“My very thought. Bye-bye.” He hung up and dialed Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone.”
“Hey.”
“Two of Trini’s hoods tried to kill Holly’s father and his girlfriend this morning, down in Florida.”
“Everybody okay?”
“One of the shooters isn’t, and the other gave up a cell phone with ten numbers in it, four of them in New York, at least the last one from a call made by Trini himself.”
“Shoot.”
Stone read off the numbers.
“I’ll have addresses on these in five minutes, and we’ll raid all five.”
“Great, but Holly and I want to come along on the raid on that last number, the one Trini called from.”
“Stone, you know I can’t do that. If one of you got hurt, the chief of detectives would fall on me from a great height.”
“Listen, we’re both sworn officers of a Florida police department, and with a fugitive warrant. You can make a case for us being entitled. And we’ll stand in back of your team. I think that after what Holly has been through with this guy, she’s entitled. Trini gave his hit men instructions to torture Ham and Ginny and the dog, too, before they died.”
“Oh, all right, but you’re both going to have to dress up in body armor, helmets, the whole thing, and you don’t fire any shots at all. You got that?”
“I’ve got it, and I’ll explain it forcefully to Holly.”
“Okay, then. I’ll call you back when I’ve got an address and a team assembled. Give me an hour.” He hung up.
Stone trudged upstairs to explain to Holly that she wasn’t going to get to personally remove Trini’s liver. Not yet, anyway.
49
STONE STRIPPED DOWN his Walther, inspected it, wiped the parts with an oiled rag, reassembled it, loaded a round into the chamber, shoved in a full magazine, put the safety on, and stuck it into his shoulder holster.
Holly had been watching him. “How good a shot are you?”
“Pretty good. Dino is Deadeye Dick.”
“Yeah?”
“Twice—at least twice—he’s saved my ass by killing somebody with a difficult shot. Most cops I know have never fired their weapons, except on the range. How about you? How good a shot?”
“Very good indeed, but not a patch on Ham. He’s the best I ever saw, maybe the best shot alive—and with any weapon. He has this gift, and of course, he’s worked hard at it. I’ve seen him explode a cantaloupe at a thousand yards with a sniper rifle, and he unerringly hits moving targets with a pistol.”
“Like you say, it’s a gift; genetic.”
“Unfortunately, I got only half his genes.”
“I’d say you got some pretty good ones.”
She smiled. “Thanks. You think we’re near the end of this?
”
“God, I hope so. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it.”