Beck watched the two come running back toward him. He slipped forward, staying low and squeezed between the SUV and the open fence gate.

He carried the shotgun in his right hand, and moved toward the rear of the SUV. If he could take out these two, that would cut his enemies to seven, but he had to do it silently or he’d lose any advantage surprise might provide.

Beck stayed where he was, watching the two men slow down and approach him across the empty lot. As they came near, they split apart so they’d approach on either side of the SUV. Beck cursed. Now he would certainly have to shoot them.

They walked bent over, wary of becoming targets for whoever had shot up their SUV.

Beck knew he could get the one advancing toward him on his side, but it would be tough taking out the second one.

Suddenly, the first of Stepanovich’s men loomed out of the darkness only about three feet from where Beck crouched, his attention focused across the street trying to spot who’d shot up the SUV. He never saw the butt of the Benelli which rammed straight up into the underside of his chin. Both sides of his jaw shattered, three teeth cracked, and his head snapped back so fast that his top two vertebrae ruptured.

The sound attracted the second attacker. He spun toward Beck, aiming an assault rifle at him.

Beck saw the weapon out of his peripheral vision. No way he could flip the Benelli around and get off a shot. Maybe he could fire wild, make the shooter duck or flinch, and hit him with the second shot.

He tried to turn the Benelli so he could get a finger on the trigger. Too long, too long, the assault rifle pointed right at him, he was going to die.

And then out of nowhere the solid form of Ciro Baldassare flew between the SUV and the small opening in the gate.

The man aiming the rifle at Beck heard Ciro. He turned toward the sound as Ciro’s huge right fist smashed into his face, splattering his nose and cracking his right eye socket.

Ciro hit him so hard, the man’s head snapped back with such force, that Beck thought Ciro might have broken the man’s neck.

Jeezus, thought Beck. Ciro. Ciro saved my life.

Ciro stomped the side of the shooter’s head for good measure, ripped the rifle out of his inert hands, turned to Beck, and asked, “How many left?”

“Six, plus the leader. Stepanovich.”

Just then, sirens could be heard in the distance. Beck listened, but couldn’t tell if they were police or firemen.

“Ciro, what the fuck, man. What are you doing? You have to get out of here.”

“Saving your ass. Don’t worry, I dumped all my guns with Joey. He and Manny are getting rid of everything like we planned. I’ll meet ’em over by the warehouses.”

Beck and Ciro heard yelling out in the lot. Nobody had come out from Beck’s building, and now the sirens were getting louder. They seemed to be coming from every direction, both the high-pitched wail of fire trucks, and the deeper pitched sirens of police cars.

There was more yelling and movement out in the darkness in front of them. Ciro and Beck saw the shapes of men running toward them, trying to get out of the lot before the cops arrived.

Ciro laid the rifle on the ground near him and yelled at Beck, “Gimme the fucking shotgun. I’ll take these guys. Go after the leader.”

Beck tossed the Benelli to Ciro and yelled, “Don’t kill them unless you have to. Keep them pinned down for the cops, then dump the weapons, and get the hell out of here!”

Beck took off after Stepanovich.

Ciro went down on one knee and started blasting shots at the men running toward the gate. Then he picked up the rifle and started shooting with that.

He aimed shots high and low, alternating between the shogun and the rifle, moving right and left from behind the Suburban, varying the angles, trying to give the impression that more than one person was firing.

The Bosnians dropped to the ground, trapped in the open. They began to return fire, even though they had little idea where to shoot.

Wailing fire trucks began arriving over on Conover. The police sirens were closing in fast on the Reed Street side.

Beck angled toward the south side of the lot so he wouldn’t be seen and ran toward the middle of the field, trying to get behind Stepanovich, who was now running full blast, away from the sirens, heading toward the fence at the other end of the lot.

Beck ran parallel to him, about fifteen yards to Stepanovich’s right, but far enough behind so that Stepanovich didn’t yet know he was being chased.

The shotgun blasts from behind ended. Beck figured Ciro had emptied the Benelli. He hoped he wouldn’t stay to empty the rifle. Get out now, Ciro, thought Beck. If you get caught by the police, everything goes to shit.

Beck closed some of the distance between him and Stepanovich, but he was still ten yards behind him.

Police cars were converging on Reed Street.

Stepanovich turned to see the first police car slide to a stop, lights flashing. Then two more. And a third. He had a Mac-10 machine pistol in his right hand. He stopped and threw it as far away as he could.

Beck closed the distance between them by a couple of yards, but Stepanovich was still out ahead of him. Beck’s only hope was that the fence on Beard would slow him down.

Stepanovich ran full speed toward the fence.

Beck knew Stepanovich’s goal. Get out onto the street, unarmed, and try to walk out of the neighborhood. No way. No fucking way.

He heard a garbled voice yelling commands through a police loudspeaker. All of the remaining six men began firing. A fusillade of bullets erupted from the cops. More police cars arrived, screeching to a halt, adding to the forces.

Beck ignored everything and kept running.

Stepanovich approached the fence at a full run, jumped, and grabbed on nearly halfway up. He quickly climbed up until his waist was level with the top of the fence. A single spiral of razor wire was all that prevented him from going over. He leaned his right arm and shoulder between two loops of razor wire, pushing them out of his way.

Beck closed in on him fast.

Stepanovich leaned sideways, his winter coat protected him enough so that he managed to get one leg over the fence.

Beck ran furiously to catch Stepanovich before he made it over.

Stepanovich finally heard Beck’s footsteps. He turned to look behind him.

A full-scale gun battle raged on Reed Street between the Bosnians and the cops.

Beck leaped at the fence, lunging for Stepanovich’s leg still on his side.

Stepanovich lifted his right foot away from Beck and kicked downward, stomping into Beck’s left shoulder. He dropped to the ground. Stepanovich made it over the fence.

Stepanovich hit the sidewalk on Beard Street. Beck leapt onto the fence, scrambled up and jackknifed over, ignoring the razor wire, depending on his leather coat to protect him. He made it to the other side, ready to drop down when Stepanovich ripped a vicious punch into Beck’s kidney. The searing pain made him lose his grip on the fence. He fell to his knees, smashing them into the hard pavement.

Stepanovich immediately tried to kick Beck in the face, but Beck grabbed Stepanovich’s right leg with both arms. He stood and lifted the leg out from under the Bosnian. Stepanovich went down hard on the sidewalk, but ripped his leg free and tried to kick Beck, who backed away still grimacing from the pain in his right kidney. Beck rolled his left shoulder, swinging his arm, trying to dispel the effect of Stepanovich’s kick.

Stepanovich spun around on the ground and kicked Beck’s right leg out from under him. Beck went down sideways, but he was up quickly. Stepanovich made it to his feet, too.

Beck gave a quick glance over to Reed Street. The street was filled with flashing blue and red lights. The gunfire continued, but it was starting to wane. It seemed like more fire engines were pulling onto Conover. So far, Beard Street was clear. All the cops had converged on the gunfight, but Beck knew the entire area would be sealed off soon.