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  “Have you heard from them?” Yousef asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Yousef shook his head. “They’re dead.”

  Dante’s eyes widened slightly. He gathered himself, forced himself to calmly refill his tumbler with Scotch. “You’re guessing. You can’t know that.”

  “I know this Sparrow—the husband—and men like him. I know his type.” Yousef sighed. “Your men are dead.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  David sat in the hospital lobby, head down, pretending to play a game on his smartphone. He’d picked a good spot and could see both entrances, the front desk, and the little gift shop off to the side selling mugs and magazines and flowers and get-well cards. His eyes snapped up to scan the area every ten seconds or so.

  After Bert had finished his phone call, David had jerked loose the cords for the telephone and nurse call button and had tied Bert’s wrists to the railings of his hospital bed. The urge to push down the syringe plunger and inject an air bubble into Bert’s bloodstream was almost too instinctual to resist. Not because of any hostility he might have felt toward the man—although there was that, too—but simply because his training screamed at him not to leave a live enemy in his wake who might cause more mischief.

  Bert was a loose end, and people in David’s line of work had a low tolerance for loose ends.

  But the thought of what Amy would say was all it took to stop him from pushing the plunger down. She’d worked with the man for years, and it might be a shock to her system to learn so starkly the sort of things David considered a routine part of his job.

  David had also sent Amy a text message:

  Don’t answer calls from the office. Not even Bert. I’ll explain later. STAY PUT.

  Ten minutes later, a guy came to the front desk and asked for the package. David had told the teenager behind the counter in the gift shop to gift wrap it in bright red, so it would be easier to see. He also made sure the box was too big to shove into a pocket.

  The guy turned it over in his hands like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He had a fat sweaty face and a broad stomach and didn’t fit well into his dark wrinkled suit. Tie pulled loose, his entire appearance was vaguely disheveled. A bristly black mustache curled down over his upper lip. Soup strainer.

  The guy shrugged, tucked the package under his arm, and headed for the exit. He didn’t appear to think there could possibly be anything tricky about picking up and delivering a package.

  David gave him a few seconds, then rose and followed.

  The pedestrian traffic out on the sidewalk was light, but at night, one man in a dark suit looked pretty much like another, from behind anyway. David congratulated himself for thinking of the bright wrapping on the package. He kept his eye on it and stayed about twenty yards back. He pretended to window-shop when the man stopped briefly to buy coffee and a Danish from a cart although there didn’t seem to be anything especially sharp or alert about the guy.

  He eventually took a set of steps down into the subway. David followed. He’d prepared for this eventuality, too, and fished the subway pass out of his pocket. David stood on the platform with a half-dozen people between himself and the man with the package. He thought about pretending to look at his smartphone again, but the man he was following was oblivious, licking the remains of the Danish from each thumb and finger in turn.

  The train arrived, and David shuffled along with the crowd. He boarded the same car as the man with the package but at the opposite end. There were plenty of seats, and he took one that allowed him to keep an eye on his target.

  The guy pulled a folded magazine out of his jacket pocket, opened it up and began to read, his lips moving as his eyes moved down the page. David took this as a sign the man had settled in for more than a few stops. Maybe.

  David took out his smartphone and thumbed the text icon. He scrolled down to Charlie Finn’s number and began composing a new text message. He hit Send at the next stop when he had service again:

  Can you look something up for me? The home residence of Dante Payne.

  Men like Payne had unlisted telephone numbers and generally didn’t advertise where they lived. Payne might even be feeling a false sense of security, thinking himself safely hidden at home. If David could move fast, strike before his opponent was set—

  The phone vibrated in his hand just as the train pulled out of the station, and he looked down at Charlie’s reply.

  He owns a building on the Upper West Side, so you’re heading in the right direction.

  At the next stop, they exchanged texts again.

  How do you know which direction I’m heading?

  Charlie’s reply:

  Most smartphones are easy to track. I called up your location on Google maps and just put a subway map over it. You’re northbound on the C, right?

  David typed:

  Oh, yeah? What color underwear do I have on?

  Charlie:

  I just hope they’re clean. But if you’re trying to find Payne, this might not be the best way.

  David paused as the train began moving again. Charlie wasn’t stupid. That much had always been obvious. But David had forgotten the man could be intuitive also. Charlie sensed what David was contemplating.

  At the next stop, David typed:

  I’m thinking it’s time to go on the offensive.

  Charlie:

  I figured. Just like old times, right?

  David managed a smile.

  Why is going to Payne’s not the best way?

  David didn’t get the reply until the next station.

  Charlie:

  He’s required by law to list a specific domicile as his primary residence, but he owns properties all over the city and in Jersey and Connecticut. A lot of them are businesses he uses for money laundering but plenty of the others are residences. I have a list of sixty-eight properties if you’d like to see it.

  David:

  Don’t have time to sort through all that. Besides, I’ve got a fish on a hook, and I’m giving him plenty of line.

  Charlie:

  That’s different then. You need support?

  David thought about it while waiting to get to the next stop on the line. He considered the flash drive in his pocket then typed:

  Can you meet me downtown later?

  Charlie:

  I only come into the city for Chinese food.

  David:

  My treat.

  David saw the man with the package fold his magazine and stash it back into his jacket as the train slowed for the next stop.

  Stay tuned. Fish is swimming.

  He followed the man onto the platform and up to the street. A good neighborhood on the Upper West Side just as Charlie had described. He rechecked the address Charlie had given him and confirmed he was headed in the right direction.

  David followed him down the quiet residential street, closing the gap a little at a time. He timed it perfectly, and was right behind the guy when he turned up the steps to Dante’s building. The guy reached for the buzzer, and David stopped him cold by putting the barrel of his pistol in the small of his back.

  The guy must have known what he was feeling because he didn’t budge, didn’t even turn around.

  David asked, “This is Dante’s building?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  David goosed him again with the pistol.

  “Okay, yeah,” he said. “It’s Dante’s building. What now? You going in there to get yourself killed? If you know who Dante Payne is, then you should know better.”

  “What do they call you, friend?”

  “Fat Jon.”

  “Are you strapped, Fat Jon?”

  “In my jacket pocket.” Jon wagged his elbow to indicate which side.

  David reached in and fished out a .38 caliber Airweight. The revolver told him almost everything he needed to know about the man. It was the gun of somebody who wasn’t really expecting to be shooting at anyone anytime soon but didn’t wa
nt to be caught naked out in the dark. David dumped it in the pocket of his Windbreaker. Maybe it would come in handy later.

  “This all?” David asked, meaning the revolver.

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s the layout on the other side of the door?”

  “Elevator. Lobby. Front desk.”

  “How many?”

  “A man behind the desk at least,” Fat Jon told him. “More if the boss is home. I don’t know.”

  David wished he’d had better intel, but there was no help for it. He had too much momentum to stall now. Better to bully his way in and keep going. Dante wouldn’t expect David to come at him like this. If he could just get upstairs, he could catch them flat-footed. There was a good chance Payne still didn’t know the men he’d sent to the hospital parking garage were dead, didn’t know his plan had gone south.

  “Okay,” David said. “Get ready to hit the buzzer. We’re going in.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Fat Jon said. “Turn around and go. I won’t say anything.”

  David caught the faintest hint of an accent. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice.

  “Are you Turkish by any chance, Jon?”

  Jon’s shoulders flinched like he wanted to turn around and then thought better of it. Being recognized as a foreigner had surprised him in some way a gun in the back hadn’t.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do,” David said. “When we get inside, go to the man behind the desk and give him the pretty red package. Say it’s something for the boss and reach out and hand it to him. You understand?”

  Fat Jon nodded.

  “Say the words.”

  “I’ll hand him the package,” Fat Jon said.

  “Don’t try to signal him or do anything unfortunate,” David said. “I want you to know—and this is a scientific fact—that there is no scenario in which I’m dead and you’re still alive. You want to get through this, then you help me do what I’m trying to do. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then hit the buzzer.”

  Fat Jon pushed the button, and a second later they were buzzed in.

  They walked into the lobby, David a half step behind Fat John. He stuck his pistol in his belt at the small of his back. The Windbreaker hung down over it. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the leather sap, cupping it in his hand and keeping in low.

  The lobby had been decked out expensive and modern, white gleaming marble and mirrors and a big desk with a guy behind it almost as big. He wore a dark suit. No-nonsense haircut. He stood as David and Fat Jon approached.

  His eyes shifted to David. “Who’s that?”

  “Forget him.” Jon held out the gift-wrapped package as instructed. “I’m supposed to drop this off for the boss. Important stuff.”

  It almost never fails. When someone is handed something, they reach out to take it. Reflex.

  So when the guy behind the desk reached for the package, David stepped forward quickly and brought the sap down hard on the man’s wrist. There was a muted snap, and the man hissed breath into his lungs for a scream.

  But David didn’t let that happen. A backhand swipe with the sap caught the guy just under his eye. Bone cracked and the guy folded, dropping into a heap behind the desk.

  David drew his pistol again and pointed it at Fat Jon. The Turk’s eyes were wide. He hadn’t made any move to flee or fight and had gone pale.

  David kept the gun on him as he circled behind the desk to examine his handiwork. The man was on the floor, but trying to push himself up, head twitching and wobbly. David brought the sap down hard on the base of his skull and that shut him down for good.

  “Do you need a key or anything to take the elevator up?”

  “The call button is behind the desk.”

  David found it and pushed it. A moment later it dinged and the doors slid open. David handed the red wrapped package back to Fat Jon who took it like he was being handed a rattlesnake.

  David paused a moment when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and read the text from Amy.

  Where are you???

  He ignored the message and returned the phone to his pocket. She’s going to be pissed.

  With his pistol, David motioned Fat Jon toward the elevator. They boarded.

  Then up.

  * * *

  “He said to wait, so we wait.”

  The Chechen shrugged, went to the sideboard, and poured himself three fingers of bourbon. The name he’d taken since being relocated to America was Reagan Washington, a choice he now regretted, but it was too late to change his driver’s license, passport, and other forged documents. He sipped the bourbon. At least Dante Payne’s booze was good. Dante had expensive tastes. Reagan glanced around the room in which they’d chosen to wait. Billiard table. A long, richly polished wooden bar, leather chairs and tables. There were three doors leading out to plush bedrooms, a full kitchen, and a wide veranda with an excellent view. It looked like a London club for MPs and the nobility had been transported to Payne’s building. Dante Payne was worth millions.

  Which is why Reagan supposed Payne had hired five men to do a job Reagan could easily have accomplished solo. He supposed men with copious amounts of wealth cared little for how they wasted money.

  “If I’m told to wait then I will,” Reagan said. “But I’m not going to pretend to like it. My time’s as valuable as anyone else’s.”

  “Drink bourbon or kill a man,” said the Arab behind him. “You’re paid the same, so why rush? Why worry?”

  Reagan shrugged again without turning. He didn’t need to see the Arab or the other two. He’d memorized the room in an eye blink before turning away to pour his drink. The Arab sat at the bar drinking a cup of strong black coffee. Whereas Reagan was a lean, wiry man with angular features, the Arab was thick like a wrestler, light skinned, head bald and gleaming, a jaw so square it made him look like a cartoon character, dark blue stubble like icing.

  The other two sat on opposite ends of the leather sofa. The one who looked a little too old to be here was also an Arab, gray at the temple and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He wore the most expensive suit in the room and seemed more like a prosperous merchant than a hired killer. He spent most of his time glaring down at his smartphone. The man on the other end of the couch paged through the style section of yesterday’s newspaper. Reagan guessed he might be a Serb. He had a dour expression and sunken cheeks and smoked a harsh foreign brand of cigarettes.

  Reagan hadn’t been informed yet if they were working as a team or individually, so he’d put off learning their names.

  He filled the glass with more bourbon, no ice.

  “Go easy on that.”

  Now Reagan did turn around. Slowly. It had been the other Arab who’d spoken, the one on the couch. “Is that advice?” Reagan asked. “Or are you telling me what to do?”

  “I’m telling you that if we have business tonight, I don’t want a drunk watching my back.”

  Reagan drew breath to spit an insult, but the other Arab chimed in first.

  “He’s right. I never touch liquor. It addles the brain. Let me call the serving girl back. She can fetch you a coffee.”

  Two against one now. Reagan elected to change tactics. “What about you?” he asked the Serb. “You don’t talk?”

  The Serb’s gaze flicked up from the newspaper. His eyes were like two polished, black river stones. “I talk,” he said softly. “When I have something to say.” He went back to reading.

  Reagan turned abruptly back to the sideboard and filled the glass with bourbon, loudly clinking the bottle against the glass and spilling some over his fingers. He turned back and scowled at the others, tossed back the bourbon in one go. It burned going down, and Reagan liked it.

  It occurred to him that he should summon up some kind of clever insult, for the Arab on the couch at least. Something subtle to show he would not endure a slight, but nothing harsh enough to provoke—

  A
ding.

  Four heads turned toward the elevator door.

  It slid open and two men walked out, a fat one with a slow face and a Christmas present in his hands, and behind him some tall American. The way he was standing behind the fat one …

  Reagan’s mind shifted into a different gear, everything going into slow motion. His brain processed and ordered a thousand bits of information in the split second it took his hand to flash inside his jacket and draw his pistol.

  He recalled the file Dante had sent him and the picture of the woman he wanted eliminated, the lawyer from the district attorney’s office. He could also vividly picture the third photograph in his mind.

  The husband.

  Reagan lifted his pistol to shoot, but before he could squeeze the trigger, the room shook with gunfire.

  He saw the Serb shooting in his peripheral vision. Reagan was fast. It was impossible the Serb could be faster, but Reagan put it together in a fraction of a second. The Serb’s pistol had been in his lap the whole time, hidden underneath the newspaper.

  Everyone in the room was in motion.

  The fat man with the Christmas gift died first.

  When the Serb opened fire, the husband grabbed the fat one and dragged him along as a shield as he moved rapidly to the side. Bloody red flowers bloomed across the fat man’s chest, and the husband’s pistol came around him to return fire, bucking in his hands and spitting lead.

  That’s when the coffee-drinking Arab at the bar went down, a shot ripping through his throat. Blood sprayed, and the Arab’s hands went up uselessly to staunch the hot flow as he tilted from the barstool and hit the floor with a thud.

  The two on the couch had already rolled over the back of it, ducking behind as the husband blazed away, stuffing flying up in white puffy clouds.

  Reagan squeezed the trigger three times fast, but the husband shifted his shield and the shots smacked meaty and wet into the fat man’s gut.

  In the slow-motion scene that unfolded before him, Reagan saw what the husband was doing. He was trying to keep the shield on his feet long enough to make it to the door on the other side of the billiard table. But the fat man was full of holes and bleeding. His legs had turned to noodles, and the only thing keeping him up was the husband’s grip on his collar. What had started as a shield was now a liability, the dead weight slowing him down.