Counterplay

15

Even as Guma and the 221B Baker Street Irregulars celebrated with another round of beer, the two plainclothes police officers parked outside of St. Malachy’s Church were trying to stay awake. “Hey, Dan, check out the legs on this hooker,” Jose Villa said, nudging his partner and nodding toward the rearview mirror.

Dan Solomon turned his beefy body so that he could see the woman walking down the sidewalk toward them from Broadway. The ass-high short skirt, acres of visible cleavage, as well as the knee-high boots and the bad platinum blond wig identified her as one of the streetwalkers who hoped to make a buck from horny tourists in Times Square.

They had been told that terrorists wanted to assassinate the pastor of St. Malachy’s and to keep their eyes peeled. But they’d had the evening shift duty for three days and “nothin’ doin’.” Tonight, their backups, a couple of federal agents, who’d been staking the place in a hotel linen supply van hadn’t even bothered to show up. Chatting it up with a prostitute was better than listening to each other talk about the same shit they had the night before-and who knew what favors she might offer for free.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Solomon called from the passenger window when the woman was nearly even with the car. He flashed his badge. “You wouldn’t be doing nothin’ illegal that maybe I should run you in?”

The hooker smiled and sauntered over. “Hi, boys, thinking about going to church?” she said. “Maybe you want to do something worth confessing first?” She leaned down to look in through the passenger window, giving Solomon a clear view of her ample free-swinging breasts.

“Hey, where you from?” Villa said leaning over from the driver’s side to get a better view of her tits. “India? You have a nice accent…and your tan ain’t half bad either.”

“Actually, Palestine,” Samira Azzam purred, “which is unfortunate for you.”

The first bullet tore a hole in her purse, where she’d kept the gun to muffle the sound, on its way to Solomon’s brain before exiting and lodging in the roof of the sedan. She then turned the gun on Villa whose smile was just beginning to fade as his mind comprehended what had just happened. The bullet caught him in the throat. He raised a hand and tried to ask her to spare him as she pointed the gun again, but all he could do was gurgle until the second bullet shut off the lights.

Azzam stood and tossed the gun in the car. It had been reported stolen from a home in Martha’s Vineyard two years earlier. No sense getting caught with it later, and she wasn’t going to need it for what she planned to do next. Looking up and down the mostly empty street to make sure no one was paying attention to a whore stopping to talk to a couple of possible customers, she quickly ascended the steps to the church and pushed the door open.

Inside, Father Michael Dugan finished his evening prayers at St. Malachy’s and prepared to lock up for the night. He was in a hurry as an old friend…a young, old friend, he thought with a smile…was in town for a visit and there was a lot to talk about regarding Andrew Kane.

The last of the worshipers had left, and there was no one waiting in the confessional. All that remained was to lock the front door, and then he was done with his duties for the night. He missed the days when churches left their doors open, even at night, as a place where the desperate and cold could get in out of the dark-but to do so anymore would be to turn the church immediately into a homeless shelter. Remember to wave good night to the police officers out front, he thought as he walked toward the front of the church. He wasn’t very happy with their presence, but Karp had convinced him that the threat was real.

Dugan winced as he stepped awkwardly on his way up the aisle to the front of the church. His arthritis had been acting up a lot lately; but that was to be expected of a seventy-year-old man who’d once played middle linebacker for the Fighting Irish at Notre Dame. He had the ruddy, rubbery face of the stereotypical Irish peasant, but he was no stereotypical priest. He’d worked in Latin American war zones and inner-city ghettos; he also ran the foundation created by Marlene Ciampi from millions she’d reaped in a stock market deal when she sold her security firm.

Lost in thought, he didn’t see the beautiful young woman slip into the church at first. When he did, his initial thought was that she was awfully good-looking for a streetwalker-not just the body, which even the priest in him couldn’t ignore-but she looked strong and vital, not the usual spent look of even formerly attractive hookers.

This ought to be quite a confession if that’s why she’s here, Dugan thought. “Good evening, my child,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re closing for the night. But if there’s something I can help you with quickly-”

The young woman didn’t reply except to stoop and quickly withdraw a thin double-edged knife from her boot. Recognizing the danger, Dugan showed some of the old athleticism by turning on a dime and running for the back of the church. But about five steps into his flight, his knee buckled and he stumbled. Immediately after there was a heavy blow and a sharp pain in his shoulder. As he fell forward, he saw a man step out of the shadows with a gun.

Azzam cursed: “Zasranec,” a Russian word Ajmaani had taught her that translated roughly to “asshole.” She regretted picking up the recent habit of cursing, but Ajmaani’s mouth was full of such things and she adored the woman.

Unfortunately, the priest had stumbled at the exact moment she’d thrown the knife, so what should have been a mortal blow stuck into his shoulder blade. She started to spring forward to finish the job when she, too, saw the man at the back of the church step out of the shadows. Then she saw the gun, just in time to throw herself behind a pew as it fired. The bullet, which would have caught her in the chest, tore into a column behind her. The next bullet chewed into the wood of the pew behind her.

“THAT’S RIGHT, BITCH, YOU BETTER RUN, ‘BOOM’ IS IN THE HOUSE,” Alejandro Garcia shouted as he began a game of cat and mouse with the woman. He’d come looking for Father Dugan in time to see his friend turn to run and the woman throw the knife. He’d pulled the gun out from under his sweatshirt and shot.

Marlene Ciampi had been right when she called to tell him Dugan was in danger and she wasn’t sure all the police could be trusted. A former gangbanger from Spanish Harlem turned rap musician in Los Angeles, Garcia had sworn off guns and changed his life. Central to that had been the support of Dugan, whom Garcia regarded as both Father figure and father figure. Arriving in New York City that morning, he’d checked in with some of his former running mates back in the ’hood and borrowed his weapon of choice, a Colt.45, whose loud report was the impetus for his nickname Boom.

“Come on out, bitch,” he yelled. “You stuck the wrong priest. Now, I’m gonna cap your sorry ass.”

Garcia had to make a choice which side of the row of pews he was going to cover best. He’d seen the woman’s act with the knife and knew she was no one to take lightly, especially because he didn’t know if she had another. He listened for a moment, then chose the side closest to the stone wall.

Four pews away, Azzam cursed herself for getting rid of the gun. However, her information was that only two police officers would be in front of the building and that the old priest, who would have chased other visitors out by then, would be by himself in the church. Now, the only weapon she had left was a razor-sharp throwing star; she was going to have to make it good as her adversary had another ten rounds at least in his clip. She listened for the stealthy approach of the man’s feet and at the moment she expected him to come around the end of the pew she stood, ready to throw.

He wasn’t quite where she expected him to be. Cunning, this one, she thought, he came forward and moved back. And he was aiming at her. She threw at the same moment, he fired.

Dodging to the side, Alejandro saw his bullet strike the woman on her upper shoulder, spinning her to the side and down. At the same time, he felt a sting on the side of his neck. Instinctively, he reached up and felt a surprising amount of blood. He jumped up on a pew to try to see her but wasn’t prepared when she stood up ten feet farther down the aisle than he’d expected and sprinted for the church door. He felt faint as he aimed and fired, but she was fast and his hand was growing less steady by the moment. She reached the door and was gone into the night, even as he sank to his knees on the pew.

The next moment, he was lying on the floor looking up at Father Dugan, who leaned over him and was pressing something against his neck. “Lie still, ’jandro,” he said.

“Am I going to die?” the young man asked.

“You don’t hear me giving you last rites, do you?” Dugan said. “No, you got a pretty good cut, but I don’t think she got anything major. And help is on the way. Do you feel strong enough to keep this pressed against your neck? I want to check on our police guards.”

Alejandro nodded though at that moment he would have preferred that the priest stay with him. Dugan patted him on the shoulder and got up, a groan escaping his lips. Alejandro saw that the knife still protruded from the priest’s back. “You okay?”

Dugan glanced over his shoulder at the weapon. “Hurts,” he conceded. “But I’ve had worse.” He hurried to the front of the church, but was back in a minute.

“I’m afraid the police officers are dead. There’s no sign of the woman, except a trail of blood. I think you got her pretty good.”

“Shoulder,” Alejandro said. “She took off running like Reggie Bush on first down. That was some tough, bitch…oh, sorry, Father.”

“An extra Hail Mary on the way to the hospital,” Dugan said and smiled as he sank down onto one of the pews, the sound of sirens drawing nearer. “You saved my life, Alejandro. You are truly a blessed soul.”

Alejandro’s round face was split by his trademark ear-to-ear grin. “Denada, Padre,” he said. “You saved mine a long time ago. Besides, it’s not every day a gangster gets to shoot up a church and it’s okay.”

“Well, let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Nah, once in a lifetime, Father, once in a lifetime.”