Erin put Rolf back in his compartment in her Charger and settled into the driver’s seat. Then it was time to wait again. At least this stakeout had an endpoint. If the truck didn’t show, or had already passed before they’d gotten there, they wouldn’t have to stay all night. She’d give it until midnight, she decided. If the truck didn’t show by then, it wasn’t going to.
“Desk jockey,” she muttered to Rolf. “You believe that?”
He put his snout between his front paws and stared at her.
“Com check,” Logan’s voice came over the radio.
“Firelli here.”
“Piekarski.”
“Janovich.”
Erin punched her car radio. “O’Reilly.”
“Okay,” Logan said. “Remember, this goes on Wopstat for the month.”
“Eat me, Irish,” Firelli said.
“What’s Wopstat?” Erin asked.
“Logan and Firelli got a pool running,” Janovich explained. “They keep count how many Irish and Italian guys they bust. Firelli counts the Irish, calls ‘em Mickstat. Logan counts the Italians…”
“Got it,” Erin said.
“It’s just the ethnic groups we got on the squad,” Logan said. “If we busted enough Polacks, we’d have a Polestat for Piekarski, but for some reason we don’t get many of them.”
“That’s ‘cause we’re too smart to get caught,” Piekarski said.
“That reminds me of a joke,” Janovich said. “So, this Polish guy’s in a bar, watching the evening news, and they’re talking about this guy who’s gonna jump off the Empire State Building—”
“Enough of that,” Logan said. “Save the jokes for later, and keep the channel clear. Just remember, if these guys are Italians, Firelli’s buying first round.”
Firelli muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and silence returned to the radio net.
Erin sat back and smiled, thinking how much she sometimes missed ordinary street police work, the rough camaraderie, the sorts of things you could only say to guys you risked your life to protect, and who’d risk theirs to save you. She had that with Vic, but he was about the only one at Precinct 8. She’d been more and more isolated, and now, having lost Kira Jones to Internal Affairs, there just weren’t many people she could talk to at work.
Time crawled. Erin thought about Liam, and Mickey, and Carlyle. Whatever happened tonight, her relationship with the O’Malleys was changing. If the NYPD got a good bust out of it, that wouldn’t do her any harm, but what about the next thing they asked her to do? The whole business felt like it was right on the ragged edge of control. One slip and the whole thing might spin out from under her. She’d have to sort this shit out, and soon.
“Heads up, guys,” Piekarski said. “I got a truck… no, forget about it. Says ‘Speedy Delivery.’ You sure about the name, O’Reilly?”
“I know what they told me,” she said.
They returned to their wait. Half an hour passed, then an hour. There was no sign of the promised vehicle.
* * *
“Wake up, fellas!”
Erin jerked upright. Piekarski sounded excited.
“I got a white truck,” the Narc continued. “Red letters, ‘Speedy X-Press’ on the side, coming your way.”
“Copy that,” Logan said. “Everyone ready?”
“Ready,” Erin said, her voice overlapping with Firelli and Janovich.
“Okay,” Logan said. “Firelli, you got the lead. Everyone else, move when the truck stops. Guns out. Violence of execution, people.”
Erin knew Logan wasn’t actually talking about violent executions. He meant they needed to move fast and hard, to overwhelm the targets with a show of force so they wouldn’t even have a chance to consider resistance. Paradoxically, if done right, it would mean very little, if any, actual violence. She drew her Glock and put a hand on the car door, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline.
The delivery truck was halfway up the block, moving with the flow of traffic. Taxis and other cars filled the street. Erin saw an awful lot of innocent bystanders. She hoped shots wouldn’t be fired. It was far too easy to imagine a stray round taking out some poor guy on his way home. She licked her lips and waited. She saw Firelli’s Trans Am start up, idling curbside.
Firelli let all but one of the cars in front of the truck go by. Then he abruptly threw the Trans Am into gear and swerved halfway out of his parking space, angling the car directly across the traffic lane. The car he’d cut off screeched to a halt, brakes screaming. The driver, predictably, laid down a heavy blast on his horn. Every other car behind, including the delivery truck, jolted to a halt, instantly gridlocked.
“Go!” Logan snapped.
Erin was already moving. She came out of the Charger, keying Rolf’s compartment release as she went. The truck was only a few feet away. She sprinted to the passenger side, reached up to grab the rearview mirror, and pulled herself up to window height. She shoved the barrel of her Glock against the glass and saw a very startled face staring back at her from the passenger seat.
“NYPD!” she shouted. “Hands in the air! Now!” On the other side of the truck, Janovich was doing pretty much the same thing to the driver. Logan stepped toward the front bumper so he could cover both guys through the windshield.
The guy facing Erin blinked a couple of times and considered his options, but only for a second. Then he brought up his hands, empty and open, and laid his palms on the dashboard. The driver was already holding the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.
“Unlock the doors!” Janovich shouted.
Maybe the driver would’ve done it, but Janovich didn’t give him time. Still holding his gun on the driver with one hand, he slammed his other hand into the window. The glass shattered into tiny pebbles that sparkled under the streetlights. Erin saw a safety hammer glass-breaker in Janovich’s hand and wished she’d thought of that. The Narc punched through the broken window and unlocked the driver’s side door. He pulled it open and hit the unlock button for Erin’s
