"I hear something!" one of the men on the beach shouted.
Everyone stopped talking at once. Silence abrupt and complete, like a power failure in a sound system. Only the sound of the surf… and then something else. No mistaking the thrum of helicopter blades beating the night air.
"All right!" Milos shouted. "It's coming! Get ready!"
All around him semiautomatic pistols and fully automatic assault weapons were slipping from holsters and pockets and held under jackets or behind backs as safeties were clicked off, rounds were chambered, and bolts were ratcheted back. He saw rifles and shotgun barrels rising into view among the bushes.
The choppy rhythm grew louder, clearer.
"Easy," Milos said, pulling his own .357 Magnum from its shoulder holster. "Easy…"
And then, just as it became visible, something strange happened. A bright beam of white light lanced downward from the copter. As it began to play back and forth across the sand, Milos was struck with a terrifying sense that things were about to go horribly wrong.
His shout of "No!" was lost in the deafening fusillade that erupted around him.
Milos saw the sparks of the bullets striking the helicopter's fuselage, watched it lurch, veer to the left and drop, then regain altitude and wobble away, trailing black smoke as it fled.
The guns had ceased fire almost as quickly as they had begun. No triumphant cheers rose from the stunned men.
They all could read English.
And then he heard the wail of sirens—many of them. He turned and saw chaotic red flashes lighting the night from the direction of the front gate.
Cops. Sounded like an army of them.
But how? How could they be here so soon? And in such numbers?
Milos Dragovic stood numb and frozen by his pool and asked himself over and over, Who is doing this to me?
TUESDAY
1
When Jack checked his voice mail in the morning he found three messages from Sal Vituolo, the gist of which could be summed up as, "Hey, Jack, call me. I gotta talk to ya, just gotta talk to ya."
So Jack called him from a pay phone.
"Jack! How'd you do it, man?" Jack couldn't see Sal but he sounded like he was dancing. "How'd you freakin' do it?"
"I gather it went off well?"
Jack had heard a few sketchy details on one of the all-news stations last night before turning in.
"Are you kiddin' me? He absolutely screwed himself, shootin' at a Coast Guard copter like that. But how'd you get it there?"
"Like I told you," Jack said. "I made a call."
"Yeah, but what'd you say?"
Jack had told the Coast Guard that a big shipment of this new drug that was making people go crazy was coming ashore at Dragovic's place in the Hamptons. He told them that was why Dragovic bought the place—so he could smuggle stuff ashore. The shipment was due shortly after dark—like between nine-thirty and ten.
But Jack didn't feel like going into all of that with Sal.
"I've got connections."
"You must, baby. I can't believe the heat that came down on that place."
According to reports on the news, state and Suffolk County heat had been duking it out with the feds over who had jurisdiction. Since they couldn't decide in time, they'd all shown up.
"I woulda got more tape but a lot of his muscle was haulin' ass outta there and some of them was comin' my way. So I did a little ass haulin' myself."
"But you got enough?"
"I got plenty. I hear the pilots are OK, but Dragovic's in deep shit for shootin' up their copter. Accordin' to the news they didn't find no heavy drugs in his place. Too bad, but at least some of his guys got tagged for possession. And of course he's up on all sortsa state, county, and federal weapons charges and even"—Sal snickered here—"disorderly conduct from the town of East Hampton!" His tone sobered. "But I bet the fucker's out on bail already."
"You can count on it. That's where the tapes come in. Did you send them off?"
"Made a shitload of copies last night, then went to the messenger service first thing this morning—did the locals, all the networks, CNN, Fox, even public access. If they got an antenna or a satellite, they got a tape."
"And you paid cash, right?"
"Course. Ay, I don't wanna be connected to this. No way."
"Good. Now just keep your eyes on the TV this morning."
"You kiddin'? I got the remote glued to my freakin' hand. I—wait a sec. Here's something! A special report. Turn on channel four, quick!"
I'm not exactly near a TV," Jack said.
"This is it! They're showing it! Yes! Yyy-essss!" Jack was sure now that Sal was indeed dancing around. It was a sight he preferred to imagine rather than witness. "He's fucked! He is so fucked! He may be out on bail but he won't be able to show his puss in this town—hell, in the whole freakin' world again without somebody laughin' at him!"
"Now do you believe in a fate worse than death?"
"Yes!" Sal shouted. "Oh, yes!"
"And is it enough?"
"Yeah, Jack." Sal's voice softened as it dropped about a hundred decibels. "I think it is. And I think it's gonna be easier for me with my sister now."
"Jeez, don't tell her anything," Jack said quickly.
"Ay, I ain't stupid. I know how stuff gets around and I don't wanna wake up dead some morning. But at least I think I can finally look Roseanne in the eye now and not feel like a useless wuss. She won't know, but I'll know, and that's what counts, if you know what I'm sayin'."
"Yeah, Sal, I do."
2
"Who?" Milos screamed.
He stood in the center of his office in the rear of the unfinished Belgravy and stared at the remnants of a thirty-two-inch Sony TV before him. A brass table lamp jutted from the smoking hole of what had once been its Trinitron screen.
"Who?"
Who had done this to him? Who hated him so to publicly humiliate him this way? He couldn't believe that this East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee had done it. Truth was, he couldn't bear the thought of having been hooked, netted, and filleted for all the world to see by some raised-pinkie, tea-sipping, silver-spoon-sucking pussy from old-money Long Island.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and fought to focus his rage-scattered thoughts. He could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. He felt as if he were floating in space.
Think! Who!
The Russians… it had to be the Brighton Beach Russians. They'd been allies of his early on but lately they'd become jealous of his success. Only they would have the nerve to do this to him.
But this wasn't their MO. They preferred more direct methods—a bullet or two in the face was their style. No, this had to be someone with more control and calculation, someone who knew his weak points and was not afraid to ram a blade into one and twist.
Who, damn it!
And why? Milos wanted to know that as badly as who. If he knew why, he could figure who, and then he'd know what… what in particular he had done to make some sick govno set out to ruin him.
And that was what he was: ruined, pure and simple. Who would deal with him again? Who would take him seriously? After that tape, how could anyone fear him?
A ragged scream ripped from his throat and echoed off his office walls.