The Last Witness

[FOUR]

Lucky Stars Casino and Entertainment

North Beach Street, Philadelphia

Monday, November 17, 9:55 P.M.

Dmitri Gurnov walked out of the revolving doors of the casino carrying one of the big black bags. He glanced up, saw the security camera, then looked forward, snugging his fedora lower.

What are the odds Antonov is watching. .?

Gurnov followed a crushed-rock path that wound through the snow-covered park-like area and out to the boardwalk. A stiff wind was coming down the Delaware River. The cold cut to his bones.

As he walked his eyes scanned the area. He did not notice another soul anywhere.

He approached the dog park. It had artificial turf, a series of wooden ramps for exercise, and an oversized red plastic fire hydrant in its center. It was surrounded by a four-foot-high fence, in each corner of which was a pole that held a plastic bag dispenser and, below that, a trash receptacle.

He walked toward the closest pole, took one of the small bags-I cannot believe I’m doing this-and tied it to the handle. Then, turning up the collar of his coat, he walked to the boardwalk and out on the short pier.

It, not at all surprisingly, also was deserted.

And colder, if that’s possible.

He passed a series of iron benches, then came to the end of the pier. There, next to the last bench, he saw the heavy metal trashcan. It was square, with a horizontal slit on each side just below its flat top.

A gust of wind blew, and he stepped quickly to the can.

He tried stuffing the bag into one of the horizontal slits. It would not fit.

Damn it!

His hands bare, he moved around the stacks of cash, then folded the bag over and tried shoving it in the slit. It still did not fit.

He looked at it for a long moment, considered throwing the cash bundles in loose, then decided against that. Then he grabbed the slit-the cold metal almost burning his bare skin-and with some effort pulled up the heavy lid, tilting it. He shoved the bag in through the gap, then dropped the lid back in place with a loud clang.

What if she cannot get that out. . and if she does, then I have to dig out the bag she puts in?

Damn this!

The wind gusted again.

He turned his back to it, crouched, and tried to light a cigarette. It took three tries, but he finally had it going. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and started off the pier.

Matt Payne had already started to open his door as Jim Byrth brought the SUV to a skidding stop in the casino parking lot. They both jumped out. Then Byrth gave Payne a thumbs-up gesture as they heard the faint wop-wop-wop of the rotor blades of the police helicopter coming from the direction of Northeast Airport.

When Payne had called in for backup, Kerry Rapier said he also would alert the Aviation Unit to have Air Tac One circling nearby.

“That helo will light up the place like it’s daytime,” Rapier had said.

Byrth and Payne, guns drawn and staying in the shadows, began running toward the river. As they’d planned in the SUV after pulling away from the Fishtown dive bar, Byrth moved southward, to the far side of where the pier went out from the boardwalk, and Payne to the north.

After a ten-minute circle of the parking lot, Dmitri Gurnov flicked the butt of his third cigarette into the dog park.

And then he noticed a man standing on the boardwalk. The man held one of the casino’s bags.

And then Gurnov recognized what was tied to its handle.

I will be damned! He has the money!

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the Sig 9mm.

As he approached the man, he raised his pistol.

He heard someone behind him yell.

He quickly fired two shots, then a third.

The man went down. He rushed to him and knelt to grab the bag.

Then he saw the man’s face. It was that of a swarthy, fortyish Latino. Bright red blood flowed down his hard face from the hole in his forehead.

Who the hell are you? Gurnov thought.

As Gurnov stood, he heard running on the boardwalk. Another man was rushing him, holding a Kalashnikov at hip level.

He saw his face as bullets fired.

“Ricky?”

Matt Payne watched the man in black clothing and the gray fedora raise a pistol at another man on the boardwalk.

Payne speed-dialed Rapier.

“Send the damn helo, Kerry!”

“On its way, Marshal.”

“Police!” Payne shouted. “Drop the gun!”

There were two shots. With each muzzle flash, the man on the boardwalk staggered back a step. Then a single shot followed, causing his head to jerk backward. He dropped the bag he was holding, and then his knees buckled.

The man in the gray fedora grabbed the bag.

Then a third man ran up. He was firing an AK-47 from his hip. The man in the gray fedora fell backward. The third man knelt briefly by the first man, then bolted down the boardwalk.

Payne heard Byrth shout, “Stop!”-and fire a two-shot burst.

Payne, pounding down the boardwalk, heard the wop-wop-wop of Air Tac One’s rotor blades growing louder. He looked over his shoulder and saw the beams of the floodlights from the helo’s belly sweeping the surface of the dark river.

Payne ran in the direction he’d seen Byrth’s muzzle flashes.

A moment later, a floodlight beam washed over him, then moved up ahead. It lit up the man, who was still up and moving fast.

Byrth took another two-round volley at him. That caused the man to suddenly turn back.

He was now running straight for Payne.

The helo hovered, its lights now brightly illuminating the entire boardwalk and most of the park. The pitch of its rotors changed with the wind gusts. Payne saw Byrth moving in his direction but away from the boardwalk.

Then Payne saw the dot of a red laser bouncing wildly across the boardwalk near the man.

Too damn windy for the sniper. .

The man suddenly looked up and fired a half-dozen shots at the helo, then continued in Payne’s direction.

“Police! Stop!” Payne yelled, taking aim.

The man took two wild blind shots in his direction.

Payne squeezed the trigger. His first round hit the shooter in the shoulder. But he continued running. Payne squeezed off two more rounds, the shots hitting the man in the left chest.

He was now within thirty feet-and still advancing.

Payne squeezed off his next five rounds in rapid succession, and when the slide locked open, he smoothly thumbed the magazine release, replaced the empty mag with a fully charged one, then thumbed the slide release, chambering a new round as he brought the sights back on the shooter.

Just as he was beginning to squeeze the trigger, the man collapsed at his feet.

Five minutes later, with more backup units arriving, their sirens screaming and lights flashing, Matt Payne waved off Air Tac One. Just as the helo’s floodlight went dark, the Texas Ranger flicked a small black bean on the dead shooter’s back.

Byrth turned and saw that Payne was staring at his hands. And that they were trembling.

“That was good work, Marshal. Sometimes these bastards-full of adrenaline, drugs, whatever-just won’t go down.”

Payne nodded. “Someone once told me, ‘Always, always, always empty your mags.’”