Wesley was waiting. A darker-than-night shape near the water. He handed me the Uzi. A soft hiss as the rubber boat inflated. He pointed to a pair of duffel bags and a large tool chest with a handle on top. Max took the two duffels in one hand, the tool chest in the other. Wesley didn't seem surprised. We boarded the boat. Wesley sat in front, steering. Max and I alternated strokes with the paddles. The river's only about a quarter mile wide where we were working, with the island sitting in the middle. It didn't take long.
We beached the boat. Wesley set up a pair of tripods in the soft ground, pressing down hard to make sure they were firmly seated. He bolted a spotting scope on top of one, a rifle onto the other. No talking- sound carries over water. No smoking. He pointed to the sniperscope, pointed at me. Blew a sharp puff of air. I nodded. Wesley settled in behind his rifle, making himself at home. He swept the bridge with his scope, nodding in satisfaction. He pulled a bullet from his jacket pocket. Long, slender bullet. A soft snick as he chambered the slug. I was inside his mind. Target rifle. One target, one bullet.
Wesley sat behind his rifle, eyes somewhere else. Nothing to do but wait. A foghorn sounded far down the river. The Harbor Patrol had passed almost half an hour ago. They hadn't even swept the island with their searchlights.
I saw the line of humans moving. Walking the bridge. The spotting scope picked them out. Three up front, a man in the middle, three behind. I swung the scope to the Manhattan side. Four men, walking together. I blew a sharp puff of air, imitating Wesley. He settled in behind the scope, moving the barrel in tiny circles. A snake's tongue. Testing. Waiting. Fangs sheathed.
The two groups came together. The man who'd been in the middle from the Queens side stepped forward. One of the men from the Manhattan side detached himself. They walked on the outside of the bridge, safe from traffic. The two men met near the middle of the bridge, slightly to the Queens side. They stood with their backs to the girders. Then they switched places. I blew another puff at Wesley. "I saw it," he whispered. So low it might have been only inside my head.
I saw what Wesley saw.
The target's eyes were shielded by his hat. I zeroed in on the lower cheekbone- the bullet would travel up, climbing all the way till it met his brain. And blow it out his skull.
They were talking. I heard Wesley take a deep breath. Let it all out in a smooth stream. Felt him go coma-calm. So he could squeeze the trigger between heartbeats. The don's lips stopped moving. He cocked his head slightly. Listening to the underboss.
The don fell forward a microsecond before the earsplitting ccccrack! ripped my ears. The underboss ducked.
Wesley was on his feet, breaking down the tripod. Max grabbed my scope and tripod in one scoop. Wesley pointed to the Queens side- standing dark and quiet in the distance. No time to argue. We threw everything in the boat. The muscles in my back screamed trying to match Max's strokes. Sirens shrieked somewhere behind us. I knew Wesley would be working the spotlight in front of the boat, watching for the answer. The boat veered left toward my side, where Max's strokes would do most of the work. We ran aground. Wesley popped the release. The air hissed out of the boat as Max made the run to the car.
I took the wheel. Wesley and Max loaded the stuff into the trunk, climbed into the back seat. I pulled away smoothly, heading for the empty factory district of Long Island City.
"Thanks, Prof."
"It's been fun, but my piece is done," the little man said. Meaning he didn't want to stay along for the ride. I stopped within sight of the IRT. Held out my hand. He grasped it, let go. Opened the door and split. Never looked into the back seat.
I FOLLOWED Wesley's directions to an abandoned factory building off Meserole Street in Brooklyn, not far from the Queens border. Wesley got out, unbolted a heavy padlock. I drove the car inside. Pitch-dark. It even smelled empty.
Max reached into the trunk. Held the stuff up for Wesley to see. Wesley made a "put it down right there" gesture. "I won't be here tomorrow," he said to me.
The freight elevator was a bombed-out void. Wesley walked in the darkness like he could see. We followed the sounds he made. Found my hand on an iron railing. Staircase. Wesley walking ahead. Three flights. The top floor was only half there. No glass in the windows. Light from somewhere came through them. Boxes piled up, some covered with a tarp. Cans of food against one wall. Rats made their scratching escape noises.
I lit a smoke. So did Max.
Wesley sat on one of the boxes.
"No doubt in your mind?" I asked him.
"I hit him. With those bullets, I hit him anyplace, his head's in pieces."
"They'll go crazy looking for you."
"Crazy…you ever have a suicide dream, Burke?"
"What's a suicide dream?"
"Where you dream of killing yourself. You ever dream of killing yourself?"
"I did once."
"What happened?"
"I dreamed I was real depressed. Sad like there wasn't any reason to keep on. So I made a list. Of all the people I wanted to take with me. Figured I was gonna die anyway, I'd just start blasting everyone on the list. Sooner or later, one of them would get me. Save me the trouble."
"Did it work?"
"No." I felt crazy laughter bubble in me. "I got through the whole list. Then I didn't want to die anymore."
"My list is too long. Yours too?"
"Not anymore."
"You all settled up?"
I thought about Train. Julio. "Just about."
"What'd you use on that Mortay?"
"Use?"
"To off him."
It was like talking into a machine. But not a tape recorder. "A.38 Special. And I dropped a grenade on his face after he went down."
The machine's voice lightened. Wesley's laugh. "A fucking.38? A pistol? Why didn't you just throw rocks at him?"
"I got it done."
"He was supposed to be real good. Like Max here. You got him with a pistol, he must have been close."
"He was."
"Chump."
"I know. Now. Now's too late." For Belle.
"Anything I can do for you?"
"You mean…?"
"What I do. I'm almost done."
"Just Julio. And Train."
"So I was right. From the beginning. You were on his case."
"No I wasn't. Things changed. I learned something."
"Something about a kid?"
"Yeah."
"That soft spot- it's like a bull's-eye on your back."
"Nothing I can do."
"It's not your problem, right? Not your kid."
"I didn't want it like this. I wanted to be…something else."
"What?"
I dragged deep on my smoke, looked into the monster's eyes. "I wanted to be you," I told him.
"No you don't. I'm not afraid. Of anything. It's not worth it."
"Wesley, what do you know about Train? What made you think I was on his case?"
"The guy who hired me. I figured it had to be something like that. He knew your name."
And then he said the man's name. Danielle's father. The man with the special basement on Long Island.
I threw my cigarette on the floor. Ground it out.
The monster knew. "There are no good guys, Burke. You're a thief- go back to stealing."
I didn't like the sound of my voice. "Not just yet."
He read my thoughts. "He's on the house. Keep your list short. I'll meet him after Train's done. To get the rest of my money. I'll leave him where I meet him."