Jack ended the call when he saw Arete close the door to the white SUV and the big man with the shaved head climb behind the wheel. A moment later, the white Explorer backed out of its parking spot. The other members of Arete’s Posse remained behind, watching as their chief sped away.
Jack slipped a wire from his shoe, worked it into the keyhole near his head. It took less than ten seconds for him to pick the lock, but he paused— worried that the interior light might alert the others to his presence.
Instead, Jack watched as the Columbia Street Posse drew mini Uzi submachine guns with the stocks removed, slid thirty-two-round extended magazines into the breech, then slipped the loaded guns under their long coats. Weapons concealed, the four headed for Tatiana’s front door.
The two Irishmen watched them go, then climbed into the black Mercedes — the young one behind the wheel, the older man in the passenger seat. The finely tuned engine purred to life.
Time had run out.
Jack popped the Camaro’s door, rolled into the front seat, and quickly closed the door again. Rather than risk being seen, he crawled under the dashboard and worked in the dull glow of the streetlight outside. First he carefully unscrewed the steering wheel cover, revealing the guts of the ignition system. He tore away frayed wires, stripped them to expose enough metal to cause a spark.
Outside, Jack heard the Mercedes engine purr as the vehicle rolled past him. “Come on, come on,” he hissed.
Suddenly the car’s interior went completely dark as the glow from the streetlight was blocked. Jack looked up.
Surrounding the Camaro, a group of pissed-off punks stared down at Jack. Scruffy, hostile, and more than a little inebriated, they had been bored and looking for action. They had found some. One of the youths grinned and juggled a butterfly knife, another slapped a stout nightstick in the palm of his hand.
“What the fuck are you doing in my coupe?” growled a dark-skinned man with dangling braids and a lightning-shaped tattoo on his right cheek. Cornrows crisscrossed his scalp.
Jack swallowed hard as he watched the black Mercedes speed away.
3. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack stared through the windshield at the dozen hostile faces surrounding the car with what he hoped was a neutral, nonthreatening gaze. The black Mercedes was gone, the missile launcher stashed in its trunk still a threat to innocent lives. Yet Jack was compelled to thrust that dilemma aside for the moment.
Rather than challenge the youths and risk a fight he might be able to avoid, Jack placed both hands on the steering wheel to convince the men he was unarmed. “Look, I can explain this. My name is Bauer. I’m a Federal agent—”
“You’re a fuckin’ Fed?” cried the big man with the lightning tattoo. He smiled, revealing a gold front tooth. “All the more reason to bust your head for trying to jack my ride.”
“Look,” Jack continued. “Just let me go and we can work this out—”
Someone ripped the door open. Strong hands moved in on Jack to strike him. He guessed that only two or three men were actually assaulting him. The rest of the group stood back and watched, shouting encouragement and enjoying the show.
The men on Jack slapped at him. Jack stayed in the car, didn’t resist — not yet. Instead he tucked his head in his chest and curled up on the seat into a defensive ball, protecting his soft spots — along with the Glock in his belt. His left arm covered the shoulder holster where he’d slipped the dead marshal’s gun after he’d lost his own. He would need both weapons soon. Then he felt and heard a crack. Someone had swiped at his head with a bat or stick. It was a glancing blow, or he would have been dead instead of seeing stars.
The men dragged Jack out of the vehicle and dumped him onto the pavement. He rolled, dodging kicks, to their frustration. Finally the big man with the lightning tattoo bent down to pry his arms apart. Jack kicked him in the groin with all his strength. A scream cut the night and Jack lashed out again, seizing a handful of the man’s long braids. He used them to drag his head down and strike it against the pavement, stunning him into silence.
Jack backed against the car and rose, Glock in hand. Most of the crowd scattered then, ducking behind cars or fleeing into the street. But five men stood their ground, whipped out guns of their own. If they’d fired just then, Jack would have been a dead man. Instead they began to wave their weapons around in an absurdly threatening manner, hurling insults and threats.
“You want to start shooting, mother—”
“Hey man, go ahead, you pull your trigger and we’ll pull ours—”
“You gonna die, asshole, ’cause you don’t know who you’re messing with—”
They were untrained, unskilled, not particularly bright, but they made a lot of noise. Punks, not professionals, but they had him outgunned five to one. Jack knew from experience standoffs like this never lasted long. Someone always got impatient or scared or stupid or all three. And no matter how the situation ended, someone was bound to end up dead.
Jack had to break the impasse, the only way he knew how. He raised the Glock and aimed.
Georgi Timko knew the four men were trouble the moment they walked into his tavern.
Up to that time, it had been a quiet night, by Tatiana’s standards at least. Some fists were thrown early in the evening, but the tussle was dealt with by Alexi, the bar’s three-hundred-pound bouncer and veteran of the failed Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Both Olga and Beru were making nice tips from eager young men who tucked dollar bills into their skimpy G-strings, whether they were dancing on stage or serving drinks on the floor. The pool tables were both crowded, and the clientele — mostly bikers from a Queens “motor club”—were generally behaving themselves while consuming copious amounts of beer.
Icing on the cake for Georgi this night — the satellite broadcast had just ended and the Bulgarian soccer team, heavily favored in the match, had lost to the Armenians — which meant a big payoff for Georgi, who almost always bet on the underdog. He’d brewed some tea in his private samovar in celebration.
Then, eight minutes ago, the men in the long blue coats arrived and spoiled Georgi’s evening. They’d come through the door silently, not speaking to anyone, not even one another. They ignored old toothless Yuri, who always sat by the entrance nursing his beer, hand extended to anyone who entered in the hope someone would spot him another one.
Without even a glance at Beru, who swayed topless on stage to some mindless hip-hop song, the men sat down together in one of the booths along the wall. With a professional eye, Georgi noted that’s exactly the place he would have chosen. From that booth the men could watch the crowd at the pool tables and keep a watchful eye on Alexi near the cash register, and Nicolo drawing beers behind the bar.
Olga sauntered over and tried to engage the men in a little flirtatious banter, but failed to elicit more than a mumbled demand for a pitcher and four mugs— another bad sign.
Now the men had finished their beers and were stirring. They stood when Georgi rose from his chair behind the bar to fill his teacup at the steaming samovar. As the men approached him, Georgi turned his back to them as he sweetened his tea. He could feel their eyes watching him, and the base of his spine tingled — one of the many danger instincts he’d acquired as a juvenile delinquent in his native Ukraine thirty years ago.
In those days the dangers were the police or the KGB — a branch of the Soviet intelligence apparatus directed against Western espionage, but always eager to imprison a fellow member of the Soviet brotherhood for dealing in U.S. dollars, which Georgi and his peers in the mob did on a regular basis — how else was one to grow prosperous in a Soviet state were the national currency was worth less than the paper it was printed on?