Procession of the Dead Read Online Free Page A

left our limo—hired for the day because you simply
had
to have a limo if you wanted to be a
real
gangster—and walked into the abandoned warehouse with three of our men. Wain was waiting for us, standing patiently beside his own car, briefcase in hand, smile on face. Theo broke into a near-trot and strode ahead of us, arms outstretched, too thrilled to maintain a solemn, businesslike air. “Neil!” he boomed. “Neil, by Christ, it’s great to see you! How long’s it been since—”
    Bullets tore his chest apart as if it were a paper bag. His arms flailed and his legs buckled. Blood sprayed in all directions. The gunfire continued, even though he was obviously dead. He was spun around like a whirling dervish. I saw his face and the bewildered expression he was to carry into the next world. Then a couple of bullets wiped it away, expression, face, everything.
    Two of the three men with me acted calmly and professionally, diving to the sides, reaching for their holstered guns as they moved. The other soiled his pants, fell to his knees and sobbed for mercy. They all died, caught in a lethal hail of metal pellets from the heavens.
    Five seconds later I was standing in a pool of blood with four corpses beginning to steam in the cool night air. The echoes of gunfire were dying away, the walls swallowing the sounds hungrily.
    I was stunned. Five seconds earlier I had been on my way to fame and fortune. Now I was a standing corpse-to-be. I looked at my uncle, limp and lifeless, and wondered where we’d gone wrong. We’d had no quarrel with Wain. Our paths had never crossed. What was his beef?
    I realized, after a few hazy moments, that I wasn’t dead. I looked around the warehouse, blinking stupidly. The snipers were strolling down the stairs from the second landing, smoking, laughing, claiming kills. Neil Wain was standing the same as before, unruffled by the bloodshed. He gazed at me without any apparent interest, then turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
    A burly man came out of the shadows, a face like granite. He nodded curtly at Wain, walked past and stopped before me. He looked me up and down. “You Capac Raimi?” he asked.
    I stared at him, mouth open, about half a light year behind the action. I had to be dreaming. I’d wake up in a minute and—
    He slapped my face hard. “Are you Capac Raimi?” he asked again, louder this time, not used to repeating himself. I saw murder in his eyes, death if I kept silent. But I couldn’t speak.
    Another man crossed the room. He wasn’t much older than me and had the look of a society gangster. He laughed as he considered me, spat at my feet and cocked his hat back at an angle. “This ain’t him, Tasso,” he said. “This’s just a bum. Let’s kill him and split. I’ve got a date.” He raised his gun so the muzzle was pointing a centimeter beneath my chin. “Can I do the honors?”
    “Hold it, Vincent,” the older guy said.
    “Why? It ain’t him. This is just some kid with a speech problem. We’re wasting time. Let’s—”
    “I… I’m Capac Raimi,” I wheezed.
    They looked at each other, unconvinced. “You got any proof?” the older one asked.
    My hands scurried to my pockets, searching for cards and tags I knew I didn’t have—I’d never been one for credit cards or clubs that required membership. No driver’s license. I probably had a passport lying back in the house, but I couldn’t have sworn to that.
    The assassins saw my hands shaking and began to snicker. “Shit, Tasso,” the younger one said. “This guy’s just some chump who wandered in.” He cocked his weapon and nudged my left ear with it.
    The elder statesman shook his head and smiled bleakly. “You haven’t got anything on you to prove who you are? Everybody carries credit cards. You must have at least one piece of plastic.” He raised an arm and cocked a finger at me. “Your life depends on it, boy. Cough it up or…”
    “I don’t have anything,” I said,