Ricky and Jonas were experienced burglars, safecrackers, and locksmiths. They knew whatever there was to know about CCTV cameras, alarm systems, sensors, locks, and surveillance techniques. They were experts at breaking and entering. They knew the policies of every major security company that offered service in New York City, including response times, patrol habits, radio frequencies, and more. They were wraiths. They were a protected place’s worst nightmare. And their last name was not Bolo. Very, very few knew their real last names. Bolo had come from Ricky’s penchant for bolo neckties.

James Beck had met Ricky in the Eastern Correctional Facility in upstate New York, a facility that had originally been known as the State Institution for Male Defective Delinquents, a name that seemed appropriate for Ricky Bolo, even though he had reached the age of thirty-seven. His brother Jonas had been incarcerated at the same time, having been arrested for the same complicated theft as his brother. But the prison authorities wisely kept them separated, so Jonas served his time in Ossining.

Upon their release, the Bolo brothers had resumed their life of crime literally within hours. However, they now specialized in casing targets for other criminals.

Still, Beck’s assignment for them was a bit unusual. They only had a vague idea of what he planned. And he had asked them to essentially blind an entire neighborhood.

Ricky was the flamboyant one. Jonas, serious and studious. They made a good pair as they walked the neighborhood seeing things most people never even thought about. Both wore overcoats that hid an array of equipment. Ricky spoke on his cell via a Bluetooth earpiece, giving Beck a continuous narrative as Beck headed for Tribeca.

Jonas walked next to Ricky, hands in pockets, ready to pull out whatever was needed for a given task, pointing out anything Ricky missed.

The area had much more surveillance in place than most neighborhoods. Almost all the restaurants had cameras. Most of the loft buildings had cameras on their intercom panels as well as cameras watching the sidewalks in front of the buildings. The block-long parking garage on Greenwich had cameras covering the entire front of the garage. The Smith Barney building had all entrances and most of the space occupied by their wide plaza under camera surveillance.

The trick was to eliminate as much of the surveillance as they could without causing too much attention. Street-level fish-eye lenses were easy. They covered them with a stick-on reflective material of their own design. It took about a second. The only image visible was a silver blur. The material caused no permanent damage, and had been designed to fall off in about an hour.

Most of the cameras were at the one-story above-street level. Anything beyond that height wouldn’t give much of an image. The Bolos used telescoping poles retrofitted to hold spray paint formulated to cover plastic. It took about ten seconds to pull out a pole from under their overcoats, extend it, and spray the camera lenses with gray paint.

By the time they’d circled the area twice, they’d degraded eleven security cameras to the point where they’d be useless, decided four others wouldn’t be a problem, and obliterated the lenses of seven more.

The only other variables were people on the street and onlookers glancing down from apartments who might see something. But that wasn’t their problem. Beck and his men would have to deal with that.

During their circuit, the Bolos also got better looks at the two SUVs the Bosnians were using: an Escalade and an old Chevy Blazer, parked near Crane’s Hubert Street loft. One at each end of the block.

They reported all this to Beck and then headed back to their beat-up white van parked on Hudson Street. Beck told them to stick around somewhere they wouldn’t be noticed and monitor police broadcasts.

The last thing the Bolo brothers did before going back to their van was to stop in front of Crane’s loft building. Ricky stood near the buzzer panel firing up a cigar, while Jonas, who looked like he was texting a long message on a smartphone, scanned the electronic lock system that secured Crane’s front door and elevator. His scanner broke the code in thirty-seven seconds. They both resumed walking. Ricky leaving billows of smoke in his wake.

Jonas sent the data he’d secured to Alex Liebowitz riding in the backseat of the Mercury Marauder. Alex pulled something out of his backpack that looked like a portable hard drive, followed by a keypad he attached to it. Within seconds, he started fabricating a passkey to open Crane’s front door and lobby door. By the time Beck drove into the Battery Tunnel, Alex had entered the last bits of information he’d received from Jonas Bolo.

*   *   *

Demarco, driving the Mercury, arrived in Tribeca about five minutes ahead of Beck driving Olivia’s Porsche. Demarco found a legal parking spot on Hudson Street. Beck parked the Porsche illegally in front of the fire hydrant on Greenwich where he’d parked before.

Beck called Demarco’s cell and told him to bring the others and meet him on Greenwich. All the men wore long coats and some form of cap to obscure the view of their faces. All of them had shotguns under their coats.

When Demarco, Ciro, and Manny arrived at the Porsche there was only room for Ciro and Demarco in the car since Joey B took up most of the backseat. Manny drifted off toward a building nearby. He leaned against a wall hidden by shadows, watching.

Beck checked his watch. 9:15 p.m., Wednesday. It seemed like an awful lot had happened since yesterday morning.

*   *   *

Alan Crane realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There was no more work he could or wanted to do on the investments. The coffee he’d gulped throughout the afternoon had worn off and his appetite had surged back.

He checked his watch: 9:30 p.m. There should be some empty tables at Harrison.

*   *   *

Beck had just worked out his plan. He motioned for Manny to come near the open passenger-side window and listen up.

“Okay,” said Beck. “Here’s how it’s going to work.” He pointed toward Crane’s building west of them on Hubert Street.

“Alex, the computer you have to rig is in the top floor apartment of that building. It’s an open loft. Elevator opens directly into the apartment. There’s an office area near the east end of the floor, past the kitchen. Computer, four monitors, clearly set up as a trading station. We need to know every move Crane makes on that computer.”

“Right. Is the place empty?”

“I’m assuming Crane is home. I’ll convince him to come out and talk to me.”

“You sure he’ll do that?”

“I doubt he wants me to come in after him. I’ll be nice. When you’re done, you call me, and I’ll bring him back. How long do you think you’ll need?”

“No telling. I have no idea what’s going on up there. If he leaves his computer on and doesn’t have any security systems running, it’ll take about fifteen minutes. If not, who knows?”

“All right. Once I get him out, use the key card to get in. You do your thing. We’ll make sure he doesn’t get back in until you’re done.”

“Okay. What about the bad guys outside?”

Alex hadn’t taken his eyes off Crane’s building the whole time Beck spoke.

“We’ll take care of that, too.” Beck turned to the others. “While I’m with this asshole Crane, the rest of you get into position to cover those two SUVs. Ciro, you and Joey take the one at the west end of the block. Manny and Demarco, you do the same for the one at this end. If they try to stop me from taking Crane, or follow us in their cars, or make any move to go into the apartment, you make sure they don’t. Clear?”

“No,” said Ciro. “Stop how? You want us to take them out, or just the vehicles?”

“Let’s try not going to jail tonight. Blast the crap out of their tires. Maybe pump a few shots into the engines, a couple over the roofs to keep them in the cars, and then disappear. Don’t get into a gun battle. Position yourselves near the corners so you can take a fast fade.