that kind of crap. I'm going to take him down in whatever way I have to, so my advice to you is to stay out of it.'
Dillon pulled open the panel and said to the driver, 'Pull over for five minutes and pass the umbrella.'
The man did as he was told, and Dillon got out and opened the huge golfing umbrella as Blake joined him. They stood by the wall and looked out at the East River. Dillon lit a cigarette.
'Listen, Blake, you're one of life's good guys, and Jack Fox is one of life's bad guys.'
'And you, Sean, what are you?'
Dillon turned, his eyes blank, face wiped of all emotion. 'Oh, I'm his worst nightmare, Blake. I was engaged in what I saw as war for twenty-five years with the Brits and the IRA. Fox and his fucking Mafia think they're big stuff. Well, let me tell you something. They wouldn't last five minutes in Belfast.'
'So what are you saying?'
'We take this animal out, only we do it my way. It's too easy to shoot him on the street. I want this to be slow and painful. We destroy his miserable little empire bit by bit, until he has nothing left. And then we destroy him.'
Blake smiled slowly. 'Now, that I would like. Where do we begin?'
'Well, according to Katherine, there's this place called Hadley's Depository in Brooklyn where they process cheap liquor.'
'So?'
'So let's take it out.'
'You mean that?'
'Sure. Just the two of us.'
Blake's face was pale with excitement. 'You really mean this?'
'It's a start, me old son.'
'Then you're on, by God.'
Hadley's Depository was beside a pier close to Clark Street on the river in Brooklyn. It was eleven o'clock that night, black rods of March rain falling, as Dillon and Blake drove up in an old Ford panel truck and parked at the side of the road.
They stood by a wall and Dillon lit a cigarette as they looked the place over. 'This shouldn't be hard,' he said. 'You, me, and no one else. An in-and-out job.'
'There's just one thing, Sean. I don't want any victims here.'
'No problem. If there's a night shift, we leave it. If there's just security, we'll handle them. There'll be only one victim here, Blake: Jack Fox and his income from the booze business.' He laughed and hit Blake on the shoulder. 'Hey, trust me. It'll work.'
The following day, Blake went through files and accessed city and police records to find out everything he could about the Hadley Depository. When he saw Dillon for lunch at a small Italian family restaurant, he was quite strong again, probably because he had an end in view.
'It's funny, but this place has no record. Not even a hint with the police.'
'So Fox is a clever bastard. Do you have any details on how it operates?'
'I know the security firm who handles it. Two men guard the place. On the other hand, since the warehouse is not what it seems to be, who knows? They could have a night shift.'
'We'll see.' Dillon smiled, looking like the Devil himself. 'No waiting, Blake. We go in and stiff the place. Give Fox something to think about.'
'When?'
'Tonight, for God's sake.'
Blake said, 'You're right. To hell with him.'
It was midnight when they drove up to Hadley's Depository in the old Ford. Blake was driving and pulled into a side turning. Both he and Dillon wore dark pants and sweaters. Now, as they sat there, they pulled on ski masks, and Dillon took a Browning out of a handbag and stuffed it into the waistband of his pants at the rear.
'Bring the other bag,' he told Blake. 'The Semtex pencils. Let's move it.'
There was a nine-foot wall. He cupped his hands, helped Blake over, then passed the bag, reached for an outstretched hand, and scrambled over himself. They crouched on the other side, as it started to rain.
'Okay, let's do it,' Dillon said.
There were indeed two security guards in a small, lighted office off a courtyard. Dillon and Blake moved in through factory doors which, surprisingly, had been left open. Inside the main building, they saw an extensive range of equipment, obviously all of importance to the racket that was going on there. Great vats, stacks of bottles, many with exotic labels.
Dillon pulled one up. 'Highland Pride Old Scots Whisky.'
'Believe that, you'll believe anything,' Blake told him.
'Okay, so let's get on with it.'
Dillon opened the bag that hung from his shoulder. He took out several Semtex primer pencils Blake had obtained for him, ran round the main area, and placed them.
'How long?' Blake asked.
'Ten minutes. Let's get those guards out and move on.'
The two security guards were playing Trivial Pursuit when the door opened and the men in hoods slipped in. Dillon relieved them of their guns.
'If you want to live, move fast and make it to the street.'
They didn't argue, did exactly as they were told, and a few moments later were out of the front gate. Just after that, the Semtex timers exploded and the whisky in the vats caught fire.
Dillon caught the nearest guard by the collar. 'Listen, here's a message. It isn't for the police. It's for Jack Fox. Tell him, this is just the beginning, for Katherine Johnson. Got that? Okay, now run for it.'
Which they did.
Dillon and Blake drove some little distance away and parked, watching the flames and waiting for the fire department.
Blake said, 'Funny, but I didn't feel guilty.'
'Why should you? Fox is a murdering bastard.'
'I work for the President, Sean. You work for the Prime Minister.'
'I don't care about that. One way or another, Fox goes down.'
The following morning, Jack Fox was at Trump Tower, summoned there by a phone call from Don Marco. The old man sipped coffee by the fire.
'A bad night, I hear, Jack.'
Fox hesitated, then decided that at least some sort of truth was the best way to handle it.
'Yes, Uncle. The whole place was destroyed by fire. Thank God there is the insurance.'
'But only the equipment, Jack, not on a couple of million in booze.' The Don shook his head. 'It's very unfortunate. Still, these things happen. Have you anything to add? Anything you wish to tell me?'
Fox hesitated, then said, 'No, Uncle.’
'Fine. I'll see you again.'
Fox went out. After a while, Falcone looked in. 'Don Marco.'
'Has he gone?'
'Yes.'
'Good. Bring the security guard in. My nephew failed to mention him, Aldo.'
'A matter to be regretted, Signore.'
'But you did, Aldo, and I'm grateful.'
He poured another cup of coffee, and a moment later Falcone brought in the security guard.
'Your name?' Don Marco asked.
'Mirabella, Signore.'
'Good, a fellow countryman. Now tell me what happened.' Which Mirabella did.
Don Marco said, 'Tell me again what he said, the man in the hood.'
