Cross

it. Being here with you guys is the best thing.”

Chapter 68
    THINGS WERE HEATING UP NOW.
    The Butcher hated the beach; he hated the sand, the smell of briny water, the bottlenecked traffic, everything about a visit to the crummy seashore. Caitlin and the boys, with their summertime trips to Cape May—they could have it, keep it, shove it.
    So it was business, and business only, that brought him to the shore, much less all the way to South Jersey. It was revenge against John Maggione. The two of them had hated each other since Maggione’s father had permitted this “Irish crazy” to become his killer of choice. Then Sullivan had been ordered to take out one of Junior’s buddies, and the Butcher had done the job with his usual enthusiasm. He’d cut Rico Marinacci into pieces.
    John Maggione had been making himself scarce lately—no surprise there—so the Butcher’s plan had changed a little, for now. If he couldn’t cut off the head just yet, he’d start with some other body part.
    The part, in this case, was named Dante Ricci. Dante was the youngest made man in the Maggione syndicate, a personal favorite of the don’s. Like a son to him. The inside joke was that John Maggione didn’t let an associate wipe his ass without checking with Dante.
    Sullivan got to the shore town of Mantoloking, New Jersey, just before dusk. As he drove across Barnegat Bay, the ocean in the distance looked almost purple—beautiful, if you liked that kind of picture-postcard, Kodak-moment thing. Sullivan rolled up his windows against the salt air. He couldn’t wait to do his business, then get the hell out of here.
    The town itself lay on an expensive strip of land less than a mile across. Ricci’s house, on Ocean Avenue, wasn’t real hard to find. He drove past the front gate, parked up the road, and walked back about a fifth of a mile.
    It looked like Ricci was doing pretty well for himself. The main house was a big honking Colonial: three stories, brown cedar shakes, all perfectly maintained, and right on the water. Four-bay garage, a guesthouse, hot tub up on the dune. Six million, easy. Just the kind of shiny object modern-day wiseguys dangled in front of their wives to distract them from the day-to-day stealing and killing they did for a living.
    And Dante Ricci was a killer; that was what he did best. Hell, he was the new-and-improved Butcher.
    Sullivan couldn’t see too much of the layout from the front. He imagined most of the house was oriented to the water view in back. But the beach would offer no good cover for him. He’d have to settle in where he was, and take his time.
    That wasn’t a problem for him. He had whatever it took to do the job, including patience. A snatch of Gaelic ran through his head, something his grandfather James used to say.
Coimhéad fearg fhear na foighde,
or some shit like that.
Beware the anger of a patient man.
    Just so, Michael Sullivan thought as he waited, perfectly still in the gathering dusk. Just so.

Chapter 69
    IT TOOK A WHILE for him to get a sense of the beach house and its immediate surroundings. There wasn’t much movement inside, but enough to see that the family was home: Dante, two small kids, and—at least from this distance—what looked to be the hot young wife, a nice Italian blonde.
    But no visitors, and no bodyguards out in plain sight. Specifically, no capital
F: Family.
That meant any firepower in the house would be limited to whatever Dante Ricci kept on hand. Whatever he had, it probably wasn’t going to stack up against the 9mm machine gun pistol Sullivan had holstered at his side.
Or his scalpel.
    Despite the chill in the air, he was perspiring under his jacket, and a patch of sweat had soaked through his T-shirt where the piece hugged his body. The ocean breeze did nothing to cool him down, either. Only his patience held him in check. His
professionalism,
he liked to think. Traits he had no doubt inherited from his father, the original Butcher, who, if nothing else, had been a patient bastard.
    Finally, he moved in toward the beach house. He walked past a shiny black Jaguar sitting on the blond brick parking pad and entered into one of the open garage bays, where a white Jag made bookends with the black one.
    Gee, Dante, ostentatious much?
    It didn’t take long to find something useful in the garage. The Butcher picked up a short-handled sledgehammer from the workbench in the back. He hoisted it and felt its weight. Just about right. Very nice.