EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TWO

At about the same time the President was briefing the country on the new antiterrorism measures and bills against the mafia that will be promulgated into law, Canillo was pensively strolling in Rydell park. After coming to Rydell park earlier that morning, Canillo had gone home and thought about his rose flower. He was angry with himself for having missed the chance to talk to her this morning. He had gotten bored and decided to take a walk - a walk on the very earth that his rose flower tread upon each day. What better place to stroll than at the very path where his rose flower walked and played with her puppy almost daily. Now, he was at Rydell park, walking beside a bed of rose flowers, slowly, and thinking about his rose flower. He looked at the bright sky, gazed at beautiful rose flowers that lay everywhere, felt the cool breeze brush against his hairy chest, and thought it was a pretty day. He thought about his rose flower, her round green eyes, blonde hair, thin lips, and long elegant legs. She was a goddess, his goddess, his rose flower. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Something on the ground caught his attention. Something somewhat familiar. He bent down on one knee and picked it up, looking at it closely. Sunlight rays hit the object, reflecting blinding sun rays into his eyes. He blocked the rays with one hand and stared at the object. It was a watch, a gold one with two pieces of diamond at both ends. Canillo looked at it, wondering where he had seen this - in his own words - marvelous watch. In a moment, it stroke him. He had seen this watch on her. It was hers! It belongs to my rose flower, he thought with a growing smile. The clouds in the sky gave way again and the sun shone brightly, striking the watch. The diamonds on the watch sparkled. Canillo, bent one knee on the ground, kissed the glass covering of the watch. After all, it belonged to his rose flower. Just then, a shadow fell over him, forming a dark shadowy figure on the ground right in front of him. He glanced at the shadow on the ground. The shadow became a figure. A figure of a person. Oh God no, the Vecche's are upon me! He almost screamed for help then suddenly stopped, his right knee still on the ground, face bent down, staring at the shadowy figure's image on the ground. There was something familiar about the shape of the shadowy figure. Something very familiar. And the figure looked feminine with very long hair and long legs. Why is this person hovering over me, he wondered, still without turning to see who it was. He turned his gaze to the watch in his hand. The diamonds shone brightly. He returned his gaze to the shadowy figure on the ground. A well shaped shadowy figure, indeed, with very long hair and legs he observed. Suddenly, he got it. His eyes grew wide and his mouth opened in disbelief as he realized who it was, the shadowy figure. His rose flower! He turned and looked at the figure, his right knee still on the ground. His eyes met his rose flower's. She looked right back at him, a confused expression on her face. He slowly got to his feet as if he were the subject of a slow-motion video playback, still looking at her right in the eyes. They stared at each other for a moment which seemed like an eternity to Canillo, looking at each other directly in the eyes. Canillo couldn't believe it. Over the past few weeks he had memorized so many great romantic sayings, quotes, and love bites from English medieval writers like William Shakespear or Jeffrey Chaucer that he might tell his rose flower when he first met her. Now, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

He found his eyes shifting slowly, very slowly, to her nose, a pause, then her lips, another pause. His eyes stayed on her lips for a long moment, then moved onto her chin. By now, he was breathing heavily. He continued his inspection of his rose flower, up close, as if she were a recently discovered ten-million dollar Impressionist portrait he was about to purchase. His eyes slid toward her neck, then down to her breast, - his mouth opens -, a long pause, then continued slowly down to her thigh - he clears his throat.

She had enough. She broke the silence. "I didn't mean to shock you, sir, excuse me, can I please have my watch. I forgot it, lost it, this morning." She spoke softly, sensually, almost as if she was an angel - or so he thought. Canillo barely understood what she said. His eyes were focused on her legs.

"May I have my watch, please?" she repeated.

Canillo's eyes remained fixed on her as if she was the prettiest work of art Michelangelo ever created.

"Sir, are you listening? May I please have my watch back?"

"This, errr, is this . . . this . . . this . . . yours?" he stammered, holding the watch out. She took it gently from him, revealing the smoothness of her arm and hand, and the perfection of her manicured and well-trimmed nails. She was indeed a very beautiful blonde with sensual lips, a graceful slim figure, green eyes, and all-round looks that were good enough to convert gay man into heterosexuals.

"Thank you."

Canillo was so stunned by the surprise meeting and her beauty that he did not know what to do or say. He watched her leave, his eyes wide open with a look of amazement in them, his mouth open, and a fly buzzed right by his mouth without him noticing it. Call for her, run after her, grab this chance, his mind said. This may be your only chance to talk to her, your last chance. His eyes continued to follow her. Run after her, now, you moron. He tried to move, but his legs will not carry him. He opened his mouth to shout and tell her to wait for him but no words come out. Canillo kept watching her, his mind too confused and too awestruck by her charm and magnetic personality that it left him helpless. He watched her go around the corner and disappear from view. He sighed and resigned. So much for all the rehearsals, he sarcastically thought when he returned to his car. Later that evening, he would deeply regret why he did not make a move, talk to her, and at least get her phone number.

"I'll be back," he told himself before he went to bed that night.

MORE EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER TWO

Miami, Florida. 1:30 p.m. ET.

There was not a place in the world that alkaloid obtained from leaves of the cocoa plant, known widely as cocaine, could be found in a much greater quantity and quality. The drug storage was especially full today. It was a square shaped five-story warehouse, and painted as white as the cocaine that lay within it. There were thousands of tons of cocaine in this building, perhaps more than, according to modest people, America would ever need in any single month. Tons and tons of cocaine, bags and bags of cocaine, boxes and boxes of cocaine filled the shelves, every single shelf of the warehouse. Vecche men worked round the clock, stacking up the shelves with the ever increasing amount of supply that came in from Mendellin and Bogota in Colombia. Outside the warehouse, twenty-four private air jets were lined up in one horizontal line, ready to release their illegal product, freshly flown over from Mendellin, unto American soil. Vecche workers headed towards the cocaine-carrier jets, whose turbine engines continued making buzzing noises, to off load the fresh white product cocaine. The value of the warehouse in terms of dollars was almost about a billion dollars, give or take a hundred million: the price of cocaine - known on the street as 'snow' or 'crack' - fluctuates a lot and it is very hard to give an exact value of cocaine at any single time.

The warehouse was heavily guarded by high tech equipments and state of the art electronic surveillance systems. It was surrounded by a high-tech wall that stood more than five hundred yards high, and was occasionally electronically activated and capable of killing or incapacitating anyone who placed a finger on it for more than five seconds. It was dubbed 'the death wall' by Vecche workers. Behind the death walls lay miles of bush, shrubs, and trees that effectively hid the warehouse from view. The only way in and out of the warehouse was by air. Twenty-four hours a day, security personnel watched each single part of the building through their security cameras, motion sensors, and tracking devices.

From the control center in Capinni Village, and after glancing at the images of blood, destruction, and retaliation from other screens around him, Barrilla plugged his laptop and uplinked with the Capinni family twelve-billion dollar satellite that was in a geosynchronous orbit over the state of Florida and Gulf of Mexico. It was time to deal with the Vecche cocaine drug house in Miami that supplied almost the entire eastern coast of the United States and Europe with cocaine. He typed his code and password, accessed the main computer that was permanently hooked to the satellite, and typed a couple of commands. He pressed ENTER.

Precisely one thousand and three hundred and ten miles away in the Miami area, somewhere in the deep bushes of a suburb where no one ventured, at the Vecche cocaine drug house, electricity shut off. Their electronic surveillance equipment died off. The security screens became blank. The death wall was now dysfunctional, harmless. Few seconds later, the electronic surveillance equipments came on again, the security cameras lit, and the death wall became functional.

In Capinni village via satellite images, Barrilla watched this. They had backup power and he had counted on that. He typed more commands into the computer that was still linked with the family satellite. Through the family satellite, named CAP.STAR-I, he hacked into the mainframe computer controlling the security devices at the Vecche warehouse. He sent a virus into the Vecche warehouse mainframe computer and temporarily shut it down, blocking the computer's processors and programs with a custom-made virus that could shut down any unit, even the Department of Defense's main computers, temporarily. He looked at the T.V. screens.

At the warehouse, the Vecche chief of security began to alert the family security center in New York that they might have trouble. Before the message was relayed, the line went dead. In another instant, the cameras' screen went blank, the motion detectors and other security devices were dysfunctional. In short, all computer-controlled electronic devices stopped functioning. The chief of security looked at the men behind him.

"The Capinnis' are here. Get your weapons."

True to his words, the Capinni's had arrived for retaliation.

Barrilla looked at the screen. All their systems were dead. Their death wall was dysfunctional. He picked up a microphone that linked him with the special unit, hiding in the bushes by the warehouse. "Everything is cleared. I repeat everything is cleared. Retaliate. Do you read me? Confirm."

The captain of the special unit bent his head and spoke seemingly at his right shoulder. His microphone was conveniently built into the right side of his combat suit. "Message received a hundred percent, loud and clear. I repeat, message received a hundred percent loud and clear. Retaliation in progress."

Barrilla spun once in his swivel leather chair. He was satisfied with himself. He watched his men invade the Vecche warehouse. Soon, paratroopers would be backing them up. Barrilla smiled and sipped his drink. Operation Retaliate is a success in every sense of the word. His eyes drifted to another screen. Fire was burning up what seemed like a hotel. He looked at another screen. Naked prostitutes were running out of their rooms as the largest Vecche prostitution brothel up in flames. Another screen showed a missile hitting the Vecche private airport off the coast of Hawaii. In fact, of one the one hundred 22-inch screens around him, about 90 showed images of killings, bombings, buildings in flames, or some other causality that the Capinni family was inflicting on the Vecche family. Barrilla scanned the screens, a look of satisfaction on his face as images of destruction, of retaliation, of vengeance in progress, and pay back were brought live to him via digital satellite broadcast. Retaliation, his mind said. Yes, they were images of retaliation. Was it not, after all, retaliation time? The family pride, honor, and prestige were restored. He has restored it. He, Barrilla Capinni. Operation Retaliation would go down as one of the greatest successes of the Capinni, Vecche war. The Capinni family was, once again, on top of the world. He could smile.

Barrilla smiled.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER THREE

It is far easier to make war than to make peace

Georges Clemenceau (1841 - 1929), French Statesman. Speech, 14 July 1919, Verdun, France.

Capinni Village. 9:30 a.m. ET.

The spacious bathroom was covered with soft touch rugs - DuPont fibers with micro guard-of luminous gold color. Its shower curtains, scales, toilet seats, and almost everything else in it was covered with a luminous gold coloring. The air smelled like vanilla breezes, its odor becoming sweeter with every drop of water in Canillo's hot tub. Canillo lay in his sweet-scented Jacuzzi tub and chilled, facing the enormous mirror at the far end of his tub. He relaxed his grip on the TV remote-voice control and flashed his rather white teeth at the mirror. It looked clean enough. The face that reflected from the mirror was very beautiful, but Canillo had never bothered exploiting his handsomeness. Everywhere he went, ladies desired him but he took no advantage of them. To him, he was plainly good looking, not as devastatingly handsome as his brother, Barrilla. That didn't sound right since they were identical twins, looked exactly alike, and almost indistinguishable. But what separated Canillo from Barrilla was the latter's muscular build and great abs. Canillo had never been interested in working out at the gym or taking karate classes. Now, he wondered whether the better muscular features of his brother might help him win his rose flower. Last night, he heard about the upcoming peace talks with the Vecche family. He had merely mechanically nodded and shrugged. He didn't want anything to do with family business. Only one thing preoccupied him at this instant. He must go to the park to watch his rose flower and admire her. He got out of the bathroom, dressed in grey trousers and a matching grey short sleeve shirt, grabbed his car keys, whistling softly as he always did when he was happy, and headed for Rydell park.

He arrived at the park, parked his white Mercedes 560 SEL beside the curb, and took his place behind a bed of red and white rose flowers, as always, and patiently waited for his rose flower to arrive. The atmosphere was filled with pleasant smells emanating from the roses all around him, he could hear the faint sounds of water dripping from the fountains that surrounded the park, families and children playing around, and he could see the statue of emperor Julius Caesar staring seemingly at him. Every other minute, Canillo glanced at his watch, sometimes more than once in a matter of seconds. Twenty minutes later, he looked at his watch again. It was past time his rose flower showed up. She was usually punctual and arrived the park at about 10:00 a.m. on Tuesdays, give or take five minutes. He looked at his watch again. It read twenty-two minutes past ten. Maybe she is caught in traffic, he thought. He will wait as long as it takes. He will keep waiting, standing right there beside the bed of red and white roses, the rose scented atmosphere, beautiful fountains, and wait a thousand years for a rose flower, his rose flower, the most beautiful rose flower in the world, oh pretty lady, his mind went. He waited. Ten minutes passed. Then another ten. After an additional eight minutes, Canillo's face fell. Where is she? Where is my rose flower? Caught in traffic? Please, rose flower, come again. I want to see you, talk to you, let you know how I feel, I think, strange as it may sound, I love you - even without knowing you. All of a sudden, instinct told him to turn around. He dutifully obliged. And the heavens opened, or so it seemed. She was standing a few feet away from him, watching him, and sipping a can of orange juice. It seemed as if she had been there for quite some time now. Canillo looked at her in astonishment. How long had she been there? She seemed alone. He felt the skies open up, the clouds give way, the sun shine brightly, and the roses behind him sparkle with beauty, and emanate sweet odors, a beauty that matched that of his rose flower, his lady, standing in front of his very own eyes.

The day was warm but Canillo almost found himself shivering. He froze, gathered momentum, and began taking a step toward her. For some reason, he missed a step, lost his balance and fell, but somehow managed to keep his eyes fixed on her face. He clumsily rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving hers, and managed to reach her.

"Uh, heee, uh, um, hel-l-l-l-oo," he managed to blurt. "Hello," he stammered again, this time his words were a little clearer and didn't quite have an element of fear in them like the first time.

"Hi," she replied. They looked at each other, searchingly and awkwardly, the way you look at yourself in the mirror just before stepping out for prom night. She was magnificent, he thought.

He looked around. Children were playing on the green lawns, lovers were taking naps on the lawns, families were eating ice creams and strolling around the park; in short, everyone seemed joyful on this bright day.

"Your presence, lovely one, reverberates joy throughout this park. Your beauty seems to flow into the rose flowers nearby and brightens them, your body radiates a bright light of happiness, joy, and a magical bliss that glows my heart, rendering me enraptured. Lady, you are magical. You are a rose flower."

"Very poetic," she replied with brief smile.

"And very true. Poetry is at its best when blended with truth."

"And what is the truth?"

"That the sight of you brightens my day and gives me great joy. Your angelic beauty is matched only by the perfume smelling and best looking rose flowers in this park. You are a rose flower in your own right." Canillo was gaining confidence as the seconds ticked by. She was, he discovered, after all human and not some fantastic Greek goddess similar to that in Homer's Odyssey.

"You surprise me. You are very poetic, sound perfectly normal, do not know me, and yet you praise and adore me."

"You deserve, as much as Shakespear deserves praise for his works, every single praise I bestow upon thee."

"You're too kind."

He moved his eyes and watched her slim long legs. She was wearing a short jean skirt and a cutoff T-shirt that exposed her firm waist and navel. Canillo swallowed - she was very sexy. Her tanned well-oiled legs shone light gold below the sunlight. They were succulent, he thought, and devoid of any hair or mark. Her abdominal muscles, visible due to her very short T-shirt, looked packed and perfect. She had the shape of super model. Is she a model? A film star?

She noticed him looking at her legs then at her stomach and abs, then her pointed breasts under the thin white blouse.

"You're beautiful," he breathed for lack of a better phrase to describe her.

"You're welcome."

"By the way, before I forget, my name is . . . I'm Canillo". He extended his hand.

"Lolita," she said with a slight smile and shook his hand.

Fifteen seconds later, Canillo was still shaking her hand. Another fifteen seconds later, he was still shaking her hand. He stared into her eyes. She looked right back into his eyes; their hands were still locked together.Then Canillo's eyes drifted to their hands tightly clasped together. He felt her soft, fur-like, palm against his.

"Palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss," he said, remembering Shakespear's Romeo And Juliet, when the palms of Romeo and Juliet touched for the first time, and Romeo said these exact words.

"I'm flattered."

She tried to pull her hand from his grip. He was holding her too tight. She tried again. His hand was still locked too tight to hers. Canillo looked at their hands, realized he was still shaking her hand, and released it with an awkward smile. She gently pulled her hand to her side.

Suddenly, she said, "why have you been watching me for weeks?"

Canillo's expression changed, his eyes widened and his mouth began to open. How did she find out? "I er . . . was not watching you," he lied. "I just happened to always take daily relaxing strolls at the same time you took yours." He had lied without intending to. He continued staring at her. She is so cute, he thought again. Then abruptly, he decided not to lie to her. Never lie to her. She is too innocent, too good, too godly, full of beauty, a rose flower, and deserved the truth at all times.

"Sorry, I just lied. I've been watching you, and your every movement." He wondered why he added the last phrase. And your every movement. Wasn't it enough to say he had been watching her without adding that he had been watching her every movement?.

"I know."

"What? I don't get it."

"I said, I know."

"You mean, you actually know I've been watching you?"

"Yes," she replied. "And I've known for weeks."

Canillo found himself at a lack of what to say. "Well, I just wanted to say . . . to say . . . I . . . I," he paused before blurting out, "I love you." The words had finally come out, but it sounded like - despite all his preparations for it - a ten-year-old kid who has just discovered what love is and is saying it to an eight-year-old classmate.

She smiled sympathetically. "How can you love me? You don't know me."

"Believe me, I do."

"Whom am I?"

He remembered her name. He will never forget. "Lolita."

She smiled. "That's not what I meant. Try again?"

"You're God's gift to mankind, God's display of artistic excellence and beauty. You're the most beautiful rose flower that exists."

"That still doesn't answer my question. You've just met me, don't know me, just know my name and -"

"I'm a fast learner. I could learn all about you in two hours if you let me."

She looked at her watch. The very watch he had held in his hands yesterday when he found it on the green lawns, besides some red rose flowers almost as beautiful as she."You're nice, and nice meeting you," his rose flower said, "but I gotta go. Bye." She began to leave.

"Wait. One moment please. Can I have your number?"

She stopped and turned. "I don't give my number to strangers."

"Please. I'll call only when you want me to," Canillo said. Then seeing her hesitate, he added, "I'll call only once."

"Sorry, I can't."

"Please."

"Sorry."

"Please."

"Sorry, I can't. Don't make me feel guilty. Stop begging." She began to walk away.

"Please, I'm down on bended knees." Canillo walked in front of her and knelt down. He didn't care if everyone around the park and pedestrians in the street nearby turned and looked at him weirdly.

"Get up. Everyone is watching. Please get up," Lolita said nervously. They had now attracted a lot of attention, with curious eyes riveted on them.

"I'm on my knees, begging you to grant my wish."

Lolita looked around again. All eyes were staring at them. Some persons pretended to look away when she raised her head only to stare again when she bent her head toward Canillo. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you what. You give me your number and I'll call you sometime, all right?"

"You promise? You'll call me?" he asked, still on bended knees. It was, perhaps, the best he could get from her.

She hesitated. "All right. I promise. I'll call you," she said with a slight smile.

Canillo sprang to his feet. "It will be my greatest pleasure to take your call. I look forward to it," he gently said. He took out a blue ink pen from his pocket, took her palm slowly, lifted them toward him, looked at her in the eyes, looked at her palm, and wrote his number on her palm, slowly as if it were a tedious task. Then, he turned to the back of her palm and lay a brief kiss on it. She watched him closely. After that, she smiled at him and walked away, leaving him staring at her as she disappeared among the pedestrians at the street curb.

For the next five minutes Canillo remained glued to his spot, thinking about his meeting with his rose flower, Lolita. Then, he got into his car and drove off. Today was his lucky day.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER FOUR

Let us never negotiate out of fear, but let us never fear to negotiate.

John F. Kennedy (1917-63), U.S. Democratic politician, president. Inaugural address, 20 Jan. 1961. Quoted in: Theodore C. Sorenson, Kennedy, pt. 3, ch. 9 (1965).

They came from all over the world. Asia, Europe, Australia, South America, and even Africa. They crowded the lawns and roads and even entered the pool of water surrounding the fountains of Forza Tower in order to be present for the peace talks when it began. They are journalists, commentators, writers, reporters, and camera men and crews. Every major press or news agency in the world sent reporters to cover the event. Television vans, crews, and journalists crowded the streets and blocked any traffic from passing by the Tower. CNN was present, of course, and was providing live images from the Tower although the talks had not yet begun. But CNN was not alone. About forty channels worldwide, and over twenty in the U.S., were covering the event live. Even MTV and the Sci-fi channel planned to switch their broadcast to Forza Tower once the mafia dons began arriving for the much awaited and anticipated peace talks. Officially, the mafia and cartel parties claimed they were holding business talks but no one was fooled.The actual peace talks and negotiations will be held behind closed doors with no cameras or recorders allowed, but that didn't dry the media's insatiable appetite for the event. To them, the talks were just another ratings blockbuster, a way to sell-out their papers. The public was fascinated with the saga - some called it epic - of the Capinni and Vecche families and their war. It was almost a certainty that television ratings will reach record levels and news magazines would sell out provided they covered the peace talks at Forza Tower.

The U.S. government was surprised by the American peoples' fascination with the Capinni and Vecche families despite their evil doings and criminal activities. Furthermore, it surprised the administration that so many news organizations had responded at such a short notice. Everywhere in the U.S. and in most parts around the world, every bar or pub, every restaurant, office, and even church, people were tuned into the event, eagerly waiting to see the great mafia dons of New York and get news about the ensuing peace talks. It was like Christmas time for mafia experts and academics who had written on the subject. They were very much in demand, their value exponentially rising, as television networks sought their 'expert analysis' of the peace talks and its possible outcome. Some 'experts' predicted that there will never be peace between the two warring families while others said there will be peace after the talks. The media frenzy and public fascination were also accentuated by the fact that a couple of the richest men in the world, the likes of Roberta Bettega, Angelo Capinni, Jorge Bushi, Carlos Fasprilla, don Arrigo Manta, don Gentini Lapeaz, and many others will be present for the opening session of the talks. In short, the most famous and richest drug lords and dons were announced at the meeting. Comedian Jay Leno even joked that he, as the worlds funniest man, should be invited to attend the talks.

The golden atomic clock at the top of Forza Tower struck 11:00 a.m. It chimed a familiar Sicilian melody. It was nearly time for the negotiating parties to arrive.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER FIVE

The bomber-killer watched them from across the street through the tinted windshield of his van. He watched them get up from their seats. Look at the lovely setting sun, he whispered, watch the setting sun very closely for it is the last sunset you fuckers will ever see. Saying this, he tapped the driver of the blue van. The driver put the car in first gear and began the drive toward where Mark and Dolores stood The bomber-killer slowly lowered the windshield of the van, revealing his M-734 SAW Para machine gun, capable of firing 9000 rounds per minute, and aimed it at the ignorant Mark and Dolores, gesturing to the driver to drive nearer. The street was full of pedestrians, the cafe's and bars around were full, and the traffic was light. The bomber-killer looked at Mark and Dolores. It will be a hit and run double homicide murder; They may be considered the best agents in the world but he has never missed a target, and today will not be that day, he told himself with a smirk on his face. The driver of the van picked up some speed, heading toward Mark and Dolores across the street.

Mark noticed that his mother was walking up to him with a glass of pina colada, smiling widely at him. God help her! He muttered to himself and looked at Dolores. "Are you thinking what I am thinking?" he nervously asked.

"You got that right." She glanced back across the street, then glanced behind. A blue van with tinted windows just finished making an illegal U-turn and was heading toward them, speeding moderately, with both windows down. Dolores didn't need to see the muzzle of the machine gun pointing out of the window to know they were in danger. Years of being constantly in danger had taught her never to take chances.

"Get down! Down!" she shouted to Mark while throwing herself on Mark's mother to bring her to the ground, and getting her weapon out. Before she had even finished telling Mark to get down, he had already dived on his mom, his gun in hand, and firing shots at the oncoming blue van.

Dolores and Mark had all converged on his mother's body, trying to bring her to the ground in order to avoid any straying bullets from hitting her. Too late. The bomber-killer was faster. Or perhaps Mark's mom wasn't brought to the ground fast enough. Or, more precisely, the bomber-killer was following Mark and Dolores movements with his machine gun. Whatever the case, she was caught in the crossfire as the shots unleashed by the bomber-killer's machine gun followed the movements of Mark and Dolores but ended up hitting Mark's mother. She was hit just as Dolores and Mark were bringing her to the ground. She fell down and died, her body soaked with blood and bullet wounds inflicted by the bomber-killer's firearm. She had not suffered pain before her death, but had taken in about ten bullets from the bomber-killer's automatic machine gun.

The bomber-killer continued spraying bullets all over the ground as Dolores and Mark tried to evade the shots by spreading out and rolling on the ground.

The scene at the patio of the grill pub became confused. Waiters and waitresses dropped their trays and ran inside. Some customers began running away and were hit by straying bullets. Mark and Dolores dived behind the only possible covers they had: dining tables. Bullets swept over their heads, leaving multiple bullet holes in the tables and walls all around them.

The van was still moving closer. In a few seconds the car would be too near for the bomber-killer to miss his targets again.

Both Mark and Dolores knew they could not remain on the defense for long. They were lying down flat on the ground, covered by weak oak wood dining tables, firing shots at the oncoming car. But they were on not-too-concealed ground, easy targets for even a mediocre shooter. They had to do something. They fired at the bomber-killer in the oncoming van. Their bullets bounced back from the van, ricocheting like a tennis ball bounding on France's Rolland Garros Tennis Courts. It instantly became evident to Mark and Dolores that their would-be assassin was in a bulletproof van. They had to do something else to get him.

The bomber-killer continued spraying the area with bullets as the car loomed nearer Mark and Dolores, gunning down seven bystanders in the process. Next thing, the bomber-killer detected their bodies, hidden behind an upturned dinning table. Mark was at his right, while Dolores was at the left. He was now barely twelve yards away. He dropped his machine gun in the car, and took out a forty-pound rocket launcher, the latest prototype production high-impact-low-weight bomb technology. He aimed it at Mark and Dolores behind the upturned dinning table. Good-bye smart boy and gal, he muttered to his himself as he released the trigger, sending the lethal rocket directly at Mark and Dolores. Death to the rats.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER SIX

The bomber-killler released the trigger of the gun aimed squarely at Canillo's head. But, the shot was not intended to kill Canillo, yet. It was intended to frighten Canillo, let him know what is coming next, and let him remember in his grave or wherever dead people go that he was killed and tormented by a Vecche. The shot grazed by Canillo's hair and left a deep scar on the wall. The bomber-killer smiled foxily. He loved the fear in the kid's eyes. He loved to see the terror in his victim's eyes before they died. It gave him plenty of satisfaction. He was enjoying the sight of seeing his would-be victim helpless and begging. Canillo eyes were wide with fright. The bomber-killer let out a loud laugh. His two men snickered. Poor thang on the floor. Poor poor fucking Capinni thang.

"The next shot is for your forehead, kid. This was just to remind you that I did this to you."

"Please, stop," Lolita cried behind.

"My brother and father are going to get you for this," Canillo said. "Barrilla will get you. Wait and see."

"They'll all be dead tonight." How on earth could this kid expect him to be afraid of weaklings such as his father? Naive and dumb. Kill him now.

The staircase door at the end of the corridor burst open. Two security personnel rushed out. They had an advantage over the bomber-killer for they had taken him by utter surprise. Regardless, the bomber-killer was still too fast for them. He rapidly shifted his gun's muzzle from Canillo's head and fired at the two security personnel even before they had time to aim their guns at him. They dropped down. By now, more armed security personnel were bursting into the corridor through the staircase. The bomber-killer fired twice more, killing two more men that came rushing out. One of his men behind him shot another. The elevator door opened and more security guards rushed out.

The shoot-out that resulted was fierce and extremely deadly. The bomber-killer's two men instinctively let go off Lolita as they began responding to the shots that came their way. Lolita ran toward Canillo who brought her to the ground in order to prevent her from being hit by the numerous bullets that were flying everywhere in the air. Canillo and Lolita began crawling on their bellies toward end of the corridor, as heavy gun fire swept back and forth over their heads. Luckily for them, the bomber-killer and his men were busy holding up the gunfire that was coming from two directions, the north and south ends of the corridor, that is, from the staircase doorway and the elevator. The bomber-killer and his two men were doing remarkably well given the fact that they were outnumbered by about five to one and the numbers against them was rising fast, but then again, they had submachine guns, set on automatic rapid-fire, and unleashing almost 2000 rounds per minute. In stark contrast, the hotel's vast security personnel were using Colt .45 pistols.

MORE EXERCPTS FROM CHAPTER SIX

Capinni Village was exactly a 55 square-mile well-spread out assortment of penthouses, condominiums, apartments, huts, bungalows, houses, mobile homes, and one mammoth chateau at the center that was surrounded by twelve watch towers and twelve marbles and limestone pillars; one's type of residence - whether penthouse, condo, or apartment, and so on, - depended on one's rank within the family. Don Capinni and his immediate family resided in the chateau, but also kept personal penthouse triplexes. Most of the villages' residences were separated by paved roads with palm trees and shrubs on either side. The village contained four supermarkets where everything was free to the inhabitants of the village. It also had movie complexes - there were three - that showed movie premiers before the studio executives or the ratings board even had the chance to screen them, recreational parks, four world class golf courses, twenty-four tennis playgrounds, twenty-four table tennis tables evenly split in four well-conditioned halls, Olympic-sized swimming pools, both indoor and outdoor, at just about every corner, pool tables in every dwelling unit, and twelve soccer playgrounds, including a 50-000 capacity soccer stadium for intra family competitions. The village was inhabited only by "made men," and their families, that is, members of the Capinni family who had been ritually inducted into the family, pledging their undying allegiance to the Capinni family with a pint of their blood.

Viewed from the skies, the northern section of Capinni village looked like Disney World with its recreational parks and multi-play grounds and other entertainment complexes; the southern section which housed most of the family members looked like a better rendition of affluent Beverly Hills neighborhood, only that it contained superior architectural and engineering pedigree in its residences, and palm trees and waterfalls and fountains could be found virtually everywhere, monuments of past dons of the Capinni family were placed at all the exits, and armed patrol guards were excessive. Perhaps the most mesmerizing aspect about the Capinni village was that, viewed from above, it seemed to be the center of the universe - if you consider an isolated dwelling right in the middle of a massive sea to the east, a dense forest to the west, a man-made mountain to the north, and plain ground actually containing deadly mines to the south. The village contained the seldom used capability of covering the entire 5 square-mile area with a transparent retractable roof, much like many baseball parks nowadays, and that in itself is an engineering wonder considering the bread and width of the village. The most recent use of the transparent retractable roof occurred during a heavy rain downpour at the outdoor wedding ceremony of don Angelo Capinni's late sister when it was used to cover the entire village from any single drop of rain, while at the same time allowing the clouds to be visible.

Tonight was cool and cloudless. Capinni village was well lit with security high-powered laser beams scanning the vast premises. In all, there were more than forty watch towers with fully armed guards at every turn of the Village. Everything seemed calm as midnight approached. For now.

The time was thirty minutes to midnight. In the Capinni Village, apart from the security personnel, everyone else was asleep. Everyone, that is, except don Capinni. Somehow, he couldn't get himself to sleep. He knew he had entrusted the safety of the family tonight to Barrilla and he trusted Barrilla's judgement. Yet don Capinni felt worried. Canillo had told him his enemies will try to kill the family tonight, attack this fortress, and all he did was place his confidence in Barrilla to do a good job of saving the family, if the need arose. He looked at his watch. It read twenty minutes to midnight. There had been no attack so far or any sign of an impending attack. Don Capinni rolled over on the bed and looked outside through the window. All seemed fine. Suddenly, he rose from his bed, and picked up the phone. A voice immediately came on the line.

"I want the chief security on the line now," he ordered. A second later, a heavy voice came on the line. It was the chief Capinni residential security's voice. "Is everything alright? Do you smell any trouble?" don Capinni asked in a worried voice.

"Trouble? no trouble, my don. Everything is fine. Never was better. This fortress is invincible, tougher to penetrate than the White House."

"Good. Now listen to me carefully. I want you to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. I want you to send some men far out beyond our boundaries to report any signs of trouble. I want you guys alert. If there are any signs of trouble or anything unusual, even the slightest thing that you have a bad feeling about, call me immediately. You got that, I want to be informed of the least sign of trouble."

"Sure thing, and all my respects, sir." What was all this about? Why had the don become so paranoid all of a sudden, the security man wondered. As far as he was concerned, nothing can and will happen. The Capinni Village is the safest and most secured location in the world, the security chief thought.

Don Capinni dropped the phone down. He didn't know exactly why he was feeling so worried, but he knew his sixth sense told him something might be amiss. He looked at his watch. Twelve minutes to midnight. Time to go to bed, he reluctantly told himself while another part of him said he shouldn't sleep. Remember what Canillo told you: tonight is the night your enemy plans to get you. Don Capinni returned to bed and lay down with his eyes open, his left hand gently stroking his cheek.

EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER SEVEN

Over ten thousand miles away from Melbourne, across the Indian ocean, fifteen or more flight hours away, lay New York City, the financial city of the New York state, permanent residence to the Capinni and Vecche families. Today, business and life were fast paced as usual in New York City. The streets were full and busy as pedestrians and cab drivers went about their business. Apparently, New York City today was like any other day of the week. During the past decade, the city had surpassed all rivals - Los Angeles, Dallas, Philadelphia - as the major source of crime in the United States of America. The crime rate had been progressively rising since the early eighties, and the people who lived and commuted to New York City every day suffered from the hands of criminals. The mafia families who inhabited New York were the major source of all the crime and illegal activities going on in New York, accounting for more than 82 percent of the crime.

Though today began like any other Sunday in New York City, things quickly changed for the worse. As thousands of New Yorkers read the Sunday morning papers and watched the news, they became increasingly aware that the Capinni-Vecche war had begun again and was fought on their territory, and that the increased hostilities meant more news of innocent New Yorkers' death and destructions of tax payer property. The New York Times and The New York Post called for peaceful demonstrations against the existence of mafia families in New York. Urged by community leaders, churches, and "peace" organizations, New Yorkers gathered in thousands, and soon, tens of thousands, and began demonstrating for peace. Men and women of all races, nationality, and social status were holding placards with various words, marching across the streets of New York City and Manhattan. Some placards read: 'stop the mafia', 'enough is enough', 'protect us and kill the mafia', 'send the dons of mafia families to the electric chair', 'New York is not a war zone', 'Go back to Sicily, mafia niggers', and so on and forth. The people of New York, more than a hundred thousand of them, began marching peacefully, showing their discontent with the way the authorities were handling the mafia families. The demonstrators marched to mayor Chuck Wayne's office, gathering more crowds as they did so. "We want action. We want the mafia out of our city. We want the mafia who are responsible for the killings of yesterday jailed and sentenced to death," a group of men in their thirties were singing. Truly indeed, New York was fed up. Many a family had lost a loved one in a mafia-related death.

The city's anger was due also to the disheartening news that when retreating Vecche soldiers were intercepted by the N.Y.P.D., the resulting showdown culminated in the death of thirty-seven police officers, while more than fifty-five of the Vecche men had also been killed. The demonstrators caused all traffic to cease, all cabs to stop, and business came to a halt . The roads, streets, highways, were filled with discontent crowds. Most of the demonstrators, shown live on over a dozen TV stations, now in front of the mayor's office, were chanting and calling for an end to the bloodshed and the prosecution of the mafia families, mainly the Vecche and Capinni families. Demonstrators had also crowded the New York office of senator Shaw, chairman of a task force in the Senate aimed at stopping the mafia. New York City this morning, in the words of a prominent history professor, "looked like a modern version of the storming of the Bastille during the French Revolution of 1789." One TV reporter for CNN noted that, "indeed, men, women, and children of all color, race, ethnic background, religion, and size, are rallying against the mafia in New York city. They are sending a message that they would no longer put up with the mafia. That they would no longer believe when their governments tells them the mafia does not exist. Their anger is real. It seems to me as if New Yorkers have been stung by a chemical reactant into reaction. Now the pressure is on the mafia to get out of town."

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

There is no instant of time when one creature is not being devoured by another. Over all these numerous races of animals man is placed, and his destructive hand spares nothing that lives. He kills to obtain food and he kills to clothe himself; he kills to adorn himself; he kills in order to attack and he kills to defend himself; he kills to instruct himself and he kills to amuse himself; he kills to kill. Proud and terrible king, he wants everything and nothing resists him.

Joseph de Maistre (1753-1821), French diplomat, philosopher. The Senator, in Les Soirées de Saint-Pétersbourg, "Seventh Dialogue" (1821; repr. in The Works of Joseph de Maistre, ed. by Jack Lively, 1965).

Johannesburg, South Africa.

Jim Bray was simply the best in the business of assassinations. In the underworld, he was known as "Big Jim," but he preferred to be called "Jim, the Best, Bray." And indeed he was the best killer that ever existed, at least according to most terrorist organizations. He had participated in the Katanga crisis and had helped the Soviets eliminate a couple of top anticommunist proponents in East Germany, Romania, Poland and Bulgaria. He was a killer who had never left a trace in any of his killings, and he was rumored to have killed John F. Kennedy. He didn't have any police record anywhere in the world, and no European intelligence agency or the CIA know of his existence and activities. It is his anonymity and perfect killing record of twenty-nine hits in his illustrious career that made the bomber-killer select him for the ultimate job. The payoff was big - extraordinarily big.

Jim, the best, Bray looked at the coded message the bomber-killer had left for him. He read it carefully and discarded it - as he always did. He had a job to do. For three years now, nothing had come up. Jim Bray had spent his time exercising, weight lifting, and spending his money. He had been thinking of retiring, and reasoned that forty-two years of age was not too young to retire in this business. Now, he was glad he had not retired. This was going to be his greatest job, and with it the fattest paycheck. And the last. The message went over his mind again. Sure, he would have to cross-check the source of the message, but it sounded authentic. He vaguely knew his would-be victim, had heard of him only in the papers and media. He grinned to himself as the images he vaguely remembered of his would-be victim swept through his mind. Well, he thought to himself, don Capinni would have to die. D-I-E he slowly said to himself. One thing worried him, however. He was surprised at the speed at which the messenger wanted the assassination to take place. He was given barely a couple of weeks to carry out the operation, and he nearly always took four months to plan and execute an assassination. The date and time to assassinate don Capinni was stated on the message as the 14th of July, between noon and one in the afternoon, eastern standard time. Anyway, Bray told himself, for twenty million dollars, he would kill anytime and anywhere. He walked over to phone, picked it up, and began his inquiries. First, he decided to acquaint himself with all the information he could get about don Capinni and his entourage, especially his security detail.

Someone at the other end picked up the line, "media services, may I help you?"

"Hi Diana, it's J the best B. Do you know a certain Mr. Angelo Capinni?"

"Sure, who doesn't. He's the great gangster and philanthropist, rather paradoxically, that rules the world's underworld. I hear lately he has been having quite some legal troubles."

"That's the man alright. Get me all the information you him. Do it fast. I want his eating habits, what he likes best, his hobbies, his nightmares, when he farts, everything. You got that?"

"Yes sir," she responded.

"I want all the details," he continued, "no information is too minute. Even his lovemaking habits. Leave whatever you are doing and get started on it immediately." He dropped immediately after saying this. He had one more thing to do tonight. He walked over to a chest which he had not opened for three years, unlocked it, and took out his custom-made assassination rifle. He kissed the muzzle and smiled. He had a killing to do and twenty million dollars to earn. My pleasure, he slowly whispered to himself.

MORE EXCERPTS FROM CHAPTER NINE

"I flew in to see you," Pope John Paul II continued, "Because of all the good things you have done for the Vatican and for the Church. I did not want you to think that I come to you only in times of hardship and when I need your advice."

"I will never doubt your friendship," don Capinni responded.

The old and frail Pope continued. "I will be holding a special service for you upon my return to Vatican City. We will pray that everything goes well for you."

Don Capinni rose to his feet and kissed the pope warmly on his cheeks.

"Deus vobiscum," the Pope blessed don Capinni in Latin as he left.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER TEN

Miami, Florida.

It was a hot evening in Miami. In the outskirts of Miami, very close to Freelong beach, there is a neighborhood the locals named "richos"that houses mostly rich and affluent persons. It is in this neighborhood that twenty teenagers were killed. The grenade was dropped on the floor of the living room where the youngsters were partying - listening to rock music, drinking beer, and eating pizza. When the police arrived, they found a note at the entrance of the house. It read: 194319501977 - an account number. The mystery bank account owner had struck again.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 12

The room was dimly lit, outside was still foggy and rainy, all adding up to the eeriness inside the room. Barrilla, still seated comfortably in his arm chair with a glass of Martini in one hand and a pistol in another, heard the main entrance door of his bungalow open. Soon, he saw a shadow walking toward the room he was in. From the look of the shadow, the man had a pony tail and was carrying two huge firearms, probably submachine guns, and had bullets strapped all across his chest. Barrilla sipped his drink casually. His guest had arrived.

"Welcome," he said. "Come right in. You know, I have been expecting you."

The bomber-killer emerged from within the shadows. He turned and faced Barrilla who was at the other end of the room, and pointed his submachine guns at Barrilla. He said, "I would have arrived earlier but, on my way in, I bumped into some of your fucking men, you know, I had to kill."

Barrilla ignored this. "Would you like a drink?" he asked. "Scotch, Martini, whisky, make a choice."

"I don't want shit," the bomber-killer replied.

"What do you want, shit head?"

"You."

"Then come and get me."

"You better fucking believe me, I will."

"I figured that out. Well, guess what, on second thoughts, I am occupied. Sorry. Some other time, perhaps," Barrilla said.

"This is no time for fucking games. I told you once I'd get you. I am here to make good on my promise."

"I like a man that keeps his promise," Barrilla said. "It shows responsibility, something I'd hardly associate with you, and even that is an understatement."

"You're goddamn fucking fool."

Barrilla sipped his drink and smacked his lips in smug satisfaction.

"Somehow, fucker, you are beginning to irritate me," the bomber-killer said.

Barrilla forced a foxy smile. "I'm glad you're getting irritated. It makes the game more fun."

"It makes me madder."

"And that's what makes it more interesting."

"It won't be interesting when I break your fucking neck."

"Or when I thrust my boots into that hairy ass, stinking ass of yours."

"Better watch your language, motherfucker."

"Better watch me kick the shit out of you."

"I told you before, now I am warning you for the last time. I hate getting irritated."

"It's the game plan. What are you going to do about it?"

"When I am done, you would wish you were never born."

"Maybe it's time we stopped talking bullshit and see who is the man," Barrilla said.

"Hell yeah. I've got shit to do, places to go."

"I"ll tell you what."

"No, I'll fucking tell you what," the bomber-killer retorted. "If you're a fucking man, as you fucking claim, you'll fucking agree to this. Let's put our fucking weapons down and fight with our hands -"

"- like real men do," Barrilla finished.

"Like fucking real men do," the bomber-killer corrected.

Barrilla's pistol was pointed at the bomber-killer's head; the bomber-killer's weapons were all trained on Barrilla. They both knew that since they were expert gun shooters, this was a no win situation. They could all end up dead if any of them started to shoot because they were both in the line of fire.

Barrilla lowered his gun. "A hand-to-hand combat it shall be," he said with finality.

The bomber-killer grinned. "My fucking pleasure." He threw his firearms to the ground. Barrilla held onto his lowered gun, and soon began to lift his pistol, ready to pull the trigger. Next thing, he abruptly decided against it. It was not the honorable thing to do. It was the cowardice solution, the easy way out. He would face the bomber-killer, mano a mano, fist for fist, punch for punch, and kick for kick. They would fight with their bare hands. Barrilla knew the bomber-killer was tough but so was he. He was confident he would prevail. He put his drink down, threw away his pistol, and rose to his feet.

This was the classic match-up they had both been dreaming of. They stood facing each other at opposite ends of the room, then began to walk carefully toward each other. Each step they took seemed to echo through the bungalow. They stared into each other's eyes with hate and contempt for the other. When they were within eight yards of each other, they stopped in their steps and stared at the other. Then, they began to circle round each other, walking cautiously in circles, and keeping their eyes on the other. They were extremely focused and concentrated.

The bomber-killer lifted his thumb and pointed it downwards. It Sicily, this means you're dead meat. Barrilla shook his head in denial: I am not dead meat. You are. They stopped circling each other and faced each other. They were now four yards apart. At the sound of the next explosion, the bomber-killer suddenly threw a punch, going on the attack. His moves went: a kick, another, a punch, a kick, a left hook, and two quick jabs. Barrilla dodged all of it, taking a few steps back and lowering his head every now and then. The bomber-killer did not make any contact with Barrilla's body.

"Not fucking bad," the bomber-killer said, a little surprised at Barrilla's skill level.

"Good.Very good," Barrilla said.

Five seconds later, Barrilla surged forward with a high kick, followed by a karate leap kick, and a quick series of blows. The bomber-killer bent down, ducked to the left and right, and retreated. He came out untouched and unharmed.

"Not bad," Barrilla said.

"Good. Very fucking good," the bomber-killer responded, in genuine admiration of how he evaded Barrilla's thrusts.

EXCERPT FROM PART II

. . . . . . It's war time, he whispers deeply to himself. He changes into a Ghillie suit whose strips help to break up a person's outline and blend them into their surroundings, rendering him hard to detect. The suit was tailor-made with little bits of brush from the local surrounding and its building to complete the effect. He takes out a black marker and draws three diagonal lines across his face. It was the sign of a warrior, originating from German Nomadic tribes in 1061, he had learnt. Next, he picks up a Ceramic armor that weighs sixteen pounds and is very efficient at stopping multiple rounds of bullets. He presses a concealed switch near the bathroom tub and the walls of the room open up revealing a closet full of weapons. He chooses a computer-semi-controlled weapon which uses a scope that can magnify up to nine times, and enables him see in both light and darkness. A laser displays the range to target. The computer adjusts for distance, and he had programed the rounds to explode just above and beyond any object his targets may be hiding behind. This weapon especially pleased him because when a round is fired, it counts the number of rotations it makes as it fires through the air, then at the exact rotation just past the target, the triple warheads round explodes in a uniform and deadly sphere, about 35 feet - adjustable - in all directions. The weapon also possessed a laser range-finding and video tracking system so that whatever the gun sight is pointed at can be seen in the optional video display, and lets the holder fire his weapon while exposing only hands and gun - a major reason why he loved this weapon. In addition, the weapon's laser sight could lock on to a moving target and track it, providing another option he looked forward to utilizing. Now, he fills up a handbag with grenades, explosives, and magazines that hold twenty-four rounds. Each has a range of 2,200 feet. He removes a small pistol and inserts it in his hip pocket. He picks up long rows of bullets strung together and places them across his chest, forming an "X" sign with the bullets on his chest. Finally, he picks up three sharp knifes, two small ones, and one very big one. He puts the small ones in a pocket on both sides of his ribs. He puts the big extremely sharp, Eskimo-like knife, in a black sheath and sticks it in his other shoe. He looks at himself in the mirror. He has converted himself into an elite military fighter going to war. A pure machine of death and destruction. Lastly, he picks up a rocket launcher, puts it another bag, and steps out. The final war is on . . .