“Sorry.” What the hell else could I say?
Brison swung his gun back at the closed door of the elevator, and I followed his eyes to the line of floor numbers above it. The five was lit up. Then the four.
“It’s Carmine Zambratta,” I said quickly, still out of breath.
“I know.”
“He shot O’Shea.”
I could tell from Brison’s face he knew that, too. Or at least was assuming it. “Is he still alive?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”
Brison swallowed hard, digesting the news like the bitter pill it was. But that’s all he had time for. Otherwise both of us would end up just like O’Shea.
“Get the hell behind the counter!” he yelled at me. “Hurry! Stay down!”
I dashed behind the doorman’s desk – which looked more like a counter you’d see at an airline gate – while wondering how Brison had known Zambratta was in the elevator or that it was Zambratta at all.
That’s when I saw the closed-circuit monitor with a split screen on the wall right above me. Brison had obviously checked it when I had hit the panic button. He also must have told the doorman to skedaddle out of there. And call for help?
I stared at the monitor, my eyes bouncing back and forth like a game of Pong. On one side was the revolving door of the front entrance. On the other was the inside shot of the elevator.
And there he was in black and white. Grainy and fuzzy, too. Not to mention scary as shit.
The Zamboni.
For sure Brison had recognized him right away. How could he not? The guy was the poster boy for mob enforcers. A celebrity, practically. He killed people and got away with it. Probably have his own show on cable soon.
I could see the gun with the suppressor in his meaty hand, his huge shoulders pressed tight against the side of the elevator wall. Carmine Zambratta was coming for me, and he wanted me dead. Very badly.
Yet he couldn’t have looked more relaxed and in control. How freakin’ screwed up was that?
“What’s he doing? Is he still on the side of the elevator?” asked Brison, his voice clipped. His throat must have been dry as dirt. If he was trying to sound calm, it wasn’t working – and I was the last person on earth who could blame him for some nerves and high anxiety.
Crouched low and out of sight, I could still see the monitor perfectly. From where Brison was positioned, he couldn’t. Not at all.
I would have to be his eyes.
Don’t blink, Nick.
“YES,” I TOLD BRISON, quickly wiping away the sweat dripping from my forehead. Zambratta was still hugging the side of the elevator. He hadn’t moved. What was he up to?
And where the hell was the elevator?
The damn thing should’ve reached the lobby by now, right? And then -
DING!
Right on cue. The elevator landed, the sound of the high-pitched bell cutting through the silence of the lobby. Here we go…
I braced myself, my eyes glued to the closed-circuit monitor. No need to look at Brison now.
“He’s raising his gun!” I called out.
I listened to the squeak of Brison’s shoes against the white marble floor of the lobby as he shifted his stance. I was waiting for the next sound – the elevator door opening.
It didn’t come!
Brison called again, “What’s he doing?”
I squinted at the monitor. I couldn’t tell at first – the image was flickering all over. When it finally steadied I could see Zambratta’s hand against the panel of buttons inside the elevator.
“He must be holding the door closed,” I said. “He’s got his – oh, shit!”
“What? What’s the matter now?”
It happened so fast.
Zambratta shot the lens of the security camera, the muffled sound of the smashing glass and metal followed by the monitor in front of me – half of it, at least – going black as night.
I poked my head up above the counter to tell Brison I was no longer his eyes.
“STAY DOWN!” he yelled at me as he dashed for the couch on the opposite wall. He ducked low behind the armrest, his gun and eyes never leaving the door of the elevator.
I dropped below the counter, holding my breath. The showdown had turned into a stalemate. Something – or someone – had to give. So what did it come down to? Who was the better shot?
Then I heard it. Off in the distance, the sound of the cavalry. Police sirens. Beautiful sirens. Brison must have called for backup. Or maybe it was the doorman, who’d dialed 911 out on the street. Either way…
What are you going to do now, Zamboni?
Little did I know, he’d already done it.
Chapter 83
WOULD ZAMBRATTA TRY to shoot his way out of here?
Would he take the elevator back up to another floor, maybe even grab a hostage from one of the apartments? That wouldn’t be very hard to do.
I wondered if he could hear the approaching sirens. Even if he couldn’t, he had to know that staying put in the elevator wasn’t an option. It was his move, but he had to do something.
Clearly, Brison was on the same page.
He shouted at the closed door of the elevator, “You can’t stay in there, Zambratta! Come out, hands high.”
It was wishful thinking, I guess, but I couldn’t blame Brison for trying.
“You gave us too much time,” Brison continued, his voice growing more confident. “We’ve got men on every floor now. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.
I’d been so wrapped up in the moment that I almost didn’t see it. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something on the monitor above me. It was the half screen that still had a picture – the revolving door at the entrance to the building.
The door was moving.
At first I thought it was Brison’s backup pushing their way in. The cavalry had arrived!
But, no – I could see only one person and he wasn’t in uniform. He was in a business suit.
Oh, shit! It’s someone who lives in the building, someone coming home. This is bad!
“Go back outside!” I was about to yell.
Then I changed my mind.
The man spinning through the revolving door didn’t live in the building, but I recognized him.
“Brison!” I shouted instead, jumping up from the counter. “Behind you!”
It was too late, though.
It was Brison who had given Zambratta too much time. The killer had called in his own cavalry – his own backup.
How could I ever forget this man? It was the cold-blooded killer from Lombardo’s Steakhouse.
I watched in horror as he calmly pumped two bullets into Brison. Jesus, he was good with that gun of his.
To my left I could hear the elevator door finally opening. Zambratta strolled out.
“About time,” he muttered to his cohort.
The sirens in the background were getting closer, but they weren’t close enough as Zambratta walked right up to me.
“Police protection. Highly overrated, if you ask me,” he said, raising his gun to my face.
I SLOWLY OPENED my eyes, kind of glad that I still had eyes to open. My lashes flickered like a silent movie. Everything was blurry. Even the voices around me seemed blurry, if that made any sense.
Where was I? Well, at least I was somewhere.
My head was killing me, and as I slowly reached up and felt along my hairline, I found a lump the size of a tennis ball. I guess I’d been walloped by the butt of Zambratta’s gun.
“Look who’s up,” someone said. “It’s Sleepin’ Beauty.”
All at once everything came into focus. I saw exactly where I was. I saw whom I was with. And I wished that I hadn’t seen any of it.
I was riding in the back of a stretch limousine, somewhere outside the city, judging from the speed of the vehicle. To make things a little worse, the car reeked of cigar smoke and gaudy aftershave.