Purgatory's Gate

Chapter 2: Getting out

The next few hours are a blur. I'm brought back rather swiftly after speaking my name in public. I've been arrested five times, so once they recognize me they're quite happy to book me and sweep me back. I surrender my weapons peaceably, and change clothes into scrubs they provide. I tell them who Aiden is and request at least his phone be mailed back to him. I don't know if it will happen but at least I tried.
Detective Turner is assigned to me. Deceive Turner is a hardened officer, old enough to be my father and probably decently versed with the use of a phone book but maybe not I wouldn't know. I sit across two chairs, I'm sweating and the back of my neck is tense. I am not safe here and I know it.
"The laptops are all passcodes 2872, so is the iPad, they contain everything I know about the family's movements, and actions, over the past twenty years. I have video diaries explaining all of it, and testifying it, as well as transcriptions, bank statements, plane tickets, pay stubs, you name it, I got a paper trail ten miles long for it. Weapons, drugs, bombs, whores, I have receipts for it all," I say, drumming my fingers on the table.
"Why?" Detective Turner says.
"I did their books, have since I turned twenty. I graduated college early. Made my daddy real proud," I say, smiling charmingly.
"No, why you are handing all this to us?" He asks, "You do something? That's it? You want a plea deal?"
"Yeah, I've done a lot of things. All in there. I'm confessing to all of it. I want a plea deal, and I want WITSEC," I say, "And I want you to put my father, and my brothers, and my uncles, and all their men, behind bars. Forever."
"Why? What'd they have you do why would you turn on them?" He asks, "You've been one of Bollai's top operators for years, cooking books and cutting up bodies. I know what that fucking ace of club on your hand means."
"Good for you, detective," I smile.
"You've got a file ten inches thick. Why the fuck would you decide to wander into Chicago PD today? What game is this? Why turn on your family?"
"I'm not turning on my family," I say.
"Then what is this?"
"My family bled out in my arms in a motel room when I was eight years old. My father stabbed my mother to death, Loretta Borodin, you might remember? Bollai family covered it up claimed she killed herself by stabbing. And your people had to buy it. So my father took custody of me. And I learned everything from him. Now I want him to spend the rest of his life in prison," I say, calmly.
"You're expecting me to believe that you've spent —twenty years, on some fucked up revenge quest by joining the mob just to sell them all out—now?" He asks, studying me.
"I don't really care what you believe detective, but I do get one phone call," I say.
"Who the hell are you going to call?" He laughs.
"Phone call," I say, cheerfully.
"I listen in. Do you have any idea the scope of what you've just done? You're under arrest for seventeen counts of murder, racketeering, that's just off the top of my head Ezio," he snarls.
"Fine. Listen, whatever gets you off," I say.
He brings me a phone.
I memorized the number already, so I dial smoothly, "Hello, can I speak to Agent Harley please? He got an email from me this morning I think he's going to want to talk to me about it."
"Who is this—?"
"Ezio Bollai sorry for using your home phone Mrs. Harley but I do need to talk to him," I say, drumming my fingers on the table. There's a brief shuffling.
"Where did you get this number?" The man growls, upon answering.
"Your PTA leaves a lot to be desired, gave me your home number right away, might want to talk to them about that, did you get my email?"
"I did. I got through the first file; it checks out. Where the hell are you?"
"Chicago PD can you and however many ATF and DEA friends you have come and pick me up? They're being mean to me and casting suspicious glances at phone books."
"We're on our way."
Calling the FBI really spices things up around here. I'm asked endless questions, as they copy and start to verify my files, working back to front and front to back. Then they realize how not at all safe I am here. Then FBI descends to sweep me away. DEA and ATF pile in after them.
"I want WITSEC and absolution for my crimes," I say.
Chicago PD says no way. Chicago PD is probably currently receiving instructions to kill me. Detective Turner is clean I know but he can probably be bought. Everyone can be bought.
FBI already knows my information is good and says absolutely WITSEC.
I refuse to stay in a Chicago prison. I don't trust the cops, I inform them.
"Why not?" Detective Turner looks sick of me.
"Because I paid them," I say, flatly, "File fifty seven under 'law enforcement', list of cops on my payroll. Have fun reading."
That shakes things up a little. The FBI with no affection whatsoever wants me to remain very alive so I can testify. They instantly set into motion the vast paperwork to move me. Since cops are on the payroll my move will already be known to my family which means that there's already a price on my head. I have a life expectancy of maybe four hours in this city.
The information is long since leaked. And I can do nothing now but hope I don't die. I lean in my chair and wait while they all rush around.
By six in the evening the US Marshals are involved. I'm being moved to Washington, I'm a federal witness. They will draw up the crimes I'm being charged with but for my safety and the safety of their information I'm getting out of Chicago. Tonight.
I'm given a set of civvies, unobtrusive, and I am swiftly handcuffed. Two of them watch me change. I'm also searched full cavity search which is expected but the opposite of a good time. They try to take my necklace.
"It's my mother's it stays. It's all my asking for," I say, hand over the arrowhead. "Just this. It's religious it's important to my religion." They wind up letting that go rather than cross me. And two Marshals come and take me directly to the loading dock.
They bundle me into the back of an armored car, a big sleek SUV with nice bullet proof glass. Suddenly I'm as well protected as a senator. The seats are smooth leather, and it smells like car cleaner.
"I'm Agent Harris," one Marshal says.
"You my zoo keeper?" I ask.
"Sure as hell am. Guess it's my lucky day."
And once again we're winding through Chicago traffic. Once I hear gunfire and duck my head. I'm jumpy as hell and I know it. It's wall to wall cars. We'd have a police escort but we're trying to go incognito. The drive takes over an hour and I spend the whole time ducking my face below the windows praying for a swift death at least.
I expect us to go to commercial. But when we get to O'Hare we pull up to a side gate. We're getting taken to the ramp.
"Private jet," one of the Marshal's grunts. I don't move. I can't. My legs are stiff and suddenly out in the open all I can imagine is a sniper rifle, the crack echoing through the night as I bleed out.
Harris just tugs me out of the back of the car by my elbow. And I'm lead out into the windy, rainy night. The ramp is noisy, and every sound I expect to be a stray gunshot. Or not to hear at all. Just feel the bullet bury itself in my chest.
But I don't get shot. I don't fall. I step up the rickety metal steps and into the rather comfortable private jet. Harris leads me in, sitting down in the row of seats across from me.
"That was fun," the other one, Rivers, says, laughing and shaking rainwater from his hat.
"First mob boy?" I ask, trying to smile.
"Something like that, you were quite the surprise this morning," Harris grunts.
"Was the idea. Can we watch the news? I want to see my former family be arrested?" I ask.
"No, no TV, there's meal service though," Harris says, "When we take off."
"They tell you what I did?" I ask.
"Oh yeah, we get your rap sheet," Rivers says, sitting down a row up from me, "Now buckle up. And try to get some rest."
I am more than glad to. They bring us meals, which is just prepackaged sandwiches and bottles of water. I ate and drank nothing in Chicago for fear of it being poisoned, though I had no appetite anyway. Now, I'm starving I find, it's egg salad sandwiches and not even good. I bolt it down anyway, draining the water. Then I lean the chair back to sleep. Thousands of feet in the air, it's probably the safest place I'll get to sleep for a while.
I pass out completely and wake when we're landing. Harris shakes my shoulder gently. I think he almost feels bad about it as well, because I see him intentionally look stern as I sit up. It's the middle of the night here in DC. My father's mob has connections but I'm a lot safer for the moment. That means the back of a Marshall truck, rather than an SUV. They're taking me to a holding place. A glorified prison. I've not been absolved of any crimes yet. It's a concrete building surrounded by barbed wire. I'd guess white collar criminals and the likes of me.
But I do get solitary, a sparse room, with at least a cot, toilet, shower, and a little desk. No window. I don't even care. There's a white sweatsuit lying on the bed.
"I'll back back for you in the morning," Harris says.
"Thank you," I nod, politely.
I change into the sweatsuit, doing my best to clean up with the cheap soap, and wash the spray paint stuff out of my hair. Then I lie down on the cot. I'm locked up. Safe.
"I'm trying," I say, looking at the arrowhead, "I'm going." I'm on my way at least. I sigh, rolling over. The bed is nothing like comfortable. But. I'm safe.
I fall asleep quickly, more at peace than I've been in years.