“Yes. Three years now. My involvement is simple. I work private security. I’m Milstein’s driver/bodyguard.”

“Why’s some Wall Street hump need a bodyguard?”

“He doesn’t. At least not until now. He just likes the idea of someone with a gun driving him around. This is the first time anything like this has happened to him since I’ve been working for him. My two cents, these assholes are bad guys and it’s a good thing you got an excuse to put them back in jail.”

“We got plenty of bad guys we can put in jail.”

“So these two made it to the top of the list. But no bullshit—they aren’t choirboys. I saw them operate this extortion. They worked it smoothly. So I wouldn’t plan on just knocking on their door and bringing them in. I’d be prepared.”

“That’s what you think?”

Walter gauged Waldron’s comment for animosity and didn’t quite know how much was there. The chief seemed to be a man who was perpetually pissed off. He answered simply, “Yes, sir.”

Waldron softened. He seemed to have realized he was going to have to take care of this and figured he’d better get what he could from Pearce.

“So you wouldn’t recommend this just be a regular Warrants Squad.”

“No, sir. I would plan on more than that.”

“Fuck.”

Walter was about to say more, but he kept his mouth shut.

The chief checked his watch, gathered up the documents, and stood up to leave.

“Both of them are at this address.”

“That’s how it looks.”

“How it looks?”

“That’s where Beck lives. I’m pretty sure you’ll find Baldassare there, too. And there’s a good chance a few others that you can arrest.”

“Tell your boss we’ll serve the warrants. If they’re at this location, we’ll arrest them. If not, tell him he can go fuck himself.”

Walter ventured a question.

“When do you think you’ll do it?”

“What? You pushing me now?”

Walter shrugged. “I just need something to say to Milstein. He’ll be pushing me for an answer.”

Waldron looked at his watch again. “I don’t want this hanging over me. I’ll put the word out now. We’ll do it wee hours of the morning, Friday. Hopefully these knuckleheads will be tucked in sleeping.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Milstein.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

Waldron left without another word.

Walter decided he’d call Milstein from where he sat, then get a steak downtown somewhere. Have a couple of glasses of wine, go home, and sleep. It was out of his hands now.

53

Demarco Jones spotted two men about a block away coming toward him on Van Brunt. He slipped into a neighborhood bar, not worrying if they had seen him. He knew the bartender, Jimmy, who stood behind the bar, bored, arms crossed. At this time of day, his only customers were two young guys sipping pints of beer and an old crone hunched over a white wine spritzer.

Demarco nodded at him and pantomimed a cup of coffee. He took a seat at the long shelf that ran along the bar’s front window. Jimmy placed the cup of coffee at Demarco’s elbow, just as two men appeared outside the bar.

Demarco lowered his head as he sipped the coffee and watched them with raised eyes as they passed by. The one closest to the bar turned to look inside, but didn’t seem to see anything of interest.

The coffee wasn’t very hot, so Demarco took a long swallow, laid down his cup, and stepped out of the bar. He didn’t pay for the coffee because he knew Jimmy wouldn’t charge him.

Demarco hung back in the doorway of the bar, letting the two men get out ahead of him. He pulled out his cell phone and called Beck.

*   *   *

Beck’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He answered, “Yeah.”

“Two of ’em just walked past Dikeman. On Van Brunt. My guess is they keep going then come around on Reed and get on the far side of our place.”

“Right. Manny and I are on Van Dyke. Manny’s making like he’s helping some guys unload a truck.”

“That would be worth seeing.”

“Yeah, I think he might actually pick up a box. I’m standing behind a van on the other side of the street. If the third guy comes this way, we’ll drop in behind him. You do the same with the pair.”

“All right.”

Beck slipped his phone back into his pocket and kept watch through the windows of the van. He saw a man that fit Willie Reese’s description walking with his hands in his coat pockets, slow and steady. Eyes watching straight ahead of him.

Beck crouched down below the windows and stayed out of sight until the intruder had passed. Then he looked out from behind the van, still low, and watched the man as he continued up Conover: beard, no hat, silver down jacket that looked like it had been worn a long time, still walking easy with his hands in the pockets of his coat.

Beck knew the man’s two partners were walking parallel one block over. He figured they were almost certainly going to meet in front of his bar.

Silver Jacket didn’t look like one of Kolenka’s Russians or Markov’s Bosnians. He appeared to be much more relaxed and comfortable on the streets of Red Hook. Relaxed, but at the same time alert. The man’s build, his size, demeanor, the beard, the confident way he moved convinced Beck he was military. Most likely Special Forces. Apparently, Markov had brought in mercenaries, most likely through his government connections. This could change everything. The three men would be armed, and very dangerous. They wouldn’t panic if shooting started. They would stand and fight with discipline. But Beck found it hard to believe they’d send just three men to take down his base.

Beck slipped out from the cover of the van and moved cautiously in the direction of the bar. The bearded leader in front of him continued walking like he belonged in the neighborhood. Nothing tentative about him. No glancing around. No looking for an address.

Beck was curious what he’d do when he arrived at the bar. There certainly weren’t any address numbers to confirm the location. He’d pulled them off the front door years ago. And from the building next door.

Beck instinctively dropped back a few paces, deciding that if they did attack, the right play would be to lay back and let Ciro and Joey B blast them from inside. Then move in from behind to finish them off. But how the hell was he going to explain that to Demarco and Manny in time?

The interloper crossed Van Dyke. Now there was no doubt he was headed for the bar. There was nothing on Reed, and Conover Street ended in a dead end.

Beck sensed movement from across the street. He turned to see Manny cross Conover to his side of the street, falling in about ten feet behind Beck. Good, thought Beck. He’ll be harder to spot and I have a better chance of holding him back if this goes off.

The bearded guy hadn’t looked back once. That didn’t mean he was unaware that he was being followed, but if he knew or suspected, he was showing a lot of discipline and control.

And then the other two turned onto Conover from Reed Street. One of them wearing a backpack.

Now what? Beck pictured these three dropping into some sort of attack formation, shooting out his front window and lobbing a bomb-filled backpack into the bar.

Boom, mission accomplished.

54

Olivia Sanchez had noticed Beck’s fast exit. The one they called Ciro took up a position watching the street and told the huge guy to do the same. She decided to use the situation to her advantage.

She’d been sitting next to Alex for almost two hours, mostly watching Crane adjust conditional sell orders. Some of them executed, others didn’t as the market fluctuated. In many cases, Crane shifted them with a series of limit orders shaving the spread until he hit the prices he wanted. Or at least the prices he could live with. She knew what Crane was doing took enormous concentration. She wondered how long he could keep up the pace.