He glanced around at the others arrayed on the two benches. Everyone but Doc and Jean-Pierre, who were in the truck’s cab. Alastair had his Klapper autogun partially disassembled; as he put it back together again, Gaby watched in grim fascination. She held a tarnished bolt-action rifle; it looked incongruously big and old in her hands. There were wooden cabinets bolted to the truck walls above their heads; Harris had already seen the weapons racked inside them, had been given more firepower than he’d ever carried before. This was a primeval SWAT van.
Joseph, beside him, looked gloomier than ever. Harris nudged him with his knee. “Hey. What’s eating you?”
“You and Gabriela should not be here.”
“Tell me about it. What about you?”
“I am hard to hurt.”
“You stand in front, then.”
“I will.”
“I was joking.”
They all slid a few inches toward the cab as the truck slowed and stopped. The lightbulb against the van roof went dark.
A moment later, Doc pulled open the back doors of the truck. Atypically, he wore black clothes and his hair was tucked up under a black felt cap with earflaps; it looked hot. “Out, and quiet,” he said.
They disembarked into the deep shadow cast by the monstrous skyscrapers of Morcymeath. Though a few of the buildings had windows lit, at this hour most of Neckerdam’s businesses were closed for the night, and Doc had chosen a dark side street.
Two other trucks were parked behind Doc’s. Harris saw people climbing out their rear doors. They seemed young but quietly professional, perhaps a dozen men and half a dozen women, all clad in uniforms made black by the night.
Doc waved one over. The burly, bearded man who approached was better dressed than the others; in addition to the uniform trousers, tunic, boots and holster belt, this man had elaborate gold trim on the tunic and a hip-length cloak. He saluted Doc—at least Harris assumed it was a salute; the man held his open palm on his breast for a moment as though he were listening to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Doc returned the salute. “Good to work with you again, Lieutenant Athelstane,” he said. He gestured at the hulk of a building down the block and across the intersecting street. “Position your men on the south, north, and west sides; my associates will be on the east. There’s the chance that this is a legitimate business, so be cautious. But I think it’s more likely this will be similar to any glitter-bright distillery raid.”
“Meaning they’ll fight like trapped rats.”
Doc smiled sourly. “Rats with autoguns. You’re to wait for my signal, but use your discretion. If you hear shouts or gunfire, don’t bother to wait. Dismissed.” They traded salutes, and Athelstane turned to rejoin his troops.
As the lieutenant led his people away into the darkness, the others clustered around Doc. Jean-Pierre was not in his usual elegant dress; he wore baggy workman’s clothes and a cloth cap.
Doc said, “We have to assume the doors are watched. Noriko, you and I will creep up beside the front door and wait for Jean-Pierre. Alastair, I want you and your Klapper on the other side of the street on the north corner for fire support.” He frowned at Harris. “You’re not carrying a long arm.”
“I’ve never fired a rifle. I took a couple of revolvers from the truck, on top of my usual.” Harris patted his coat pockets, felt the reassuring weight of the weapons and ammunition they held.
“You’ll need to be close, then. Like Alastair, but south corner. But you won’t be entering; stay at that position and keep any gunmen from leaving the building.”
“Sure.”
Doc looked at Gaby. There was nothing but joyless resolve in her expression. “Jean-Pierre, how is she with that?”
“Straight and true.”
“Gaby and Joseph, stay here with the truck. You’re our final line of reinforcement on this flank. Don’t act unless you have to. Any questions?”
There were none. Doc nodded at the rest of them, then he and Noriko melted away into the shadows.
Harris looked at Alastair. The doctor gestured for him to wait; then, after several seconds, pointed at the wall behind Harris. Harris moved there and walked in the deep shadow beside the wall, while Alastair matched him beside the building across the street.
Harris’ heart pounded. Prefight jitters again. He concentrated on his breathing, tried to make it slow and even.
In a minute, because of Gaby’s damned insistence that she come along, he might have to shoot somebody.
Kill somebody.
He reached the corner of the building, the closest approach to the cargo house, and stopped there within its shadow.
A few feet ahead, cars were parked along the sidewalk. Beyond them was the broad four-lane street, and beyond that was the combined warehouse and office he’d seen before. There were no cars parked in front of the office. Traffic was not heavy, but the cars that did pass were moving fast.
Across the side street to his right, Alastair had set up just short of the corner of his building. The doctor’s attention was fixed on the front of the building they would soon be assaulting.
He took another look at the building, evaluating it in terms of what Doc planned for them to do. In the middle of the building face there was an inset a dozen feet deep; there, the steps of a stoop rose half a dozen feet to the heavy, round-topped wooden door that seemed to be the place’s main entrance. There were shuttered windows above the entrance, and Harris could see another window on the right wall of the inset; if there was yet another window on the left wall of the inset, Alastair would be able to see it. Harris saw no street-level stairwells leading down to a basement entrance.
Doc appeared on the stoop as if by magic. He stood to the left of the door, back flat against the wall. Harris could see only his face—in profile, turned toward the door—and his left hand. Doc gestured, and Noriko appeared almost as suddenly, climbing up over the right concrete banister of the stoop. They flanked the door and froze into immobility.
From his pockets, Harris drew out the two pistols he’d been given in the truck. They were both bigger than the one he’d been carrying, the one he still wore just over his kidney. Instead of having swing-out cylinders, they were break-loaders, long-barrelled weapons, comfortingly heavy. He broke each one open to make sure it was loaded.
Jean-Pierre, carrying some sort of clipboard and a package wrapped in brown paper, breezed past him with a wink. He had copper-red hair and a bristly beard to match, courtesy of Harris and Siobhan Damvert’s makeup case. “You’ll do fine,” he whispered.
Jean-Pierre dodged traffic to cross the street, then trotted up the stoop of the office building and knocked loudly.
There was no immediate response. Harris saw him stand there, slouching, the bill of his cap drawn low, as relaxed and indifferent as though he weren’t flanked by two people carrying dangerous weapons.
Harris saw a little rectangle of light appear in the doorway at about face-level. A small panel, like Harris had seen in movies about speakeasies. A face appeared in the opening.
Cars roared by and Harris couldn’t hear any of Jean-Pierre’s words. He could see Jean-Pierre offering the package, gesturing with the clipboard, shaking his head.
The little panel closed. Jean-Pierre froze.
Doc swung around and put his fist through the panel. Harris heard a crack of wood. Doc jammed his arm in the hole, almost to the shoulder, then pulled. He yanked the man’s head through the hole, splintering wood above and below. The man squealed, harsh and loud as an angry wildcat.