He smirked as they fell silent. ‘Still doubting me? Here’s another. He went to that café only when there was a bust coming up.’
‘That still isn’t conclusive, Broker,’ Chloe protested, though with less steam.
‘Agreed, and Isakson will want to have everything covered before he can make a move, all the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed and all that. Now I’m speculating here, but I think the café was either a meeting place or some kind of dead drop. For all we know he could have used the disposable cup to write a message that got picked up later.
‘I’m more inclined to think it was a dead drop,’ Broker said after a pause.
Bear caught on. ‘Because if he had met anyone, then Isakson would have known. He had all these guys shadowed for a long while.’
‘So, we check out the café and ask them if they remember his habits? If he was a regular over three years, chances are he’ll be remembered,’ Roger added.
‘Exactement,’ Broker beamed.
He brought up a map of the city and pointed out the café’s address. ‘Just off Hell’s Kitchen. I have no idea if that’s significant, but let’s assume it’s not and was on his way home. He’s renting in the Upper West Side and drives a rather noticeable Camaro, purple in color with afterburners and vanity plates.’ He recited the number.
‘The café might, just might, have CCTV cameras inside and outside,’ Bwana mused.
‘Yeah. I knew my brains would eventually rub off on you guys.’
He produced postcard-sized photographs of Wheat, different angles, and handed them over to Bwana, who passed them onward.
They drew straws on who would go to the café, and it fell to Bwana and Roger.
They took the same Escalade again, which now featured new number plates and sporty white streaks running down the doors on both sides. Makes it a different car, Broker had commented when he tossed the keys to them.
They set out in the evening, Batman time, bright light and golden hue in the city, and finally their luck ran out on Ninth Avenue, the law of averages working for the gang.
At the Garment District, the traffic had slowed due to a bottleneck created by a police cruiser stopping another car, lanes narrowing to two, their ride in the outer lane. They passed the slower-moving vehicles on the left, Bwana rolling down the window on the passenger side to get a better look at the offending vehicle.
They passed a rusted brown Ford, its windows down, driver and passenger nodding their heads as they talked with each other. Roger overtook them slowly, and it was the sudden double take of the driver at Bwana that registered on him through the corner of his eye. He raised the tinted window and tracked them through the mirror, saw the passenger pointing at them, the driver slapping his hand down, talking furiously.
The Ford slipped in their lane, a car behind, and matched their pace.
‘Rog,’ Bwana warned him, Roger needing no warning. He had noted Bwana’s stillness and had caught the car in his mirror.
‘Nix the café. Let’s give them a tour of the city and see if they have any more friends.’
He swung left at the next set of lights and headed to West End Avenue, and the wheels behind followed them, making no effort at concealing themselves. Half an hour of weaving in and out of traffic, sudden turns and using trucks and buses as cover, luck was still evading them.
‘They’ve been on the phone,’ Bwana said, pulling out his phone and donning his headset and mic.
‘Maybe they’ve ordered pizza.’
Bwana punched a number. ‘Broker?’
Broker responded immediately, ‘What’s up?’ and listened without interruption. They could hear him punching keys, bringing their trackers up on a real-time map.
‘You need backup?’
‘Nope,’ drawled Bwana, ‘we’ll see what happens, but you just might want to leave that place and find other digs.’
Broker was silent, knowing what Bwana meant. If they were captured, the gang could find out where they were holed up.
‘We’ll be out in half an hour. I’ll get Rolando to get a couple of cruisers to run interference, but you guys… give them the slip and get away. If they get more hitters, you’ll be in a tough place.’
Roger nodded, accelerated, looked in his mirror, and saw the Ford had disappeared. It appeared in the corner of his eye and overtook them slowly. The hitter closest to them was staring at them, his fingers made into a gun aimed at them.
Roger looked back in his mirror — a silver car had slipped behind them, its driver boring holes at them through the darkened glass of the Escalade.
There was one passenger up front, and another in the rear, both of them armed, automatic rifles visible through the windshield. These were harder looking men with short hair, and even in the distance, through the traffic, Roger could make that aura.
‘These the A-team?’ Bwana ventured.
‘Possible. Certainly seem better than the military dropouts we’ve come across so far.’ He opened the glove compartment and tossed a cap and gloves to Bwana. The black balaclava cap was tight on Bwana’s head, the gloves snugly fitting. He supported the wheel as Roger donned his, and they bumped fists.
‘Evade first, action a last resort,’ Bwana commented, and Roger nodded.
The Ford slipped ahead of them, boxing them in, but he ignored it. A box worked only if it covered all sides and you respected them, and when he swerved in an alley, the car ahead was left with its occupants looking back at them.
The silver Nissan was a different proposition, handled by an experienced getaway driver. He followed them through all their tricks and turns, a determined wasp up their tail.
On a narrow street temporarily empty of any traffic, its windows rolled down, a hitter loosed off a few controlled shots aimed at their tires, all of them missing.
Roger headed back to traffic-heavy streets and noted the way the hitters concealed their weapons when they passed close to other traffic. Professionals. Don’t want to invite unnecessary attention.
He joined West End Avenue, glanced sideways, and saw Bwana taking another gun, its steel frame and barrel glinting dully in his lap.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asked, keeping an eye on his mirror.
Bwana nodded, checked the magazine, and slipped it in his shoulder holster.
Roger drew on, passing several traffic lights, slowing at each of them, the Nissan closing the distance whenever Roger decelerated.
Their ride was the fifth vehicle from the next red light, and he inched forward as the cars ahead wheeled off at green. Bwana waited for amber, ignoring the honking from the long line of vehicles behind him, and just when it turned red, he floored it.
Horses lunged forward under the bonnet, surging their car ahead, raising another chorus of honking as vehicles from the sides came to a sudden stop furiously. He dropped speed once the junction was crossed, and in the distance he saw the Nissan move to the head of the line at the light behind.
Traffic flowed around them, ignoring their slow amble, and then six cars behind, he saw the flash of silver.
Timing was everything now.
In the distance he saw the next set of lights, about five minutes away, and six cars behind, the Nissan. He steered sedately, scanning the cars behind him, a white van and a people carrier behind it visible in their immediate wake. They followed him for a while, impatiently wheeled out and overtook him, and others slipped in their place. The flash of silver was now four cars closer.