whole organization. To have an impetuous leader was to have a leader without a plan, without a vision, and any organization led by that example was doomed to failure. And Michael, he always had a plan. This situation, though, couldn’t have been foreseen.
The plan should have been foolproof. The Guzmans had never missed a drop. Hans Gustofson was a rung away from the bottom and malleable. John Fredrickson was as loyal an employee as they got. Parker was the wild card they never could have anticipated. And in good wild-card fashion, he’d fucked everything up. A precision watch smashed into tiny bits by an invisible hammer.
Michael’s eyes suddenly locked on Blanket.
“Send four men to that building on East 80th. I want them to do everything possible to get to Parker before the cops do. And tell them to keep an eye out for Barnes. No telling what that man’s capable of.”
“You got it, Mike.” Blanket turned to leave.
“Wait, Angelo.”
Blanket spun around. “Yeah, Boss?”
“Make sure the four you send are expendable.”
40
The Crown Victoria pulled up to the corner of 80th and East End at 2:13 here were no spots, so Denton parked next to a hydrant. The streets were deathly quiet. They had seventeen minutes before the NYPD would bust everything open. The clock was ticking.
At first Mauser wondered if they’d be able to spot the building Parker was referring to, but it was obvious as soon as he stepped out of the car. A cavity in a mouthful of pearly whites, the tenement didn’t belong here. Like Parker himself.
The only entrance was through a wrought-iron gate, swung open just enough for one body to fit through at a time. Deep rivets had been dug into the ground. Clearly few people ever entered-or left-the building.
Even in the faint light of the moon, Mauser could see the dark stains on the brick, the utter hopelessness of the building’s facade. Joe slipped his hand down to his holster, unbuckling his Glock. The metal felt cool, inviting, as though it had lain dormant for too long. He heard another snap, saw Denton’s hand move from his hip. Finally they were about to confront Henry Parker, and both of their safeties were off.
Mauser entered first. He moved slowly, inching across the cement, listening for any movement. The gate led to a small portico. Crouching by the stone steps, Mauser pointed at the door, nodded to Denton. Leonard raised his pistol for cover as Mauser approached.
Joe tried to breathe steadily, evenly, his heart like a hummingbird’s wings. When he reached the top step, Mauser looked back at Denton, then quickly peeked through a dirt-streaked window. He saw a tiny flicker of light at the top of a stairwell, but no sign of life.
Gently Mauser turned the doorknob, the wind whistling past his head. He met no resistance, and entered the darkened foyer. The air inside smelled stale. Joe slunk along the wall, his Glock raised, his pulse racing. Denton joined alongside him and they cautiously made their way to the stairwell.
The steps were worn, caked with dried mud and dirt. Crouching down, Mauser crept up the steps. Parker had said he was on the third floor, but that could have been a ruse. The kid could jump out at any moment, catch them by surprise. Mauser seriously doubted the kid was armed with anything more dangerous than a knife or a loose pipe. In the back of his mind, Mauser hoped he’d have the balls to fight.
The second-floor landing was dark. Light burst from the floor above, trickling down the staircase. Mauser cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he didn’t have time to second-guess.
As he took the first step up, something soft brushed by his face. Stumbling back, he felt it again.
“The fuck!” Joe cried, tripping backward over Denton’s foot. A cluster of pigeons burst from the shadows, flying around the stairwell, beating their wings madly, feathers flying in the soft light. Mauser threw up his hand, tried to swat at them. “Goddamn it, get away!”
Denton joined in, both of them flailing about until there was silence. Joe wiped the sweat from his brow, looked at Denton, the man’s hair disheveled.
“So much for getting the drop,” he whispered.
They approached the third-floor landing. Globs of white littered the steps. They looked fresh. Bird shit. Wonderful. When he reached the third floor, Mauser swung his gun toward the light.
The room before them was empty. The only light came from a single bulb whose pull string had been yanked off. There was no sign of Parker.
Joe edged forward, forearms tensed, gun steady. The he saw it. In the center of the room, directly beneath the bulb, lay a photograph.
Mauser knelt down and picked it up. Suddenly his knees went slack, then he felt a hollowness in his stomach. His gun hand dropped. Joe recognized the man in the picture.
It was John Fredrickson.
His brother-in-law. Husband to his sister. In the photo Fredrickson held an envelope lined with cash. Handing him the envelope was a man Mauser recognized immediately.
Angelo Pineiro. “Blanket” Pineiro.
Joe stumbled back, the photo falling from his hand. Denton stepped forward, picked up the picture.
“Jesus,” he said flatly. “Is it real?”
“I think so,” Mauser said. Then he noticed a small black arrow on the bottom of the photo, pointing downward. Mauser flipped the picture over and saw two words scrawled on the back.
Fifth floor.
Mauser gripped the photo, felt it crinkle in his hand. Adrenaline pumped through him. John was on the take. Was it possible? And where the fuck did Parker get the picture? Anger boiled inside him, but now Mauser couldn’t focus it.
He bolted up the stairs, the birds on the stairwell below scared into a tizzy. Denton trailed behind him, but Joe Mauser could hear nothing, just the drumming in his head.
John…why?
When he reached the fifth floor, Mauser found the door was wide open. Parker was waiting for him. The moon cast a ghastly white gleam across the floor. Shadows danced in the corners. He squinted, thought he saw something move.
“Parker!” he yelled, gun erect, outstretched.
Denton strode up beside him, their heavy breathing merging into one. The room was quiet. The birds had stopped flying. Mauser stepped forward, the room blanketed in soft, impenetrable darkness.
“I have more.”
Mauser froze. The voice came from the corner of the room, by the window. All Joe could see was blackness. Raising his gun to chest level, Mauser stepped forward.
“If anything happens to me, the negatives go right to the press. Lower the gun. Then we can talk.”
“Joe,” Denton whispered. “He could be armed. Let’s just do him now before the cavalry arrives.”
Parker seemed to hear this, but his body didn’t respond. It was tense, rigid.
“There are more photos,” Parker said. “A lot more. They’re being guarded by a friend. If anything happens to me you’ll see them in the morning papers. All I’m asking is for you to lower the gun.”
John’s face in that photo. The money…
Without thinking, Mauser lowered his gun. He placed his hand on Denton’s wrist, forcing his gun down.
Out of the shadows stepped Henry Parker. He looked like a man who’d just run an entire marathon at full speed, his arms sinewy, shirt stained with dried sweat, hair unkempt. He could see blood seeping through Henry’s left pant leg from where he’d been shot. The young man breathed deeply. Joe could see dark rings under his eyes. Henry Parker looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and had been running from the devil the entire time. Which was probably the truth.
“You killed John,” Mauser said, stepping closer. Parker didn’t budge. “You killed a part of my family. You left a wife without a husband and two children without a father. You deserve to go straight to hell.” Mauser felt the blood
