Running of the bulls

CHAPTER FORTY

11:02 p.m.

With the Audi’s top down and the warm city air running through his hair, Wolfhagen felt in the moments before he orchestrated Carra and Ira’s deaths that he was on the cusp of the greatest rush of freedom he had felt in years. Certainly since he walked away from Lompoc.

Soon, he would be through with them. Carra especially. At last, she would forever be out of his life. And while he loved to watch, a part of him now was considering doing the job himself. He felt that strongly about her death. He should be the one who killed her, not somebody else who wouldn’t understand the pleasure of it.

Only once before had he physically taken a life. It wasn’t something he hired out, as he usually did. Instead, it was all him. He considered it part of his personal growth-an act that had changed him. And when it was over, there was no remorse. Just another high to fuel the high he already was enjoying.

He thought back to that day, when the feds were closing in on him, the old Bull Pen was in decline and he had used one mother of a knife on one backstabbing mother fucker’s throat.

He’d cut so deeply, he almost severed the man’s head. But given the weight of the man’s betrayal, it was worth it. It also was easy-too easy-and he had delighted in the man’s clotted, piggish squeals while Wolfhagen himself stood drenched in the fountains of blood fanning from his throat and into the room.

He thought back to that night and remembered that the fun hadn’t begun there. It had started outside, in his limousine, when he smashed Maggie Cain’s head through a window and permanently disfigured her face.

It was one of his finest days. But tonight would top it all. There was, in fact, no question that it would kill it.

He was driving up Central Park West moving toward 83rd. He was listening to club music on Sirius and jonesing for a taste of meth, which he’d sworn himself off, at least for tonight.

Need to be clear. Gotta be clear. Have to be clear. Can’t fuck this up.

Occasionally, as police cars from all over the city raced down the street with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing, he had to pull to the right to let them pass. But with so much chaos unfolding on the east side of the Park, he didn’t mind. It was the distraction he needed. Above the Park was a warm, flicking glow from all of those awful fires he’d seen on TV and the idea of them burning warmed him.

He clicked off the radio, turned left onto 83rd and slowly approached the new Bull Pen, which was housed in an elegant, unassuming pre-war building that looked exactly as it should look-like a residence.

If Carra had done her job correctly, the entire building would be sound-proofed, including the entrance. If music was playing anywhere inside, you’d never know it by opening the front door because barriers would be in place to keep the sound out.

You’d also never hear the music if you passed the building, or especially if you lived on either side of it. By all appearances, this was the quietest house on the block, which was remarkable given the sheer number of people who showed up late on those occasional Saturday nights when Carra opened.

As he drove past it, he looked around him on the sidewalks. It didn’t appear that anyone was waiting for him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t already here. He could imagine his little assassin minions tucked away in dark corners, watching him. He could feel their eyes on him as he reached the end of the street. He was anxious to meet them, but he was more anxious to either watch Carra get mutilated by the kindness of one of his strangers-or by someone she used to call her husband.

It should be me, he thought. I should be the one holding her down and gutting her. I should be the last person she sees. Let them take Ira.

And there it was. He’d made up his mind. That’s how it would be. It would be he.

He drove across Amsterdam, shot down 83rd and then turned left onto Broadway. He cruised to 81st Street and took another left. Even if there had been a place to park on 83rd, which there wasn’t, he at least wanted to be a block or two over and have the ability to run if he had to. And in spite of how Carra had cut his feet, Wolfhagen could run. He might be older now, but he was fast. If anyone came after him, he was fairly certain that even in this state, he could get to this car with enough distance between them and take off.

He rolled down the street, found a spot that would be too tight for most cars to squeeze into, but this car was tiny and it fit with some maneuvering. He lowered the vanity mirror and checked his crowded teeth. He cupped a hand over his mouth and checked his breath, which smelled of peppermint. He wouldn’t look directly at his face. This was as good as it got.

He stepped out of the car and started walking toward the Park, which was two blocks away. When he reached it, he turned left and was surprised by what he saw-crowds of people rushing toward him. When he drove by moments ago, none of this was happening. But word was out. New York was burning. As the avalanche of good will swarmed around him and occasionally threatened to topple him, he shouldered his way toward 83rd and couldn’t help being amused.

They were running toward the fires, thinking they could help. They ran past him with the same haunted faces they wore when the terrorists struck the Twin Towers. They actually thought they could do something. They actually wanted to risk their own lives in an effort to help. It was as incredible to him as it was foreign. If a gas main broke, which was possible given the level of destruction he’d seen, some of these people were rushing to their own deaths. It made no sense to him what they were doing. Why die to help a total stranger?

He moved left, as close as he could get to the buildings, and removed from his pants pocket the cell phone the hot goon had given him. He pressed his hand against the side of the light jacket he wore and felt the gun hidden there. In the air was the distinct smell of smoke. All around him, motion, reaction, propulsion. He tapped out a number and waited. Second ring. “Max?”

“You both there?”

“Just waiting on you.”

“Did you see me drive by a minute ago?”

“We saw you.”

“And not even a friendly wave. I’m on foot, about a block away. I’m assuming there’s no crowd or activity yet.”

“Nothing yet. But all the shades are drawn.”

“It’s too early,” he said. “They’re getting ready. They’re probably squeezing into their cute leather suits.”

“How is this going to work?”

“I’m taking Carra. You two take Lasker. This needs to be clean and quick so you can have the rest of the night to do your thing. Inside that door will be security. They’ll be armed. You stay behind me. Whoever is there will recognize me. They’ll be startled that I’m there, which is my moment to act. We’ll take him down and check the room for others. If they’re not right there, they will be lurking somewhere. Security is tight. Try to take them out quietly. It’s our best shot at finding Carra and Lasker, and finishing what we came for.”

He rounded the corner onto 83rd. “I’m here.”

He clicked off his cell, but saw no one. He moved down the sidewalk and listened as footsteps fell in line behind him. They were good. He stopped and turned to face them. The man came forward first, his hand held out.

“Spocatti,” he said, shaking Wolfhagen’s hand.

The woman came forward and did the same.

“Carmen,” she said. “It’s good to meet you.”

“You don’t look at all how I imagined,” he said. He nodded at Spocatti. “I thought you’d be taller, beefier, a real bruiser, but you’re none of those things.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“Well, great. I love confidence. And it’s nice to meet you, too. Are you ready for this?”

“We’re eager for this.”

“Then let’s do this. Just let the man see my face. He’ll be taken aback. That’s when we act. My gun doesn’t have a silencer.” He looked at Spocatti. “Does yours?”

“It does.”

“Let me borrow it.”

They traded guns and Wolfhagen turned. The building was soon upon them. They walked up the stairs and Wolfhagen moved his arm behind him, suggesting that they should step far to the right. Spocatti and Gragera did so, pressing themselves out of site.

Wolfhagen cocked the gun, knocked on the door and cupped his hands behind his back. A moment passed, then a huge man in a black suit opened the door slightly.

“Well, look who it is,” Wolfhagen said. “Bobby.”

The disbelief on the man’s face was unmistakable. Years ago, at the original Bull Penn, Wolfhagen had personally hired him. The door opened wider. Big Bobby peered out to look around, but Wolfhagen was enough to block his view of Spocatti and Gragera. “Mr. Wolfhagen?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Carra and Ira, and not just because their names go so well together. Would you mind leading the way? They’ll see me.”

“I don’t think they will. Shit’s changed. You know that.”

He needed to get off the street before anyone saw them. “They’ll see me, Bobby.” In a flash, he drew his gun, pressed it against Bobby’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The back of the man’s head exploded, but the noise was muffled. Wolfhagen was stronger than he looked. He hooked his arm under the man’s armpit and helped him down while he started to bleed out.

His heart quickening, he looked into the room beyond. It was intentionally small and dimly lit. It was this room that offered the additional sound barrier. Beyond it would be where the real action took place.

He titled his head to the left and saw the door that led to it. He was surprised to find it partly open. With his gun held out at arm’s length, he took a step into the smaller room. He could feel Spocatti and Gragera behind him. He eased himself to the door, knowing that anyone could be behind it. Spocatti knew it, too. He went to the door, pressed Wolfhagen back and then got on his own back. He looked up at Wolfhagen, put a finger to his lips and motioned to him that he was going first.

Gragera stepped beside Spocatti and crouched with her back against the door frame. Wolfhagen watched Spocatti lift his knees and push himself forward, so his head was only slightly in the room. He kept his gun near his face, ready to fire if anyone was inside. He looked around the room, then nodded at Gragera, who peered carefully inside and then swung back. She did it again, but took a longer look.

And each relaxed.

Spocatti got to his feet. “No one’s in there,” he said in a low voice. “Where would they be?”

“At the old club, a good deal of the wilder stuff took place in the basement,” Wolfhagen said. “It’s still early. If they use the basement here, they could be there, setting up.” He shrugged. “But that’s a guess. I don’t know how this is set up.”

“Then we’ll take the risk. You follow us.” He held his hand out for his gun, which Wolfhagen gave him in return for his own. “Stay behind us. If anything happens, drop to the ground. We’ll cover you.”

Together, each eased into the room.

Though the lights were dim even here, Wolfhagen could see that the area was large and open. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but the lights were barely burning. Leather chairs were in the center of the room. Off to the right were two metal cages. Beside them looked to be a necropsy table, not unlike the one he’d sliced that man’s throat on all those years ago. Though Wolfhagen couldn’t make it out completely, what appeared to be a bar was to the far left of the room.

And then, as all of the lights suddenly flashed to full brightness, he was certain that’s what it was. Just beyond it, he could see Carra stepping into the room. She was wearing a black leather catsuit. Her dark hair swung as she turned to look at him. Wolfhagen took a step back, raised his gun to shoot her and pulled the trigger.

But nothing happened. He tried to fire again, but the gun just clicked. It was empty. He looked at Spocatti, who was drawing away from him while he reached into his pocket and held out his hand-in it were the remaining bullets, which he rattled in front of Wolfhagen before tossing them across the room, where they rolled, jumped, clattered.

He’d been set up.

Now, Spocatti and Gragera were pointing their guns at him. Wolfhagen stared at them in shock as another person entered the far end of the room.

This time it was Ira Lasker. He was slightly hunched over and moving behind something. Wrong. He was pushing something.

Carra rounded the corner and started moving in his direction. In her hand was a whip. She cracked it for effect, the sound reverberated off the high ceilings, which she liked so much, she did it again.

On her feet were black leather boots that stretched past her knees and cupped her thighs. She was the dominatrix he’d turned her into years ago, only this time, she was running the show. Crack, crack, crack. The whip criss-crossing in front of her and ready to strike. She laughed.

“Max,” she said. “How’s my little bitch pig tonight?”

Wolfhagen looked at her for a moment, and then turned to Lasker as he rounded a corner. The thing he was pushing was a wheelchair. Though he couldn’t fully process it because none of it made sense, his eyes didn’t lie. It was Mark Andrews in that wheelchair. It was Mark Andrews, who had been pummeled by bulls in Pamplona. It was Mark Andrews, his former lackey who presumably was dead and buried.

It was Mark Andrews, and he was coming straight at him with a gun.