The Hamptons. A group of villages and hamlets that together comprise the South Fork of Long Island. Not only a historic summer colony but one of the top five most popular seaside resorts of the northeast. Facing the Atlantic Ocean, this wealthy community can get as live as Manhattan nightclubs with social gatherings and wild parties thrown in these lavished homes. And in the daytime, social activity was just as high. Sports cars ripped through the asphalt, beaches crowded with heavenly bodies and tanning salons became as busy as after-school study groups.
Further inland stood an extravagant collection of modeled mansions, occupied by some of the richest people in the country. One of those people happened to be Crispin Pagnucci, the last mafia figure left standing in the Tri- State area.
At twenty-four years old, Crispin started his career as a hitman for his father and former mob boss, Peter Pagnucci. Years later, he recruited hungry and desperate street thugs and started enterprising in the racketeering game,
becoming a huge name overnight. He inherited the helm of the Pagnucci family at thirty-five years old after his father had died of lung cancer. After merging his crew with the rest of the family, Crispin instantly had one of the most powerful mafias on the east coast.
However, being on top for so long made him lazy. His weight grew as much as his wealth. With potential rivals too old or coked-up to make smart decisions, the mafia kingpin sought no need to hustle anymore. He now spends his days going to expensive restaurants for lunch, flirting with foreign women hired to
maintain his household and remotely set operations to keep a stranglehold on the competition.
Driver Avenue is usually off-limits to visitors and tourists alike unless properly escorted by current residents, a rule implemented by Pagnucci’s security. But this night, however, was a different story. A black Honda Accord crept down the deserted and noiseless street and stopped on the corner of 16th Street, directly across from Pagnucci’s six-car garage fortress.
Zeke Tricolo sat behind the wheel, running his fingers through his dirty- blond surfer hair while feeling an uneasiness roll inside his stomach. His blue eyes kept shifting back and forth from his wedding band and the dark road ahead. Riding shotgun, wearing commando face paint, was an insane Australian renegade named Rusty Pipes. Smiling like a madman on Halloween, Rusty signaled for the four men squished in the backseat to check their weapons. All
of the men were dressed in black and packed with enough artillery to ambush a small village. “You okay, mate?” he asked after tapping Zeke on the shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Zeke responded, looking away. “I just want to get this damn
thing over with. Check-in with Harvey and make sure his unit is in position.”
“And if they’re not, I’ll cut their stinkin’ throats out and crochet it on my vest! Sounds good, Zekey?”
“Whatever you say, Rus.”
Meanwhile, a black van pulled up to the back of Pagnucci’s mansion, carrying nine more armed and uninvited guests, fully equipped with a mobile computer system. Sitting behind the screen and tapping away on the keyboard was Harvey Gaines. Bald, dark as coffee grounds and 6 foot 7 inches of pure muscle. “I’m in,” he said, hacking into LIPA’s energy grid database. Surfing through the energy supply accounts, he found the grids registered to the Pagnucci mansion. “Two grids?”
Examining the virtual grid map, Harvey discovered that Crispin Pagnucci had two generators registered to his home, one of them strictly to operate his defense system. Multicolored sticky notes decorated the sides of the screen, each displaying different override codes. He rolled the cursor down and clicked on the button marked “off.” A question box popped up on the screen: “Are you
sure you want to shut this grid off?” He slid the cursor over to the “Yes” box and clicked it.
Red bleeps from the surveillance cameras faded to black. Alarm circuits went dead. Electricity stopped pulsing through the towering entrance gates. The house was completely defenseless.
Rusty felt his smartphone vibrate against his leg. He took it out from the pocket of his camo pants and read a text message from Harvey: Grid is down. He immediately grabbed his automatic weapon and said to the backseat crew, “Okay, girlies! Remember your assigned stations. Let’s move!”
Scurrying out of the car, Rusty and the intruders raced across the street and climbed over the towering mansion gate. Completely undetected, they stayed low while running onto the mansion grounds. Zeke remained in the car, wishing he was still in bed with his wife, Naomi. He fell back in the driver’s seat and said, “End this. Please.”
While the invaders planted explosives at specific areas around the mansion,
Rusty hid behind a massive water fountain in the middle of the courtyard
and aimed his weapon at the front doors. “We’re in position,” he said into his earpiece. “Your turn.”
Around back, the first person to step out of the van was Rocky Diamonds, a sultry woman with mesmerizing green eyes, the complexion of a dune and covered from head-to-toe in leather. Sneaking in through the backyard, she
took cover behind some bushes and got a clear view of Crispin’s crew enjoying themselves with indoor activity. Sharply dressed men gambling in the first-floor lounge, a few others drinking and smoking on the balcony, and the head of mansion security, Sammy Constantino, sat inside an outdoor Jacuzzi, snuggling up with two housekeepers.
Rocky dug into her duffel bag and scooped up a handful of darts. Under the needle points were small green beads filled with a poisonous liquid. Quantity may be small, but still strong enough to kill a lion with one poke. She then laid out several mechanical pieces by her feet and started connecting them like Lego blocks. Once the clicking and cocking were done, a British sniper rifle had been built.
Darts were loaded into a cartridge and then chambered to her weapon. She rested the buttstock against her shoulder while planting her sexy green eye against the 4-12×40 riflescope, able to spot targets from a hundred yards
away. Sammy was first on her list. Silently, she fired three darts. A second later, Sammy and his ladies slumped down into the water. She then proceeded to fire
darts at the rest of the party. Gangsters fell like dominoes, having no idea death would come for them so suddenly, and quietly.
Making his rounds around the mansion was Johnny, Pagnucci’s bookkeeper, a timid bookworm with a thick mustache, shaggy black hair and circular-framed glasses. Besides being Crispin’s lackey, Johnny’s main job was to keep the money fluctuating for the family. Kitchen, living room, dining room, and guest rooms were all clear, but he knew not to go up to the top floor. Crispin was currently conducting personal business with two Swedish women looking to fill new in-house positions as head chefs.
Johnny checked the second floor and noticed it was unusually quiet. No songs played from the jukebox. No hollering from guys losing their money. No smoke fogging up the hallways. Walking into the lounge, Johnny nearly
fainted at the sight of Crispin’s men lying on the floor with rolled-back eyes and green spider webs on their necks. Just then, from the balcony doors, he spotted shadowy figures scattering across the yard.
He ran down the hall and pushed the alarm button, but no sirens sounded. He ran to the security room and saw blank camera screens across the wall. Going against orders, Johnny ran to the top floor and banged on the boss’s bedroom door. Hearing loud squeaks and exaggerated moaning, he banged
louder and yelled that the mansion was under attack. Out came a fuming Crispin
Pagnucci, wearing a tiger printed silk robe that barely covered his large belly.
“What the hell is the matter with you?!” Crispin barked through his grinding teeth. “Didn’t I tell you not to come up here?! Huh?! I’m not done getting my exercise for –”
“Boss, we’re under attack!” interrupted Johnny. “Sammy and some others are dead! And so are the alarms!”
Crispin slammed the door behind him and raced down the hall, shoving Johnny out of his way. “That’s impossible!” he denied, tying up his robe and pushing back his hair. “Who the hell’s got the balls to attack me in my own home?!”
“Look outside and see for yourself!”
Just then, gunshots rang throughout the property. Crispin ran back to the
bedroom while a panicked Johnny hid behind a floor sculpture. A couple of
perpetrators raced up the stairs yelling like suicidal terrorists. Dramatically, Crispin stormed down the hall firing a Beretta ARX160 assault rifle. Blood splattered on his soft white walls as the invaders got buried with a swarm of bullets, tearing right through their armored commando uniforms.
Crispin yanked Johnny up by his collar and handed him a 22 handgun. They rushed downstairs to the lobby and met up with the remainder of the Pagnucci crew who were already gathering weaponry from the armory closet behind the fireplace. “Split up!” he shouted. “I want all intruders killed on sight, ya hear me?! Anyone not wearing a goddamn tailored suit better be dead on this floor when I get back!! None of them are to get outta here alive! I WANT THEM ALL DEAD!!!”
Back outside, Rusty had a pair of headphones planted on ears, bopping his head to the classic Hip Hop song from the group Gang Starr, “Gotta Get Over.” The front doors flew open and several armed gangsters ran out to the courtyard. Rusty shoved the headphones into his pocket and readied his weapon. As soon as the crew stepped out to the solar lighting, Rusty opened fire. One-by-one, gangsters dropped like flies. They tried retaliating, but the flowing water from
the fountain provided the perfect cover for Rusty and his malicious sneak attack.
Surviving gangsters were dumbfounded. Quivered jaws wondered where this parade of bullets came from. “Who’s doing that?” one of them nervously asked. “WHO’S SHOOTING AT US?!!”
Once the smoke cleared, Rusty stood on top of the water fountain like a
Las Vegas headliner and shouted, “Guess who?!” Unmercifully, he opened fire.
Blinded by sparks and smoke, the gangsters were massacred to a bloody mess.