Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (53 page)

Spocatti pulled Bobby out of the entryway, into the large room and behind one of the cages.
 
The man had almost completely bled out.
 
Behind him, he left a broad swipe of congealed blood.
 

There was another knock on the door, this time more aggressive.
 

Carmen lowered the lights and now Bobby's blood, while sticky, appeared black on the dark floors.
 
As another knock came, this one the most impatient yet, they quickly moved Lasker and Wolfhagen behind the bar.

They looked at each other.
 
It was Spellman and Cain, they were sure of it.
 
They rushed across the room and moved to the curtained window to peer outside, but they couldn’t see anything.
 
The tall hedges on either side of the entrance blocked their view, though not of the street, which was teeming with people.
 
Some were running.
 
Others were on their cells and walking quickly.
 
All were moving toward the Park.

They couldn't see who was knocking.
 
And then the knock came again.

Spocatti went to the door while Carmen moved in place just behind the wall that separated them.
 
She drew her gun.
 
She heard Spocatti put his hand on the doorknob.
 
And then she heard a voice the moment he opened it.
 

"I'm Jennifer Barnes," a woman said.
 
"Channel One.
 
I apologize for knocking so late, but I noticed your lights are on and this is important."

"What's the problem?"

"I think I was given the wrong address," she said.
 
"I was sent to 11 West 82nd Street, but it doesn't exist.
 
I've been walking all over this neighborhood and saw that you're 11 West 83rd, so I thought I'd stop to see if this was the correct address."

Carmen pressed her back against the wall.
 
Her gun was poised and ready.
 
She could hear the people on the sidewalks in ways that she'd never heard them in this soundproofed house.

"Who are you looking for?" Spocatti asked.

"It's complicated."

"How can it be complicated?"
 

She hesitated.
 
"It has to do with a federal investigation."

"Ah," Spocatti said.
 
"What did you say your name was again?"

"Jennifer Barnes.
 
I'm a reporter at Channel One."

"And how did you get this address?"

"I'm working with Detectives Mike Hines and Linda Patterson.
 
They gave it to me."

"Who were you hoping to find?"

Another hesitation.
 

"I'll need to know, Ms. Barnes."

"I'm here to see Mark Andrews."

"I see," he said.
 
But he said nothing more.

"I think I've made a mistake," Barnes said.
 
There was an edge to her voice.
 
"I'm sorry if I interrupted.
 
I think I might have the wrong address."

"Actually, you don't," Spocatti said.
 
"Ms. Barnes, you're at a federal safe house.
 
If you'd like to see Mark, step inside.
 
But I'll need you to stay with me in the entryway while I phone my superior.
 
Before we go any farther, he'll need to question you."

"Show me your identification."

And Carmen knew the moment Barnes drew a sharp breath that what Spocatti showed her was his gun.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

12:17 a.m.

The streets of Manhattan were so clogged, it took them ninety minutes to reach the safe house on West 83rd.
 
When they finally got there, the building, a gorgeous pre-war limestone with large casement windows and an impressively grand entrance, appeared to be in darkness.
 

But it wasn’t.
 

As they passed it, they could see a slant of light beyond the heavy curtains that shielded the windows.
 
People were inside.
 
Mark Andrews might just be waiting for them.

This was their second go around the block and as they drove past the building this time, Marty took it slower, looking for any sign of life inside.
 
But all he saw was that sliver of light and those heavy, almost industrial-looking curtains.
 
He lingered on those curtains and had to admit that if this was a government safe house, they'd fit right into the equation given the privacy they offered.

He tapped out Jennifer's number again and still got a rapid busy signal.
 
He tried Hines and Patterson and got the same thing.
 
The pit of worry in his stomach now had grown into a vine that wrapped itself tight around his chest.
 
If anything happened to Jennifer, he wasn't sure what he'd do.
 
He was in love with her.
 
He was scared for her.
 
But when they'd left Roberta's, he knew he'd never get close to East 77th Street--or to her.
 
And so they came here.
 
They needed to see if Andrews was alive or if they were being set-up.

On 82nd Street, they found a parking space that wasn't a parking space.
 
It was reserved for hydrant access, but perfect for his needs.
 
Given what was unfolding on the other side of the Park, it was unlikely his car would get towed tonight, and so he backed into the space, righted the car, shut it off and looked at Maggie.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

She nodded.
 
"It was Mark’s voice," she said.
 
"I've thought about it ever since we left the restaurant and it was his voice.
 
I know you have reservations, but there's no question.
 
It was Mark on the phone."

"You have your gun?"

"I do."

"It's loaded."

"It is."

"Even if it was Mark and he is alive, you're aware that this might be Wolfhagen.
 
Somehow, he might know we're onto him and he's setting us up."

"I'm aware of it."

"You're prepared to take that risk?"

She nodded.

And so was he.
 
"I need you to follow my lead.
 
I've seen you shoot.
 
I know you're trained and capable of protecting yourself.
 
But if he's got a team in there, we're in the shit.
 
If you do see Mark at the start, I want you to remember that they might have planned it that way to get you inside.
 
They'll be expecting you to go to him, but you can't.
 
Is that understood?"

"It is."

"You need to follow me and just do as I say."

"Alright."

"The moment they open the door, I'll know whether we're dealing with the feds.
 
You always can tell a fed.
 
I've been around enough of them to smell them.
 
If I think it's something else, I'll tap my thigh once, but we play it cool.
 
We're grateful that they reached out to us.
 
We just want to see Mark."
 
He paused.
 
"And once that door closes behind us, we act.
 
We take the motherfucker out quietly and get ready for the onslaught.
 
We keep them at bay as long as we can and, if we fail, we run.
 
Is that clear?"

"What do you mean by quietly?"

"We pistol whip him and ease him down onto the floor.
 
No gunfire.
 
They know we're coming and they'll be ready for us, but anything could happen.
 
If for some reason they're distracted when we arrive and only one person comes to the door, all the better for.
 
Slim chance, but you never know."

"Got it."

Because of the street lamp above them, he couldn't see her face.
 
It was in silhouette.
 
But in her voice was something else--cold determination.
 
She'd waited for this.
 
She was ready for this.
 
"You're clear on everything?"

"I got it, Marty.
 
I'm following your lead.
 
I'll do what you want."

While that's certainly what he wanted to hear, why did he feel her emotions were going to get the best of her and, if she did see Andrews, that she'd screw it up?

*
 
*
 
*

On the sidewalk, the walked side by side.
 
They moved briskly and kept pace with each other.
 
Maggie's hair swung but the rest of her was rigid.
 
Marty was focused and running every possible situation he could think of through his mind.
 
Neither said anything to the other.
 
They could have been a pair of automatons.

Save for a few stragglers, most people were either on the other side of Manhattan, trying to assist, or they were in their homes watching the situation unfold on television.
 
Except for the faint wail of sirens off in the distance, the streets were relatively quiet, the only exception being the heaviness of their footsteps.

They rounded 83rd and started toward the safe house.
 
In spite of the warmth, Marty still wore his blazer.
 
He'd given Maggie the light windbreaker he kept in his car.
 
His gun was concealed in his holster.
 
Maggie kept hers tucked in her waistband at her back.
 

The building was now in front of them.
 
So was a young woman coming their way.
 
She passed them with her head lowered.
 
They could hear her sobbing.
 
Instinctively, they slowed and watched her over their shoulders.
 
She never looked at them.
 
She made no attempt to reach for a cell phone or something worse.
 
She was legit.

They took the steps, exchanged a glance.
 
Then Marty knocked.

The door edged open.

Surprised, each took a step back.
 
Marty held his hand out behind him, keeping Maggie back, and drew his gun.
 
He listened but could hear nothing.
 
He maneuvered his head so he could look through the crack, but it wasn't wide enough.

He knocked again, harder this time, his gun held low at his side and ready.
 
The door gave a few more inches.
 
This isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right.
 
He put his hand on the handle and gave the door a gentle push.
 
It swung open.
 
This isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right.
 
He looked back at Maggie and saw that she had drawn her gun.
 
He motioned for her to lower it lest they be seen by anyone who might pass on the street.
 
She did so, holding it close to her thigh.