“Show me your identification.”
And Carmen knew the moment Barnes drew a sharp breath that what Spocatti showed her was his gun.
~~~~
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
12:17 a.m.
The streets of Manhattan were so clogged, it took them ninety minutes to reach the safe house on West 83rd. When they finally got there, the building, a gorgeous pre-war limestone with large casement windows and an impressively grand entrance, appeared to be in darkness.
But it wasn’t.
As they passed it, they could see a slant of light beyond the heavy curtains that shielded the windows. People were inside. Mark Andrews might just be waiting for them.
This was their second go around the block and as they drove past the building this time, Marty took it slower, looking for any sign of life inside. But all he saw was that sliver of light and those heavy, almost industrial-looking curtains. He lingered on those curtains and had to admit that if this was a government safe house, they’d fit right into the equation given the privacy they offered.
He tapped out Jennifer’s number again and still got a rapid busy signal. He tried Hines and Patterson and got the same thing. The pit of worry in his stomach now had grown into a vine that wrapped itself tight around his chest. If anything happened to Jennifer, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He was in love with her. He was scared for her. But when they’d left Roberta’s, he knew he’d never get close to East 77th Street--or to her. And so they came here. They needed to see if Andrews was alive or if they were being set-up.
On 82nd Street, they found a parking space that wasn’t a parking space. It was reserved for hydrant access, but perfect for his needs. Given what was unfolding on the other side of the Park, it was unlikely his car would get towed tonight, and so he backed into the space, righted the car, shut it off and looked at Maggie.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked.
She nodded. “It was Mark’s voice,” she said. “I’ve thought about it ever since we left the restaurant and it was his voice. I know you have reservations, but there’s no question. It was Mark on the phone.”
“You have your gun?”
“I do.”
“It’s loaded.”
“It is.”
“Even if it was Mark and he is alive, you’re aware that this might be Wolfhagen. Somehow, he might know we’re onto him and he’s setting us up.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“You’re prepared to take that risk?”
She nodded.
And so was he. “I need you to follow my lead. I’ve seen you shoot. I know you’re trained and capable of protecting yourself. But if he’s got a team in there, we’re in the shit. If you do see Mark at the start, I want you to remember that they might have planned it that way to get you inside. They’ll be expecting you to go to him, but you can’t. Is that understood?”
“It is.”
“You need to follow me and just do as I say.”
“Alright.”
“The moment they open the door, I’ll know whether we’re dealing with the feds. You always can tell a fed. I’ve been around enough of them to smell them. If I think it’s something else, I’ll tap my thigh once, but we play it cool. We’re grateful that they reached out to us. We just want to see Mark.” He paused. “And once that door closes behind us, we act. We take the motherfucker out quietly and get ready for the onslaught. We keep them at bay as long as we can and, if we fail, we run. Is that clear?”
“What do you mean by quietly?”
“We pistol whip him and ease him down onto the floor. No gunfire. They know we’re coming and they’ll be ready for us, but anything could happen. If for some reason they’re distracted when we arrive and only one person comes to the door, all the better for. Slim chance, but you never know.”
“Got it.”
Because of the street lamp above them, he couldn’t see her face. It was in silhouette. But in her voice was something else--cold determination. She’d waited for this. She was ready for this. “You’re clear on everything?”
“I got it, Marty. I’m following your lead. I’ll do what you want.”
While that’s certainly what he wanted to hear, why did he feel her emotions were going to get the best of her and, if she did see Andrews, that she’d screw it up?
* * *
On the sidewalk, the walked side by side. They moved briskly and kept pace with each other. Maggie’s hair swung but the rest of her was rigid. Marty was focused and running every possible situation he could think of through his mind. Neither said anything to the other. They could have been a pair of automatons.
Save for a few stragglers, most people were either on the other side of Manhattan, trying to assist, or they were in their homes watching the situation unfold on television. Except for the faint wail of sirens off in the distance, the streets were relatively quiet, the only exception being the heaviness of their footsteps.
They rounded 83rd and started toward the safe house. In spite of the warmth, Marty still wore his blazer. He’d given Maggie the light windbreaker he kept in his car. His gun was concealed in his holster. Maggie kept hers tucked in her waistband at her back.
The building was now in front of them. So was a young woman coming their way. She passed them with her head lowered. They could hear her sobbing. Instinctively, they slowed and watched her over their shoulders. She never looked at them. She made no attempt to reach for a cell phone or something worse. She was legit.
They took the steps, exchanged a glance. Then Marty knocked.
The door edged open.
Surprised, each took a step back. Marty held his hand out behind him, keeping Maggie back, and drew his gun. He listened but could hear nothing. He maneuvered his head so he could look through the crack, but it wasn’t wide enough.
He knocked again, harder this time, his gun held low at his side and ready. The door gave a few more inches. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. He put his hand on the handle and gave the door a gentle push. It swung open. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t right. He looked back at Maggie and saw that she had drawn her gun. He motioned for her to lower it lest they be seen by anyone who might pass on the street. She did so, holding it close to her thigh.
There was no other way to do this but to step inside. So Marty eased into the oddly shaped, narrow front foyer. There was a door to his left and to his right, but only the door to his left was open. The lights were on inside. The floor was sticky. He listened and thought he could hear something. It sounded like feet scuffing against wood.
He moved closer to the open door and pressed his back to the wall. He waved for Maggie to join him. When she did, he motioned for her to close the door. But before it latched shut, he stopped her. Keep it open. Don’t make a sound. Leave it slightly ajar, just as they’d found it.
Again, they listened. Something or someone was in the next room. They strained to hear anything that would give them a clue, something telling, and this time they heard what sounded like scratching. And then they heard a tapping.
And then, without warning, something or someone gurgled.
Marty and Maggie crouched down. With an outstretched hand, he kept her back and took the chance that could end his life. He peered into the room.
The space was massive. Two metal cages to his right. Leather furniture positioned around the room. No people that he could see. He swung his head back, waited a moment and looked again. This was the room that he’d seen on Schwartz’s tape. He checked the details and saw it all. This wasn’t a safe house. They were being set-up, just as he feared.
He was about to rear back when he saw them.
Unbelieving, Marty stood and turned the corner so one eye was exposed. What he saw was a horror show.
At the far end of the room, three people were hanging from ropes just above the bar. They were clawing at nooses fastened to their throats. Their feet were kicking, reaching, dancing on th
e counter top, sometimes sticking just long enough to allow each to release the tension and take a breath.
Tap, tap, tap.
Marty looked up and saw that each rope was strapped to the beam above them. It was too dark to see their faces. Tentatively, he took a step into the room. And then, above him, came the sudden sound of footsteps hurrying about on the second floor. Something heavy thumped against the ceiling. A muffled voice came through the plaster ceiling. It was a man’s voice.
There was no time to waste. He looked at Maggie and motioned for her to follow him to the bar.
They were naked now, completely exposed. They dipped in and out of shadows. They could hear the doomed gasping, their feet slipping, exhaustion setting in.
Hunched low, Marty and Maggie kept moving across the room until something caught Marty’s attention and they stopped.
It was Mark Andrews.
He was at the far end of the room, near one of the windows. He was in a wheelchair and he was pointing up at the ceiling. Behind Marty, Maggie gasped but she didn’t run to him. She held out an open palm to him. Andrews put a finger to his lips and, with his other hand, he made a motion for them to hurry.
And so they did. They went to the bar, looked up--and saw all of it.
Hanging from the ropes were Carra Wolfhagen, Ira Lasker and Jennifer Barnes. Their faces were turning blue, the fight to live was leaving them and as Marty watched them swing and twist before he sprang into action, he knew all of them were mainlining toward death.
~~~~
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
12:31 a.m.
Marty scrambled behind the bar, leaped onto it, put an arm around Jennifer’s waist and lifted her up so the pressure was off her throat.
“Stay with me,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a jackknife. He clenched it between his teeth and with his free hand, he pulled out the blade. “Stay with me. Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”
Her hands were tugging sluggishly at the rope around her neck. Saliva was running out of her mouth and down her chin. Her eyes were boulders bulging under the pressure. Her body trembled against him in spasms. She was trying to breathe, but it was almost impossible. And then, with a quick sawing motion, the rope snapped, but it didn’t go down as Marty had hoped. Instead of her falling back into his arms, she fell so heavily against him, they each went over the bar and toppled to the floor below.
Stunned, they lay there. Jennifer was on top of him. The noose was tight around her neck. She wasn’t moving.
Maggie came around the corner and took the blade out of Marty’s hands. He watched her sprint to the top of the bar and quickly cut the ropes that bound Lasker and Carra, who now were hanging lifelessly.
She wrapped her arm around their waists and eased each body to the floor. She jumped down and loosened the rope around Carra’s neck, patted her face firmly, then turned and did the same to Lasker, whose eyes were open and staring up blindly at her.
Carra groaned behind her. Maggie turned to look at her and saw her eyes fluttering. She’d live. She put her ear to Lasker’s chest and listened. She licked the back of her hand and held it over his mouth. And then, as Marty lifted Jennifer off him and shook her until her own eyes flickered open, Marty watched Maggie slam her fists down hard on Lasker’s chest. She did it again while Carra Wolfhagen turned onto her side and loosened the noose just enough to pull it over her head.
On the floor above them, they could hear footsteps coming their way. At first, they started off slowly at the front of the room, near the building’s entrance, but now they were picking up speed as they raced to the back of the room, where they were.
And then Mark Andrews’ voice, loud and clear, rang throughout the room. “He’s upstairs,” he called. “He’s armed. Be careful.”
And the footsteps stopped. Quietly, they started to retreat. And Marty knew--if whoever was upstairs didn’t hear movement soon, they’d know they’d been tricked.
He held Jennifer’s face in her hands. “Are you alright?”
She nodded.
He kissed her on the forehead. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.” He gave her his cell. “Call 911. That’s all I want you to do. I know you’re in pain, but try. Tell them where we are. Tell them this is linked to the explosions across the Park. Tell them to hurry.”
He looked at Maggie, who had been administering CPR and now was feeling for a pulse in Lasker’s neck. There was none. “He’s dead,” she said.
Above them, a creaking. Someone listening.
“We need to get up those stairs.” He looked at Carra Wolfhagen, who had sagged against the bar and was rubbing her hand over her throat. What the hell was she wearing? Not the little black dress Jennifer told him about earlier. “Who’s up there?” he asked.
“Max,” she said, in a voice low enough so Mark couldn’t hear. “He did all of this. He lured us here. He tried to kill us just like he’s killing all those people who took the stand against him. He admitted it to us. He said we were next.”
“It’s just him upstairs?”
“Yes,” she said.
He cocked his head at her. “And he strung all of you up by himself?”
“No,” Jennifer said. Her voice was barely audible. There was a faint wheezing sound when she spoke. “There were two others.”
“He had help, but they ran,” Carra said cautiously. She looked down at Lasker and then crouched to press her hand against his cheek. “They killed him. They helped Max do this and they ran when they put those nooses around our necks and hoisted us up.” She motioned toward Jennifer. “When she came to the door, they knocked her unconscious and dragged her in here. I saw it happen.”
Marty turned to her. “Is that true?”
She nodded.
Again, Mark Andrews: “I’m fine,” he said with an irritated voice. “Get your hands off me and go upstairs. He’s there. The staircase is just behind the bar. Move!”
Above them, a retreating.
Marty looked at Maggie. “You ready?”
The determination in her voice was as clear as the gun now clutched in her hand. “I’m ready.”
“Then let’s do this.”
* * *
Wolfhagen stood in the center of the sprawling second floor, where most of the walls had been knocked down, likely by Carra and Lasker, to provide for a more open, free-flowing space. Essentially, this was a replica of the main floor. A second bar was here and in a broad nod at the old Bull Pen, painted above it in money-green was a giant bull with a ring through its snout.
He could hear them down below. The police. He’d heard Andrews shout orders at them twice, warning them that he was up here and waiting for them. And the cripple was right. He was waiting for them and he would kill them. They wouldn’t take him again. Wolfhagen was either walking out of here or he’d die here.
In this dim hollow of dark fetishes, Wolfhagen found exactly what he’d use on them when they took the stairs. He went to it, grabbed the bottle of 150 proof vodka he found at the bar, and started dousing the object until it was sheeted with liquid. And then he retrieved a second bottle of vodka and soaked it again until the liquid leached inside the cavity and dripped from every corner.
Like Carra, Lasker and the reporter, Wolfhagen also had been strung up. But he managed to break free and take the gun Carra’s assassins placed on the bar before they left. They put the gun there and said that freedom was just below should anyone want it. What they really meant is that whoever broke free first could have the gun, kill the rest and escape before they were found out.
Wolfhagen was that person. He was taller than the rest and found enough footing on the bar to lift himself up, remove the noose, topple to the ground and grab the gun. He came up here to find a grislier way to kill them all when he heard a commotion, the sound of bodies dropping, and then Andrews directing the police.
Carra was wrong. He wasn’t afraid of death. If it came, it came. What frightened Wolfhagen more than anything
was not leaving a mark.
Since he had transformed himself at Yale, it’s what he always feared--the idea that he might slip back and become that nobody freak everyone loathed when he was growing up. Now, if he could pull this off correctly, he had a chance to not only take out the police, but also everyone else in the room below.
After that, he faced the challenge of getting out alive, but if he could manage it, all Wolfhagen needed to do was get to the front door. Run out into the night. Disappear forever into the world.
* * *
Marty and Maggie moved around the bar and came to the grand staircase that led to the second floor, which was in darkness. Maggie ran her hand along the wall to the left searching for a light switch while Marty darted across the staircase and did the same on the right wall.
The switch was on the left.
They stepped back into the first floor’s main room, tucked their bodies against the wall and looked at each other, their guns poised and ready.
Maggie tapped his thigh.
Gingerly, Marty reached out and snapped on the lights. He jerked his hand away and listened. Light was now fanning down the stairwell toward them. They listened and, at first, could hear nothing. There were no footsteps. There was no movement. And they wondered. Was Wolfhagen waiting at the top of the stairs for them? Was he waiting for one of them to peer around so he could blow a hole through their head?
Quietly, Marty dropped to the ground and got on his stomach. He positioned his gun in such a way that it was pointing up the stairs. Maggie inched forward and leveled her gun in front of her. The barrel was about an inch from the end of the wall. If Wolfhagen shot at Marty, she’d swing around and take him out.
Running of the Bulls Page 28
