I started to dial again, when my walkie-talkie crackled.
“Bartender to DJ, over.” It was Ty on the roof.
Adam answered. “This is DJ. Go ahead, Bartender.”
“I’ve got five dancers headed our way, looking to tango. They’ve come to the right place.”
“Roger that. We’ll start the music. Have Doorman let them in. Let’s do what we do best. Over and out.”
Chapter 79
THEY ARRIVED IN three cars — an Escalade, a Crown Vic, and a Mercedes S550—all black. They parked a block away, out of sight, but not out of camera range. Ty had a top-of-the-line Pelco surveillance camera pointed down onto Perry Street.
Adam and I went to the video monitor.
“Let’s see couple number one,” Adam said.
The two men in the Escalade were standing next to the car. Ty pushed the 22x optical zoom in on the first one, a black guy with a scar running from his left ear down past his collar and beyond.
“Umar Clarke,” Adam said. “Jamaican hit man. Operates out of Brooklyn.”
The camera panned to his partner. “Rosario Virzi,” Adam said. “Complete scumbag. And from what I hear, racist. Chukov must be desperate if he threw those two together.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s desperate,” I said. “He owes somebody a lot of diamonds.”
“Couple number two,” Adam said.
“Chukov likes to hire dirty cops,” I said as Ty panned to the two men in the Crown Vic. “The one in the FedEx getup is Nick Benzetti. Partner is John Rice.”
“That’s their play?” Adam said. “Knock, knock. Who’s there? FedEx. That’s a goddamn insult. Do they think you’re a complete idiot?”
“They probably figure all art students are as easy to pop as Leonard Karns. I guess I owe Leonard a debt of gratitude.”
The driver of the Mercedes stayed behind the wheel. The camera zoomed through the windshield, and I saw a familiar face.
“Chukov,” I said. “He must have the entire Russian mob up his ass to show up, but he’s not going to storm the castle. He’ll just sit there and watch.”
“You realize Ty could take him out right where he’s sitting?” Adam said. “Do you have any wiggle room in your don’t clutter the neighborhood with dead bodies policy?”
“None whatsoever,” I said.
“Okay, I’m headed back to the first floor. Once you’ve drawn them up here, Zach and I will box them in from behind.”
“Bartender to DJ,” Ty said over the walkie-talkie. “Cue the music.”
He pulled back to a wide shot. The four dancers were on the way.
Tango time.
Chapter 80
BENZETTI, THE COP in the FedEx outfit, entered the vestibule alone and rang my bell.
I responded on the intercom. “Who is it?”
“FedEx,” he said. “I got a priority envelope for Matthew Bannon. That you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m about to jump in the shower. Just leave it at the front door. I’ll get it later.”
“No can do, fella,” he said. “Needs a signature.”
“Who’s it from?” I said.
“Katherine Sanborne.”
“Damn,” I said. “I can’t come down. Do you mind walking up five flights of stairs?”
“No problem.”
I buzzed him in. He opened the door. He was oblivious to the CCTV camera, and I watched him slap a piece of duct tape on the latch. The door closed but it didn’t lock. A few seconds later, the other three followed him into the building.
Zach called in from apartment 1. “FedEx man and two others on the way up. They left a sentry at the front door.”
Thirty seconds later, Benzetti rapped on my apartment door. “FedEx.”
“Door’s open,” I said.
Three of them stormed in — Benzetti, Clarke, and Virzi — pistols drawn and suppressed and ready to shoot. But there was nobody to shoot at. They slowly fanned out around my living room.
“Where are you?” Benzetti called out. “I got deliveries to make.”
“Be right out,” I yelled. “I’m in the john.”
Hearing my voice, Virzi pushed Benzetti aside and rushed to the bathroom door. Planting his boot inches above the doorknob, he splintered the jamb and sent the door crashing inward. I put a bullet through his head before the door even struck the wall. He never crossed the threshold.
As soon as Virzi hit the floor, I could see the Jamaican charging toward me from behind him. I fired, but the bastard was quick. He lunged straight at me, his body going horizontal, narrowly ducking my shot. He plowed into my midsection and we both went down in a heap on my bathroom floor.
Benzetti, more accustomed to shakedowns than shoot-outs, began firing in our direction. I’m sure he didn’t care if he killed the Jamaican, too, as long as he kept himself alive. But Umar Clarke cared. When a bullet shattered the tile an inch above both our heads, his eyes grew wide and the scar on his face seemed to flush. He turned his attention away from me and fired a pinpoint shot at Benzetti. The bullet passed through Benzetti’s thigh and the cop fell back against the wall.
Benzetti staggered toward the door, and the Jamaican turned to me. We had both held on to our guns, but his knee was pressing mine to the floor. I desperately grabbed his wrist, twisting the barrel of his gun away from my face. He pressed so hard, I felt the trigger guard of his Beretta jammed under my nose. He strained to turn the barrel a few more inches so he could fire a 9-millimeter slug through my left eye.
If he had been smart, he would have hauled back and pistol-whipped me. It might have stunned me and given him the edge he needed to get off a shot.
But he wasn’t smart. He was strong. Stronger than I was, and he knew it. And as he forced the barrel of the gun closer and closer to my face, he grabbed me by the jaw and twisted my head, trying to angle it for a better shot. I could see he was determined to win this one on brute strength alone.
Macho bullshit. Not my style. Certainly not my father’s style. Rule number one according to Dad was “There are no rules. Do whatever you have to do to win. Kick him, pull his hair, gouge his eyes out, fight like a girl, bite him.”
I bit him.
With his giant palm pressed under my jaw, his fingers digging into my face, I got my teeth around the first joint of his thumb and clamped down hard. Real hard. They passed through the skin, through the flesh, and right between the joint of his first knuckle. I spit the end of his thumb straight into his eye.
The Jamaican yanked his bloody hand to his chest, and as his body lurched backward, his knee lifted off my gun hand.
I shoved my gun under his nose and fired. At point-blank range, one bullet was more than enough. Covered with blood and bits of gray matter, I reeled out of the bathroom and toward the door in pursuit of Benzetti.
His leg was bleeding and he was limping toward the top of the steps.
Adam was standing directly below him on the fourth-floor landing, a 9-millimeter Glock in his hand. Benzetti fired his gun. Adam fired his. The only difference was that Adam took the time to aim. Benzetti toppled forward and bounced noisily down the stairs.
Rice yelled up from the first floor. “Nick. Nick. You okay?”
Then I heard him running toward us. I counted ten frantic steps before I heard the whispered pop of Zach’s gun.
It was over. And since everybody used suppressors, there was almost no noise. Just death.
The walkie-talkie sprang to life. “Bartender to DJ. Chukov knows there’s trouble. One of his guys must have entered the building with a wire or an open cell connection. He jumped in the Benz and drove up. He’s right in front of the building. I can drop him.”