic pistols and pump guns.
The men swarmed out, weapons at the ready.
Only now did the passenger door of the limousine open.
A man in a black suit and with Asian features circled the extra-long car. He opened an umbrella and opened the rear left door. Two Dobermans jumped out into the open. They sat down on the ground, panting and pricking up their ears.
A heavy-set man in his late fifties followed them with a groan. A gray beard framed his broad face. He wore a brown cashmere coat and turned up his collar.
"I hope this bastard keeps his appointment, Nguyen," he turned to the Asian.
He tilted his head slightly. "If you ask me, that's an amateur, Mr. Imperioli."
"I'm beginning to get that impression too." The fat man shook his head, lost in thought. "My instinct tells me there's more to it than that." He bent down and scratched the neck of one of his Dobermans.
Headlights lit up.
Several motorcycles roared onto the company premises. There were three Harleys and a so-called trike.
The machines stopped.
The Harley riders wore leather jackets with the inscription BRONX PIRATES. They were armed with pump guns.
The trike rider seemed to be their leader.
He was also wearing a leather jacket and a pirate scarf. He got off his three-wheeled machine. The white mother-of-pearl grip of a 4.57 caliber Magnum revolver flashed out from under his leather jacket.
The trike rider casually chewed on his chewing gum, eventually even blew a bubble with it and let it burst noisily.
"You're late, Alan Reilly!" said Brian Imperioli.
The trike driver's face froze into a mask. "I don't like being called by my slave name," he explained pompously. "I'm the Bronx Commander. Get it?"
Imperioli's smile turned icy. "Cassius Clay, alias Muhammad Ali, may have had the right to change his name - but not a small-time gang leader who I allow to sell cocaine in a few blocks."
Alan Reilly was taken aback. "Hey, what's this?" He jammed his thumbs behind the belt with the wide skull clasp with displayed nonchalance. "Why so venomous, Mr. Imperioli? I don't see any reason for a quarrel. Business is going wonderfully. I hope you have the next delivery with you right away. Our people can't cook up as much crack as the junkies would love to rip out of our hands!" The man who called himself "Bronx Commander" laughed hoarsely. "We had to dilute the stuff so much that some customers started complaining."
"You don't say, Reilly." Imperioli signaled to the Bronx Commander. "Come on, I want to talk to you about something in private."
"And what about the new fabric?"
"You'll get what you need, Reilly!"
"Damn, my name is Bronx Commander!"
Reilly approached Imperioli, but suddenly hesitated, looking at the two Dobermans. Imperioli laughed softly, scratching the animals behind the ears again. "They only look dangerous, in reality they're quite peaceful animals ..."
"If you say so."
"Come with me to the car!"
Reilly followed Imperioli.
Nguyen, the bodyguard, stayed with them. After a few steps, they reached the limousine.
"Shit, what's so important?"
"You'll see in a moment!"
Imperioli snapped his fingers.
His men then raised their weapons and fired. The MPs rattled away. Muzzle flashes leaked out of the short muzzles.
The three Harley riders didn't get the chance to fire a single shot. Their bodies twitched under the hits.
Before Reilly could reach for his magnum revolver, Nguyen delivered a combination of karate chops to the gang leader. The self-proclaimed Bronx Commander slumped to the ground, groaning. Despite the brutal blows, he still managed to pull out the weapon.
The bodyguard kicked it unerringly out of his hand.
The Dobermans growled.
"Don't move, Reilly!" Imperioli ordered. "Otherwise the dogs will tear you apart!"
The Bronx Commander gasped for breath.
Imperioli stepped closer to him. The Dobermans did not leave their master's side. They panted.
"What the hell is this?" Reilly finally managed to say.
"I won't be taken for a fool, Reilly," Imperioli replied coldly.
"I've done everything you asked!"
"Like this?" Imperioli laughed cynically. "You're a pathetic coward, Reilly. I can't stand it when people cheat on me, but I can stand it even less when someone lies to me!"
"Mr. Imperioli, we can talk about anything..."
The fat man signaled to his bodyguard.
Nguyen then gave the Bronx commander, who was lying on the ground, a brutal kick. Reilly groaned and curled up like an embryo.
"Why did you take coke from the competition, Reilly? You knew what would follow!"
"Please, Mr. Imperioli!"
"Who's that whimpering like a baby? The Bronx Commander?"
"It will never happen again, Mr. Imperioli!"
"No, it won't!" confirmed the fat man with an icy undertone. He whistled between his teeth. The Dobermans obeyed. They pounced on Reilly with bared teeth. For almost half a minute, the Bronx Commander's screams rang unheard through the cold night. Then there was silence.
"Shall we clean up here, sir?" asked Nguyen.
Brian Imperioli shook his head resolutely. "No, I want everything to stay exactly as it is now! Let this be a warning to the rest of this gang of rats! They won't betray me!"
Nguyen's Asian face remained completely motionless. "As you wish, sir."
He signaled to his men. The bodyguards got back into the van. Doors clanged shut. Brian Imperioli looked down at Reilly with a satisfied smile. His face was barely recognizable, so badly had the Dobermans ravaged it.
"Nobody cheats on an Imperioli!" the fat man muttered to himself.
The van with the bodyguards had already taken off.
"Avanti, boys!" shouted Imperioli.
This meant the Dobermans. They immediately set off and rushed to the limousine, panting. The chauffeur opened the back door for them. They jumped into the back seat and waited dutifully for their master. Brian Imperioli followed them at a measured pace. A short time later, he had also taken a seat in the back seat with Nguyen.
"Someone has to do the dirty work," Imperioli explained gloomily after the door had closed.
"Yes, sir," Nguyen confirmed.
"It was the same back in Vietnam. Damn, the dirty work was always on me. Do you know what the guys called me back then?"
"No, sir."
"The man without nerves." One of the Dobermans snuggled up to Brian Imperioli. The fat man scratched him behind the ears. The animal growled comfortably. "Actually, I'd love to retire from the bloody part of the business. I've been the butcher for long enough. But what choice do I have?"
Imperioli reached into the inside pocket of his coat, took out a cigar case and put a thick Havana in his mouth. Nguyen gave him a light.
The car started to move and followed the van with Imperioli's armed fighting force.
"We simply have too many wimps in the family," said the big boss with a clearly audible resignation in his voice. He looked at Nguyen openly. "But what can you expect from young people who were born with a silver spoon full of coke? They simply lack the necessary toughness. In the end, it's up to the old warhorses to hold everything together ..."
"Yes, sir," said Nguyen.
The two cars drove back down the cul-de-sac they had used to get to the company premises.
A flash of lightning tore the night apart.
A huge explosion was heard.
The van turned into a ball of fire.
Imperioli's chauffeur slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed. Imperioli had not fastened his seatbelt and was thrown forward together with the dogs against the armored partition to the driver's cab. Brian Imperioli groaned. He was dazed. Blood was running down his forehead.
"Are you all right, Mr. Imperioli?" asked Nguyen, who had been able to protect himself better.
Imperioli's eyes widened in horror.
Just seconds later, his limousine also turned into an exploding fireball.
2
A rainy, gloomy morning in New York City. The entire Big Apple resembled a laundry room. The sports car's wipers barely managed to keep the windows reasonably clear.
I had just picked Milo up at the famous corner and was on my way to Federal Plaza when we received a call from headquarters. It was our boss himself. As I had switched on the hands-free system, Milo and I could both hear him.
"Good morning," called Assistant Director Jonathan D. McKee, the head of the FBI Field Office New York. He then gave us an address in the Bronx and explained: "There was an assassination attempt on Brian Imperioli there tonight. It has not yet been possible to identify the exact victims. But our colleagues at the City Police assume that Imperioli is dead."
I got into the right-hand lane at a set of traffic lights. The crime scene was exactly opposite our current direction of travel.
"That means war," said Milo.
"I can only hope you're wrong, Milo," replied Mr. McKee. "In any case, months of investigative work are now in danger of becoming meaningless ..."
Mr. McKee was alluding to the fact that we had been building a network around Imperioli for some time. The Italian-American had made a stellar career in the underworld over the last thirty years. As an eminence grise, he now controlled a considerable part of the cocaine trade. He had entire districts under his control. Recently, he had gained a lot of ground in the Bronx in particular, pushing back the traditionally established Puerto Rican syndicates there and now competing with the Chinatown connection.
"Captain Ron Gallego of Homicide Squad III of the 103rd Precinct will give you the details," Mr. McKee explained. "He's in charge of the operation at the scene. I can only tell you this much: the attack on Imperioli was most likely carried out with a bazooka."
I whistled through my teeth. "Speaks for professionals," I said.
Mr. McKee was of the same opinion. "The only question is who set these killers in motion."
"Well, almost anyone who has tried to make a name for themselves on the cocaine market in the last ten years is a good candidate," I said.
"Not forgetting the competition from our own family," added Milo.
We knew from undercover agents that there were considerable differences of opinion within the Imperioli clan about the future course of the family business.
"The Grand Old Man", as Imperioli was now called with equal parts respect and fear, had a firm grip on the reins.
Anyone who didn't dance to his tune was swept out of the way by Brian Imperioli. He had also swept up his own relatives with an iron broom. Three cousins had died under as yet unexplained circumstances. However, the Grand Old Man was clever enough to prevent any trail leading to him.
"This case is a priority," Mr. McKee announced. "If we don't shed light on this very quickly and succeed in draining the swamp in which the Imperioli clan operates, a bloody battle for the redistribution of power and the drug markets will break out."
We put the red light on the roof of the sports car to get through the dense traffic of the Big Apple faster. That was no fun during the morning rush hour.
When we got onto Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive, things moved a little faster. We headed north along the East River. Wards Island appeared on our right, an uninhabited island where East 125 th Street, which leads to Harlem, met the Grand Central Parkway to Queens and the Bruckner Expressway to the Bronx.
We passed an underpass at 125 th Street, reached the Harlem River Driveway and then turned right into 135 th Street. Two hundred meters further on, we crossed the section between the Hudson and East Rivers known as the Harlem River. Our destination was the site of Matthews & Partners, a disused factory in the very south of the Bronx. The site was cordoned off. The City Police were deployed in large numbers. The rain was dripping off their hats.
