Beck grimaced at the number. “Okay. Thanks.”

“What next?” asked Ricky.

“Call me when those SUVs leave that location, and then stay right where you are. Don’t be seen. They spot you, you won’t survive. If I don’t call you by daybreak, disappear.”

“James.”

“What?”

“Jeezus, James, all these fuckers coming for you? Clear out, man. Just get the fuck away, now.”

“Call me when they move.”

63

Jeffrey Esposito had spent six hours pulling together the men he wanted to serve the warrants on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare.

He’d managed to get three from his detective squad who were on the four-to-midnight shift, and had agreed to stay on. They were reliable men, but not the bust-doors-down-shooters he would have preferred.

David Rutledge was a veteran detective. He played everything straight, went by the book. In fact, he carried a battered detective’s notebook in his baggy back pocket and wrote everything down in a careful print. Everything. He referred to his notes constantly. Rutledge was overweight and wore glasses, but of all the men Esposito knew, Rutledge was the most fearless. He’d been in a shoot-out with Rutledge and saw him do something few could: stand and shoot back, without panic overwhelming him.

The other two detectives were Tony Ball and Michael Grandon. Both were young. Early thirties. Fit. They usually worked as a team. They gave the impression they were tough. Esposito didn’t know if they were or weren’t, but he figured at least they would be willing to act tough, and that might be good enough.

His best shot at success was Augustus Mosebee. He’d reached out to Augustus as soon as McManus had given him the assignment. They were old friends from working Missing Persons years ago. Augustus had landed on a Warrants Squad that specialized in going after serious felons. He was a six-foot-six black man who weighed somewhere around two-fifty. Maybe two-seventy. Augustus was one of those men who was so big that twenty pounds one way or the other didn’t show much.

When he arrived at the precinct, Esposito was very glad to see him. There was nobody better than Augustus Mosebee when it came to knocking down people and getting handcuffs on them quickly. Especially people who didn’t want to be knocked down and handcuffed.

Finally, Esposito had rounded up two patrol officers. That’s all the precinct sergeant would spare him. They seemed completely ordinary. Just another pair of bodies that might either get in the way or actually help. Eight men including himself. They would have to do.

Esposito was studying a street map of the area when the call came through from the desk sergeant downstairs.

64

The back of Beck’s building opened onto a small yard about eight-feet deep that ran the width of his property. The yard was overgrown and untended. There was an ailanthus tree that had grown tall enough to cover most of the back windows. An old slat-board fence ran across the back of the yard. The fence was only five-feet high. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but wasn’t meant to be. The fence was wired with a motion detector to warn Beck if someone tried to scale it.

On the other side of Beck’s fence was an abandoned plot of land about fifty-feet deep that ran the entire width of the block. It was fairly clear of rubble, except along the back walls and fences of the buildings that faced Conover. The junk back there was completely random, everything from stacks of old shipping flats, to an abandoned Dodge Dart, to piles of old tires.

The west side of the empty lot was blocked by the two-story back wall of a warehouse. The chain-link fences at each end of the lot were topped with a single strand of razor wire.

The only entrance to the lot was through a rolling chain-link-fence gate on Reed Street, secured with a chain and a large old Master lock.

Beck figured the three scouts who had walked the area knew a killing field when they saw it. That, combined with the information Ahmet Sukol provided, guided Beck’s plan of defense.

He calculated they would divide the attack into two groups: Kolenka’s men and Markov’s men. One attacking in the front of the building on Conover, the other group stationed in the back to shoot down anyone trying to escape the attack out front.

To cover the back, the second group would have to come in on the Reed Street side where the gate was located. The old lock and chain wouldn’t stop anybody from getting into the empty lot. In the middle of a dark night, in the middle of winter, it would be easy to shoot down men stumbling over ice, junk, and snow.

Beck was betting that Kolenka’s men would attack the front while Stepanovich and his men would cover the rear.

Beck knew getting into a gunfight with the attackers would cause too much damage and chaos. There was no chance that all of them would survive, and a hundred percent chance some of them would end up back in jail.

That’s where his deal with Walter Pearce came in. That was the part of his plan that made him grind his teeth and wish he had never heard of Olivia Sanchez.

65

Ricky Bolo called Beck at 1:35 a.m. All he’d said was, “They’re pulling out now.”

Beck thanked him, hung up, and announced, “Let’s go.”

Within ten minutes, everyone was in place.

Ciro Baldassare and Joey B stood across the street from the empty lot, opposite the chained fence gate. Beck had positioned them behind Olivia’s Porsche Cayenne, which was parked in the lot of a wholesale food store.

Ciro had his semiautomatic M-16 assault rifle set to fire in bursts of three. The 5.56-mm bullets could penetrate just about anything at the range he’d be firing from. Joey B had a pump-action Mossberg 500 shotgun loaded with Federal Flight Control LE132 12-gauge shot, a weapon with a capability pretty much the opposite of Ciro’s. Each shell had fifteen pellets rather than a standard twelve. He’d be able to blast larger areas, with enough force to take someone down, but not enough penetrating power to kill.

It was nearly two in the morning. The moon had already set. The temperature had dropped to eighteen degrees with intermittent gusts of cold air coming in off the bay.

Ciro held the M-16 down low, standing motionless, wearing a dark wool overcoat that made him nearly invisible except for the wisps of condensing exhalations floating up and disappearing in the cold night air. Joey B stood next to Ciro, his broad back leaning against the rear of the small Porsche SUV. He held the Mossberg by the barrel, the butt resting on the ground in front of him. He wore a black wool coat much like Ciro’s, and a black knit watch cap. He looked up at the dark night sky, trying to see stars between the scudding clouds, finally relaxed, free of any need to pace. A sense of calm came over Joey B, like a hunter waiting in the blind. He kept picturing it. Practicing in his mind what Beck had told him to do.

He would wait for Ciro. Move when he moved. Stand and shoot until he emptied the shotgun, or Ciro told him to stop.

*   *   *

Beck had concealed himself about a half block west of the empty lot, between a car and a wall near the corner of Reed and Van Brunt.

From there, he could spot any vehicle turning toward Conover, heading for the entrance to the empty lot. He had a Benelli M3 shotgun resting on the roof of a station wagon parked next to him, plus all the weapons he’d started the night with: his Browning, knife, sap, and extra ammunition.

*   *   *

Out on Conover Street, Manny Guzman stood alone, deep in the shadows of a warehouse doorway about twenty-five-feet north of the bar’s entrance. An overhead high-pressure sodium light mounted above the doorway shone down brightly, illuminating the area, but creating deep shadows where Manny stood.