After Jonathan was on his feet, the shadow beckoned them with an index finger, then turned his back, expecting them to follow. Wearing a black backpack, he walked soundlessly and assuredly until he came to a half flight of stairs. He scaled the steps, then nodded for Decker to come up, which he did, helping his shaking brother up onto a platform. It was no bigger than three feet square with an overhead clearance of about four feet. They were compressed, but Decker quickly understood the usefulness of the spot; it had an unobstructed view of the warehouse. His thighs bunching as he squatted, Decker scoped out the area.

Several silent ticks passed.

Donatti whispered, “You can’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

Decker wiped blood from his face and blinked tears from his eyes. He had the sudden urge to laugh but refrained. Emotions were reeling inside him. He whispered, “You shot out the van.”

“Not me, personally,” Donatti replied. “I thought it would hang you up for a couple of hours, give me enough time to get in and out. You just fucked up everything!”

“We were on our way to the airport.” Decker was still breathing hard. “To JFK to talk to Hershfield about some drug dealers that airport security had caught. But after the van was shot out-barely on its last legs-Jonathan suggested the warehouse because it was closer. If you had left us alone, we wouldn’t have even been here.”

Donatti stared at him, then silently mouthed a series of swear words. “Might as well make yourself useful.” He handed him the dead boy’s gun, then turned his colorless eyes on Jonathan. “There’s more where that came from. Can you shoot?”

“He’s a rabbi, not a sniper,” Decker said.

“Then get him out of here.”

“My number one priority.”

“Except you can’t go out the way you came in. An alarm will sound.”

“I got in without anything going off.”

Donatti said, “It’s a one-way emergency exit. Trust me.”

“Then how do I get him out?”

Donatti didn’t answer. His breathing was labored as water cascaded off his brow.

“You don’t look good, Chris,” Decker said. “What’s wrong?”

“Shut up and let me think.”

Five minutes went by, nothing but the sound of the rain.

“You don’t look good,” Decker whispered, “but you look calm.”

“I am calm. I’m in my element.”

More time passed.

Decker examined the gun in his hands. A Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic, double action. He wasn’t sure which model, but it probably had a magazine of about twelve rounds. It didn’t smell as if it had been recently fired, the barrel was cool to the touch. Of course, it was frosty inside. Decker could see his breath. He glanced at Jonathan, crouched by his side. He was trembling hard, no doubt from fear, but the physical position they were in was anything but comfortable. Decker placed his hand on his brother’s unsteady knee. “Just another few minutes.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’m okay.”

“All right, this is the deal,” Donatti whispered. “There are five doors-front door, one emergency exit on each side, and two doors in back. The emergency exits are alarmed to go off when you leave and the front door is where the powwow’s being held. That leaves the back doors. Go for the closest one.”

Silence.

Donatti continued. “There was a cop on each alarmed side door, a pair of kids on each back door, and maybe a couple of cops at the front entrance. I’ve taken care of one cop and a kid-You know, you’re damn lucky I recognized you when you came in.”

Decker said, “It’s your artistic eye. Where was that kid stationed?”

“The one I took out? One of the back doors, which means his partner’s gonna get antsy if he doesn’t come back soon. Let’s put some lead in it.” He slipped off his backpack and pulled out a small set of binoculars. “It should be a piece of cake with two of us… if your eye is good.”

“Are you asking me if I’m a good shot?”

“Yes.”

“I’m good.”

“Then we’re fine, because I’m great.” Donatti handed Decker the infrared binoculars. Through them, the warehouse looked like daylight. “See that red wooden sign? The letter N.”

“Got it.”

“Put it center in the crosshairs.”

“Okay.”

“Clockwise one-fifty degrees.”

“There are two of them. What are they? Like a couple hundred yards away?”

“Yeah.” Donatti looked at Decker’s gun. “You can’t use that in the dark.” He took a case out and opened it up, pulling out a pistol. “Basically, it’s a Walther double-action automatic except I’ve modified it for accuracy at longer range and added an infrared scope and silencer for obvious reasons. Swap you?”

They exchanged firearms. Decker hefted the gun. “Not too heavy.”

“No need for overkill. Standard nine-millimeter Parabellum and twenty-two LR. With all the customization, it cost me about fifteen hundred bucks. I’ll probably have to lose it after this is all over. Damn shame.” He stowed the kid’s gun in his backpack and took out his own customized handgun, complete with scope and silencer. “We do them; then you can make your move through the back entrance.”

Decker studied the faces in the scope, feeling his heart drop. Two lanky boys, one maybe a couple of inches taller than the other, both of them holding that gaping-mouth confused expression commonly stamped on teenage males. Their cheeks still held a smattering of adolescent pimples. His brain flashed to his own sons. “They’re kids. Eighteen tops.”

“I was that age once,” Donatti pointed out.

A very convincing argument, but Decker wasn’t ready to make the jump. “I’m a police officer. I can’t shoot them without warning.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Donatti mocked. “Why don’t you go all the way and paint a bull’s-eye on your forehead?”

“I can’t shoot them without giving them warning first.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Donatti, I’ll announce myself. If they don’t drop immediately, then we can-”

“If we give them warning, they’ll shoot, then scatter. Then we’ll have a real problem.”

“I’m not going to argue this-”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re repeating yourself.” Decker remained firm. “Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Donatti picked up a pinecone-shaped piece of concrete and hurled it, the cement whizzing by the bigger of the two boys. As it hit a box and broke into smaller pieces, both of the teens spun around, the taller one raising his gun in Decker’s direction. He never stood a chance. Donatti picked them off in two clean shots-zzzzpt, zzzzpt. They walked a foot or two, then dropped-plop, plop. The shots were so smooth that there wasn’t any discernible blood spray. Donatti must have been using hollow points-the kind of bullets that bang around in the skull, turning the entire brain to pulp.

Decker glared at him, his eyes burning with anger.

“I gave them warning.” Donatti was expressionless. “Self-defense. Now I’ll cover you while you get your brother out.”

“That means I walk out with my back to you. I just saw you murder two kids.”

“If you don’t leave now, you won’t make it.” Donatti adjusted his scope, squatting as still as a stone frog. “I’ll wait a few minutes. If you don’t come back by then, I’ll just assume that we’ve parted ways.”

There was no time for contemplation.

“I’m keeping this.” Decker held up the gun. “Go, Jon. I’ll follow you. Be careful!”

“I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Just move!”

Once they had made it down the stairs and onto the ground, Decker, looking through the scope, scanned the area. Then he grabbed Jonathan’s hand. Using the IR lens for visibility, he twisted and turned around aisles and aisles of tall shelving, around boxes and machinery-gingerly and quietly. He dragged Jonathan along as he negotiated the path to the back. Time took on a surreal quality. It was without parameters like hours spent in a casino; in reality, it took only a few minutes to reach the back door.