Running of the bulls

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

12:17 a.m.

The streets of Manhattan were so clogged, it took them ninety minutes to reach the safe house on West 83rd. When they finally got there, the building, a gorgeous pre-war limestone with large casement windows and an impressively grand entrance, appeared to be in darkness.

But it wasn’t.

As they passed it, they could see a slant of light beyond the heavy curtains that shielded the windows. People were inside. Mark Andrews might just be waiting for them.

This was their second go around the block and as they drove past the building this time, Marty took it slower, looking for any sign of life inside. But all he saw was that sliver of light and those heavy, almost industrial-looking curtains. He lingered on those curtains and had to admit that if this was a government safe house, they’d fit right into the equation given the privacy they offered.

He tapped out Jennifer’s number again and still got a rapid busy signal. He tried Hines and Patterson and got the same thing. The pit of worry in his stomach now had grown into a vine that wrapped itself tight around his chest. If anything happened to Jennifer, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He was in love with her. He was scared for her. But when they’d left Roberta’s, he knew he’d never get close to East 77th Street-or to her. And so they came here. They needed to see if Andrews was alive or if they were being set-up.

On 82nd Street, they found a parking space that wasn’t a parking space. It was reserved for hydrant access, but perfect for his needs. Given what was unfolding on the other side of the Park, it was unlikely his car would get towed tonight, and so he backed into the space, righted the car, shut it off and looked at Maggie.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked.

She nodded. “It was Mark’s voice,” she said. “I’ve thought about it ever since we left the restaurant and it was his voice. I know you have reservations, but there’s no question. It was Mark on the phone.”

“You have your gun?”

“I do.”

“It’s loaded.”

“It is.”

“Even if it was Mark and he is alive, you’re aware that this might be Wolfhagen. Somehow, he might know we’re onto him and he’s setting us up.”

“I’m aware of it.”

“You’re prepared to take that risk?”

She nodded.

And so was he. “I need you to follow my lead. I’ve seen you shoot. I know you’re trained and capable of protecting yourself. But if he’s got a team in there, we’re in the shit. If you do see Mark at the start, I want you to remember that they might have planned it that way to get you inside. They’ll be expecting you to go to him, but you can’t. Is that understood?”

“It is.”

“You need to follow me and just do as I say.”

“Alright.”

“The moment they open the door, I’ll know whether we’re dealing with the feds. You always can tell a fed. I’ve been around enough of them to smell them. If I think it’s something else, I’ll tap my thigh once, but we play it cool. We’re grateful that they reached out to us. We just want to see Mark.” He paused. “And once that door closes behind us, we act. We take the motherfucker out quietly and get ready for the onslaught. We keep them at bay as long as we can and, if we fail, we run. Is that clear?”

“What do you mean by quietly?”

“We pistol whip him and ease him down onto the floor. No gunfire. They know we’re coming and they’ll be ready for us, but anything could happen. If for some reason they’re distracted when we arrive and only one person comes to the door, all the better for. Slim chance, but you never know.”

“Got it.”

Because of the street lamp above them, he couldn’t see her face. It was in silhouette. But in her voice was something else-cold determination. She’d waited for this. She was ready for this. “You’re clear on everything?”

“I got it, Marty. I’m following your lead. I’ll do what you want.”

While that’s certainly what he wanted to hear, why did he feel her emotions were going to get the best of her and, if she did see Andrews, that she’d screw it up?

On the sidewalk, the walked side by side. They moved briskly and kept pace with each other. Maggie’s hair swung but the rest of her was rigid. Marty was focused and running every possible situation he could think of through his mind. Neither said anything to the other. They could have been a pair of automatons.

Save for a few stragglers, most people were either on the other side of Manhattan, trying to assist, or they were in their homes watching the situation unfold on television. Except for the faint wail of sirens off in the distance, the streets were relatively quiet, the only exception being the heaviness of their footsteps.

They rounded 83rd and started toward the safe house. In spite of the warmth, Marty still wore his blazer. He’d given Maggie the light windbreaker he kept in his car. His gun was concealed in his holster. Maggie kept hers tucked in her waistband at her back.

The building was now in front of them. So was a young woman coming their way. She passed them with her head lowered. They could hear her sobbing. Instinctively, they slowed and watched her over their shoulders. She never looked at them. She made no attempt to reach for a cell phone or something worse. She was legit.

They took the steps, exchanged a glance. Then Marty knocked.

The door edged open.

Surprised, each took a step back. Marty held his hand out behind him, keeping Maggie back, and drew his gun. He listened but could hear nothing. He maneuvered his head so he could look through the crack, but it wasn’t wide enough.

He knocked again, harder this time, his gun held low at his side and ready. The door gave a few more inches. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. He put his hand on the handle and gave the door a gentle push. It swung open. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. He looked back at Maggie and saw that she had drawn her gun. He motioned for her to lower it lest they be seen by anyone who might pass on the street. She did so, holding it close to her thigh.

There was no other way to do this but to step inside. So Marty eased into the oddly shaped, narrow front foyer. There was a door to his left and to his right, but only the door to his left was open. The lights were on inside. The floor was sticky. He listened and thought he could hear something. It sounded like feet scuffing against wood.

He moved closer to the open door and pressed his back to the wall. He waved for Maggie to join him. When she did, he motioned for her to close the door. But before it latched shut, he stopped her. Keep it open. Don’t make a sound. Leave it slightly ajar, just as they’d found it.

Again, they listened. Something or someone was in the next room. They strained to hear anything that would give them a clue, something telling, and this time they heard what sounded like scratching. And then they heard a tapping.

And then, without warning, something or someone gurgled.

Marty and Maggie crouched down. With an outstretched hand, he kept her back and took the chance that could end his life. He peered into the room.

The space was massive. Two metal cages to his right. Leather furniture positioned around the room. No people that he could see. He swung his head back, waited a moment and looked again. This was the room that he’d seen on Schwartz’s tape. He checked the details and saw it all. This wasn’t a safe house. They were being set-up, just as he feared.

He was about to rear back when he saw them.

Unbelieving, Marty stood and turned the corner so one eye was exposed. What he saw was a horror show.

At the far end of the room, three people were hanging from ropes just above the bar. They were clawing at nooses fastened to their throats. Their feet were kicking, reaching, dancing on the counter top, sometimes sticking just long enough to allow each to release the tension and take a breath.

Tap, tap, tap.

Marty looked up and saw that each rope was strapped to the beam above them. It was too dark to see their faces. Tentatively, he took a step into the room. And then, above him, came the sudden sound of footsteps hurrying about on the second floor. Something heavy thumped against the ceiling. A muffled voice came through the plaster ceiling. It was a man’s voice.

There was no time to waste. He looked at Maggie and motioned for her to follow him to the bar.

They were naked now, completely exposed. They dipped in and out of shadows. They could hear the doomed gasping, their feet slipping, exhaustion setting in.

Hunched low, Marty and Maggie kept moving across the room until something caught Marty’s attention and they stopped.

It was Mark Andrews.

He was at the far end of the room, near one of the windows. He was in a wheelchair and he was pointing up at the ceiling. Behind Marty, Maggie gasped but she didn’t run to him. She held out an open palm to him. Andrews put a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, he made a motion for them to hurry.

And so they did. They went to the bar, looked up-and saw all of it.

Hanging from the ropes were Carra Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker and Jennifer Barnes. Their faces were turning blue, the fight to live was leaving them and as Marty watched them swing and twist before he sprang into action, he knew all of them were mainlining toward death.