Among Thieves (43 page)

Ciro stood as if he were on a firing range with zero regard for the possibility of anybody shooting back. He had the barrel of the assault rifle between the iron bars of the fence, his aim rock steady. He fired shot after shot into the engine block, placing twelve bullets into an area no larger than a square foot.

Joey B obliterated the front tires and the windshield.

Within five seconds, the Chevy had become a useless wreck.

*   *   *

Bullets continued to zing around Manny and into the old utility pole. The pole was slowly disintegrating. One way or another, he'd have to do what he was supposed to.

Before he had taken his position in the doorway, Manny had placed a Mason jar filled with gasoline and melting mothballs next to the telephone pole. He'd punched a hole in the screw-on top and stuffed a thin piece of a dish towel down into the flammable mix.

Manny bent his knees, trying to stay covered by the pole, and grabbed the Mason jar. He managed to get hold of it and stand up without getting hit. He pulled out a cigar lighter that produced a torchlike flame.

Once, twice, three times, and the lighter ignited with a hiss. Manny hesitated, knowing that once he touched the flame to the piece of towel, he would have to step out and throw it, gunfire or not. Which meant he'd probably die throwing the goddamn gasoline. Where the fuck was Demarco? Had they spotted him? Did he go down with the first shots? Fuck it. So be it.

And then Manny heard the first scream.

*   *   *

Seconds can seem like an eternity when people are shooting at you. But it hadn't taken Demarco Jones more than ten seconds to make his move. He'd been concealed behind a patch of overgrown bushes and scrubby trees that ran along the fence of the empty industrial lot opposite Beck's building.

He'd waited patiently for Kolenka's men to start shooting at Manny. Then he rolled out onto the sidewalk, crouched low, and moved quickly toward the shooters from behind, fluidly, effortlessly, unheard against the gunfire.

In his left hand he carried a Spyderco Warrior combat knife, in his right hand a crude fifteen-inch galvanized iron pipe with the bottom taped for a secure grip. A beautifully designed and expertly honed cutting tool in one hand. A crude bludgeon in the other.

Demarco moved like a wraith behind the five men shooting at Manny. They never saw or heard him. Even if they had, there wasn't much they could have done about it.

Demarco's first slash severed the thick hamstrings on the legs of the two men leaning over the SUV's hood. One fast hard slash cut through the muscles and tendons of four legs. Both men screamed, reached backward toward the searing pain, turning toward the iron pipe that smashed into their heads with two fast hits. Both were down in just under three seconds.

The third shooter, leaning over the roof of the SUV, turned toward Demarco as the pipe crunched into the middle of his forehead, splitting the skin, breaking his nose, and knocking him unconscious. The combat knife's blade swept down and sliced through the arm that held his gun, cutting through muscle and tendon, all the way into the hard humerus bone just above the elbow.

The fourth shooter holding the rifle turned it toward Demarco, but way too late. Demarco was already too close to him, the barrel of the rifle pointing past him. Demarco punched the iron pipe into his stomach and slashed the rifle out of his hands.

The last shooter crouched behind the back end of the SUV had been shooting with his left hand. He had to spin all the way around to get a shot at whoever was attacking them from his right.

Demarco wasn't even breathing hard. He spun toward the last man, his back now against the SUV. He was so calm, so fast, that he actually had to wait a beat for the man to finish turning toward him, and then Demarco slashed his blade down on the man's gun hand, cutting all the tendons running along the wrist to the thumb. Followed by a fast uppercut with the galvanized pipe that shattered the man's left mandible, knocking him unconscious. He fell in a heap, his gun hand useless.

The gunfire had stopped almost as suddenly as it had started.

Manny Guzman smiled.

He stood up, holding the Mason jar filled with homemade napalm, the soaked piece of dish towel burning and smoking.

He stepped out from behind the light pole and stepped toward the SUV, taking no chance that he would be throwing it from too far away. But Manny had forgotten about the driver. He had apparently followed orders by staying in the SUV, but now that he saw Manny approaching with a flaming bomb of some sort, he jumped out onto the street, gun in his hand.

He took aim. Manny overhanded the jar like a major league pitcher. The driver fired. Manny threw. Bullet versus firebomb.

The momentum of Manny's throw pulled him down low. The bullet missed his chest, but caught him on the top of his right shoulder, gouging out a trail of flesh and blasting through the top tip of his clavicle.

The jar shattered. The homemade napalm splattered into the gasoline. The driver pulled off a panicked second shot, but Demarco Jones had already thrown his iron pipe. It smashed into the driver's back. The shot went wide. A soft whump sounded and everything burst into a roaring black inferno of flames.

*   *   *

Stepanovich's men were caught between two impulses.

Shoot back at whoever had shot up their SUV. Or, keep running through the lot to get into position behind Beck's building to intercept anybody fleeing the flames clearly visible on Conover Street.

Stepanovich stood near the middle of the lot, about twenty yards back from Beck's building, yelling orders.

Beck moved closer to the gate now, to keep his eye on what Stepanovich and his men were doing.

His original plan had depended on the cops being in the neighborhood by now, responding to gunshots, while Manny, Ciro, Demarco, and Joey got the hell out of the area.

He looked across the street to make sure that the Porsche was moving. It was. Ciro and Joey B were driving out of the lot to swing around to get Manny, who should be running as fast as his old legs would carry him into the empty industrial lot opposite Beck's building where Ciro and Joey would pick him up.

Demarco was supposed to head quickly in the opposite direction and get the Mercury which was parked over on Beard Street, meet Beck, and drive out of the neighborhood.

But there were no cops swooping in and taking out whatever was left of the Russians on Conover and the Bosnians in the empty lot.

He checked again after the Porsche. It was out of sight. Good. Manny, Ciro, and Joey would be safe. Beck wasn't worried about Demarco. He was probably already climbing into the Mercury on Beard Street.

Beck could have turned around and hustled over to Van Brunt, where Demarco would find him, but no. No way. Not now. Not with these bastards and that bald maniac alive and able to come after them.

He went through a quick calculation. His men were safe. He had all the weapons he could carry. His Browning was registered. The Benelli legal. He could hear Phineas making the argument that his client had been forced out of his home, only to be ambushed, whereupon he had no alternative but to fight to save his life.

Beck smiled in the dark red glow that pulsed on the other side of his building. It would end here and now, one way or the other.

 

68

Beck kept moving toward the disabled Suburban blocking the entrance to the empty lot, watching Stepanovich and the others as best he could. They were midway in the dark empty lot, having spread out behind his building.

He saw Stepanovich pointing and ordering two of his men to go back to the Suburban and see who had shot the SUV to pieces. That left six, plus Stepanovich out in the lot.

Beck watched the two come running back toward him. He slipped forward, staying low and squeezed between the SUV and the open fence gate.

He carried the shotgun in his right hand, and moved toward the rear of the SUV. If he could take out these two, that would cut his enemies to seven, but he had to do it silently or he'd lose any advantage surprise might provide.

Beck stayed where he was, watching the two men slow down and approach him across the empty lot. As they came near, they split apart so they'd approach on either side of the SUV. Beck cursed. Now he would certainly have to shoot them.

They walked bent over, wary of becoming targets for whoever had shot up their SUV.

Beck knew he could get the one advancing toward him on his side, but it would be tough taking out the second one.

Suddenly, the first of Stepanovich's men loomed out of the darkness only about three feet from where Beck crouched, his attention focused across the street trying to spot who'd shot up the SUV. He never saw the butt of the Benelli which rammed straight up into the underside of his chin. Both sides of his jaw shattered, three teeth cracked, and his head snapped back so fast that his top two vertebrae ruptured.

The sound attracted the second attacker. He spun toward Beck, aiming an assault rifle at him.

Beck saw the weapon out of his peripheral vision. No way he could flip the Benelli around and get off a shot. Maybe he could fire wild, make the shooter duck or flinch, and hit him with the second shot.

He tried to turn the Benelli so he could get a finger on the trigger. Too long, too long, the assault rifle pointed right at him, he was going to die.

And then out of nowhere the solid form of Ciro Baldassare flew between the SUV and the small opening in the gate.

The man aiming the rifle at Beck heard Ciro. He turned toward the sound as Ciro's huge right fist smashed into his face, splattering his nose and cracking his right eye socket.

Ciro hit him so hard, the man's head snapped back with such force, that Beck thought Ciro might have broken the man's neck.

Jeezus, thought Beck. Ciro. Ciro saved my life.

Ciro stomped the side of the shooter's head for good measure, ripped the rifle out of his inert hands, turned to Beck, and asked, “How many left?”

“Six, plus the leader. Stepanovich.”

Just then, sirens could be heard in the distance. Beck listened, but couldn't tell if they were police or firemen.

“Ciro, what the fuck, man. What are you doing? You have to get out of here.”

“Saving your ass. Don't worry, I dumped all my guns with Joey. He and Manny are getting rid of everything like we planned. I'll meet 'em over by the warehouses.”

Beck and Ciro heard yelling out in the lot. Nobody had come out from Beck's building, and now the sirens were getting louder. They seemed to be coming from every direction, both the high-pitched wail of fire trucks, and the deeper pitched sirens of police cars.

There was more yelling and movement out in the darkness in front of them. Ciro and Beck saw the shapes of men running toward them, trying to get out of the lot before the cops arrived.

Ciro laid the rifle on the ground near him and yelled at Beck, “Gimme the fucking shotgun. I'll take these guys. Go after the leader.”

Beck tossed the Benelli to Ciro and yelled, “Don't kill them unless you have to. Keep them pinned down for the cops, then dump the weapons, and get the hell out of here!”

Beck took off after Stepanovich.

Ciro went down on one knee and started blasting shots at the men running toward the gate. Then he picked up the rifle and started shooting with that.

He aimed shots high and low, alternating between the shogun and the rifle, moving right and left from behind the Suburban, varying the angles, trying to give the impression that more than one person was firing.

The Bosnians dropped to the ground, trapped in the open. They began to return fire, even though they had little idea where to shoot.

Wailing fire trucks began arriving over on Conover. The police sirens were closing in fast on the Reed Street side.

Beck angled toward the south side of the lot so he wouldn't be seen and ran toward the middle of the field, trying to get behind Stepanovich, who was now running full blast, away from the sirens, heading toward the fence at the other end of the lot.

Beck ran parallel to him, about fifteen yards to Stepanovich's right, but far enough behind so that Stepanovich didn't yet know he was being chased.

The shotgun blasts from behind ended. Beck figured Ciro had emptied the Benelli. He hoped he wouldn't stay to empty the rifle. Get out now, Ciro, thought Beck. If you get caught by the police, everything goes to shit.

Beck closed some of the distance between him and Stepanovich, but he was still ten yards behind him.

Police cars were converging on Reed Street.

Stepanovich turned to see the first police car slide to a stop, lights flashing. Then two more. And a third. He had a Mac-10 machine pistol in his right hand. He stopped and threw it as far away as he could.

Beck closed the distance between them by a couple of yards, but Stepanovich was still out ahead of him. Beck's only hope was that the fence on Beard would slow him down.

Stepanovich ran full speed toward the fence.

Beck knew Stepanovich's goal. Get out onto the street, unarmed, and try to walk out of the neighborhood. No way. No fucking way.

He heard a garbled voice yelling commands through a police loudspeaker. All of the remaining six men began firing. A fusillade of bullets erupted from the cops. More police cars arrived, screeching to a halt, adding to the forces.

Beck ignored everything and kept running.

Stepanovich approached the fence at a full run, jumped, and grabbed on nearly halfway up. He quickly climbed up until his waist was level with the top of the fence. A single spiral of razor wire was all that prevented him from going over. He leaned his right arm and shoulder between two loops of razor wire, pushing them out of his way.

Beck closed in on him fast.

Stepanovich leaned sideways, his winter coat protected him enough so that he managed to get one leg over the fence.

Beck ran furiously to catch Stepanovich before he made it over.