Gangland

William P. Wood

Description

 

Hector Molina controls Gangland. From behind prison bars, he rules a ruthless gang of renegades who deal in extortion, drugs, and death. 

U.S. attorney Claude Massingill is determined to expose Gangland. He’s got Molina locked up as a protected witness for a trial that’s sure to make headlines—and Molina couldn’t ask for a better hideout than the one the government is giving him. 

Now, Assistant D.A. Mike Swanson needs to penetrate Gangland . . .  and fast. He’s got to break through the federal fence, get to Molina, and convict the notorious prison ganglord of murder . . . before someone ends up dead. 

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Legal
• Thrillers
• Justicia y Verdad (Rumania)
• Gangland
• William Wood
• William P. Wood
• United States Attorney
• American literature
• DA
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 02 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781620454787
• Langue: English

Extrait

Praise for
William P. Wood
GANGLAND
"Compelling . . . A bloody showdown between manipulative killer and dedicated prosecutor from which no one emerges unscathed . . . Wood knows the intricacies and ironies of the legal system."
- San Diego Union
"Suspense-filled . . . Realistic, fast-moving . . . Molina is the kind of criminal that you love to hate."
- Daily Press ( Newport News , VA)
"A unique legal thriller . . . Wood knows the ins and outs of prisons, courts, government witness programs . . . Gangland demonstrates graphically the tensions, frustrations, and personal dangers often endured by the families of crime victims."
- Deltona Enterprise (FL)
RAMPAGE
"One of the better courtroom dramas in recent years."
- New York Times Book Review
"Clear and compelling."
- Newsday
"Superior! . . . Please do not miss this one."
- Cleveland Plain Dealer
Also by William P. Wood
Sudden Impact
Broken Trust
Pressure Point
The Bribe
Stay of Execution
Rampage
Quicksand
Fugitive City
The Bone Garden
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WILLIAM P. WOOD
GANG LAND
William P. Wood
A NOVEL
TURNER -->
Turner Publishing Company 424 Church Street Suite 2240 Nashville, Tennessee 37219 445 Park Avenue 9th Floor New York, New York 10022 www.turnerpublishing.com
GANGLAND
Copyright 2014, 1988 William P. Wood
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Maxwell Roth
Book design: Glen Edelstein
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948619
ISBN: 9781620454701
Printed in the United States of America
14 15 16 17 18 19 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For William Friedkin, with high regard and gratitude
". . . dost thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers!
Tigers must prey; and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine . . ."
-Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
"Perhaps it is upon the instant that we realise, admit, that there is a logical pattern to evil, that we die . . ."
-William Faulkner, Sanctuary
GANGLAND -->
PART ONE
William P. Wood -->
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FIRST THE DOORBELL rapidly chimed twice, and even before the soft notes faded, a harsh, steady knocking began. Then the chiming doorbell sounded again.
Angie stepped away from the washing machine as quietly as she could. She dropped her armload of clothes to the linoleum floor, and realized her heart was beating quickly from surprise. I'm safe, she thought, I'm safe now, as the chiming and knocking went on and on.
She stood still, then tiptoed from the alcove off the kitchen that held the washer and dryer, over to the living room window. By standing against the wall and just barely pushing the curtain's far edge, she could see out to the brick steps and the front door. Two men stood at the door. Like mechanical pieces on a medieval clock, one pushed the doorbell, while the other, with a bored yet insistent raising and lowering of his knuckled fist, banged on the door itself.
She didn't know either of them. They both wore suits. Not very good ones, she thought. They looked like salesmen, maybe Jehovah's Witnesses.
The first rule was to watch for strangers, that's what Swanson told her. The second rule was always to ask for identification. The third rule was to call him. That was how she had to live for a while.
She held the curtain tightly. "Who is it?" she impatiently called out over the noise.
Like a signal, the chimes and the knocking stopped. "We're investigators from the DA's office," said the younger one to her right, "and Mr. Swanson would like to see you right now."
The other man had his hands on his fleshless hips and he kept turning his upper body right to left, peering at the neighborhood. "It's real important," he said.
"Hold up some ID," she said.
The younger man reached into his coat and took out a black wallet-sized case. The other guy did the same thing. They held gold badges, stamped with the seal of Santa Maria County, toward the black slit between the window and curtain. In the spring morning's adamantine light, the badges shimmered.
It was the same kind of badge Swanson had showed her, the kind he had. She unlocked and opened the front door.
The two men smiled at her. "Are you Angelica Cisneros?" asked the younger one. He used her real name, not the phony one she told everybody in this new city and wrote on checks and charge slips. She could have her real name back when this was over.
"What do you want?" she held the door by the handle, ready to close it quickly.
"Mr. Swanson says he's got to see you," said the younger man. They were both young, in their twenties, with white shirts, plain ties, and dark suits. The younger had sandy-colored hair and slightly protuberant eyes.
"I'm not supposed to come down until day after tomorrow," she shook her head angrily. "I'm busy now. I got plans today." Swanson had done this to her before. Come down now, he'd say, we have to talk. "Let's go over something you told me yesterday," he'd say with his breathless enthusiasm. Like a kid with a new toy.
The younger guy was casual. "He said it was very important. He said there's some problem with your testimony."
"I haven't testified."
"Your statement, whatever. What you've been saying about Hector Molina. Mr. Swanson said something's come up. He's got something for you to look at."
"Something big," said the other one, still looking around.
"He's going to make another arrest? He's got somebody?"
"We don't know. He just said he has to see you."
The other guy stopped looking around and stared at her. He had a thick neck and she noticed how the reddish-blond hair was combed carefully straight back, like half the cons and homeboys who came to visit Hector when he first got out of prison.
Her heart still beat too fast. Never going to be scared again, she had vowed, and now she stood in her own doorway, frightened because these two guys had come for her. She wasn't going to live like this much longer. Swanson had promised. Once they got Hector, it would end, finally.
"I haven't seen you two before," she said.
"We got thirty-six investigators. I'm Max," said the younger one as he pointed with his thumb. "This is Les. So. Can we go? We're supposed to hurry it up. Mr. Swanson's orders."
She stepped back from the door. Hurry it up. That was Swanson. Always in a rush. "Come in," she said irritably. Just two messenger boys. "He could've called. I'm going to call, tell him this is a bad day. I got a lot to do."
"He's out," Max said quickly. "We got to bring you to him. That's why he needs you right now."
She dialed Swanson's direct line at the district attorney's office. Max threw his hands up and Les moved his head left to right, taking in her living room and its clutter. "When's he coming back?" she said into the phone. "You don't know how long it'd take for him to get to a phone?" Max was pointing both hands at himself and mouthing, "We'll take you," with exaggerated faces.
"No, I'll see him myself," she said, hanging up. Max smiled.
"We'll take you right now."
"Everybody thinks they can come and tell me where to go when they feel like it," she said. "That's the way Hector does things, okay? Angie come here," she mimicked, "Angie bring me this. Angie get rid of this. I got to take it from you guys, from Swanson?" They don't care, she thought, watching their faces. The boss said fetch. "You mind if I change? That's okay?"
"Sure, that's okay," Max smiled.
She tromped to the alcove and picked the clothes up off the floor and shoved them into the washer. Might as well get them done while she was out. Funny guys, she thought. All my life it's been funny guys.
But he wasn't funny. From miles away, another state, from a place she didn't even know, he could still reach out and disrupt her life. He would always do that. Until she stopped him. The sick longing crept over her again, as it had ever since she first went to Swanson. I'm hurting Hector, she thought, I'm hurting him bad.
She heard channels being changed on the television, rapid flipping of the dial, Max doing all the talking and his pal Les saying something low, short, tense. Funny cops.
In the small bedroom she shrugged off her old sweater and jeans. One of the few friends she'd made in this new city was old Mrs. Powell across the street. Maybe she should tell Mrs. Powell she'd be gone for a couple of hours. So what could she say? Lie again? The old lady didn't even know her real name. The lying stopped there, but she couldn't tell the truth. My husband kills people and I'm telling the DA everything I know? No, not even old Mrs. Powell with her five cats and empty bottles of cream sherry lying around would stay friends after that.
The guys in the living room were arguing. She thought she heard an open palm smacking something.
She finished dressing, brushing her hair quickly, tight hard strokes that pulled some of the black strands away.
"Okay? Let's go? I'm not waiting for you guys," she said. They stood in the center of the room. Max had one shoulder up, like he was about to block a smack from Les. Instantly, they turned to her.
"Don't you look nice. Very nice," Max said with a nod. "Don't you carry any money, a purse or something?"
"You got me rushing so much," she said, flustered. She was embarrassed that her eagerness to hurt Hector had been so nakedly exposed. She hurried back to the bedroom and plucked a brown purse from the disordered bureau. Now they were joking with each other when she came out.
"Can we go?" she asked sharply.
Max stayed with her as they stepped out and she locked the front door. Les walked briskly to a green two-door Impala parked in the st