He gaped as Roger and Bwana left, returned with a large bag that clunked softly, opened it and started stripping and cleaning their hardware. ‘Starting a war somewhere?’
‘I always have a rifle in one hand and an olive branch in another,’ Bwana said piously as he posed with the Barrett and a white cloth in either hand.
‘I doubt you’d recognize an olive branch if it bit you on the ass,’ Broker retorted. ‘Seriously, though, where exactly are you guys going?’
‘Why, aren’t we going to watch the takedown?’ Roger asked innocently.
The gang apartment was in South Jamaica, Queens, sitting atop a boutique, facing a block of apartments and offices on the other side of the street. Stores lined either side of the street, selling everything that anyone would ever need, and some selling stuff they wouldn’t ever. The boutique was sandwiched between a Greek deli and a Laundromat. The Laundromat shared store space with a tax consultant and a storefront that proclaimed, ‘Come Clean.’
Broker had looked at street maps and building plans, had shaken his head in frustration, and had suggested they do a recce to get a feel. Hiring two family sedans, they had driven down the street from both ends, noting likely hides.
‘Isakson’s men and the cops will be doing the same thing. We don’t want to be tripping over them.’ Broker looked down in a cup of what passed for coffee, and spoke in the wind.
Chloe nodded as she tried on wigs in a store, Bear patiently watching her, and realized Broker couldn’t see her. ‘We aren’t going to engage unless they get ambushed.’ She wasn’t asking.
They waited for Bwana and Roger to chip in, a long wait as Roger navigated around a drunk, and Bwana perused the Greek deli, came out with a brown bag, and looked at the block across. ‘Probably best to be in one of those apartments or offices. The cops will have taken vantage points on rooftops, and the street will be crawling with them.’
‘We’ll need the space for the whole day; would be good if we could take the neighboring offices too,’ Roger added. If they had to open fire, the less innocents in the vicinity, the better.
Tony, recovered now, had rented two offices for three days, offices with windows that overlooked the street and had a good view of the gang apartment entrance, by the time they returned. He turned red when Chloe congratulated him on the fast work.
‘Go easy on the praise,’ Broker growled. ‘He’s bagged a date; those injuries came in handy. We wouldn’t want him to be full of himself.’
Bwana and Roger bivouacked in the office the night before the takedown, setting up the Barrett on a stand deep inside, lining the walls with double layers of mattresses that Tony brought in a truck. The mattresses didn’t get a second glance. Jamaica had seen everything and took everything in stride. The QDL suppressor knocked off a lot of sound, but not all of it; the mattresses would further deaden any noise.
The sun shone down brightly the day of the deal, shining equally on the cops and the gangs, indifferent to their affiliations. The first cops came, some of them as cab drivers, some of them street-side vendors, part of the ebb and flow on the street but obvious to their eyes. The way they held themselves, the loose yet tailored clothing giving them away.
‘You guys in position?’ Bwana asked.
Bear and Chloe were in a van sporting a courier company’s signage. Bear wondered idly if Tony had minions who churned out the vehicle guises. ‘We’re here, finding it hard to stay awake, since we have no role to play here.’
‘We go to the cavalry’s rescue if they’re in trouble. I’d like to see Isakson’s face if that happens.’ Bwana sighted down the Barrett one last time and then relaxed, settling for a long wait. Roger was a drunk lying in front of one of the shuttered stores, not in a position to join in their banter.
He could sense the tension creeping on the cops below as noon approached, could imagine the radio chatter, furtive checking and rechecking of weapons, Isakson and Rolando at some command absorbing the flow.
Noon came and went, and then another hour passed and then another half hour, and he could sense the frustration in the cops below, deflation and doubt in some of them. He could imagine orders being barked, some wiseass saying these are hoods, not known for their punctuality.
The ebb and flow in the street didn’t change; in the midst of the traffic a black Chevy Impala nosed its way from right to left, another decrepit car among the many others below. The Chevy made a return pass twenty minutes later, and interest rippled below, several eyes following it, trying to see through the darkened windows in the rear, paying attention to the two in the front. The two were alert, their eyes flicking constantly from side to side, mirrors to front, slowing fractionally in front of the boutique. Invisible currents connected the cops when the car made a third pass, and on its fourth pass, it nudged into a parking space as another car exited. Another gang car? Bwana mused.
The car stayed in position for a long time, the front two watching the street, their lips moving occasionally. The passenger got out, stood behind the door, ducked below, and said something to the driver when he was satisfied. The driver brought a phone to his mouth, said a few words briefly, heard the other person out, and nodded once at the passenger.
The rear doors split open, spilling two men, average build, one stocky, the other leaner, their hands close to their bodies. Stocky led the way to the apartment entrance, passenger in the middle, Lean in the back, who walked backward for some time, watching the street. The driver didn’t look at them, his attention on the street, ahead, behind and around him.
The three disappeared in the shadow of the entrance, forty-five minutes passed before the feet of Stocky appeared, then the rest of his body, a black trash bag in his left hand. The passenger and Lean had similar bags, all three hurrying to the Chevy. The driver opened the trunk, and as the first man threw his bag inside, the street exploded.
Cops ran to the car, guns drawn, shouting, wearing the ESU vests of the NYPD’s elite Emergency Services Unit, some sporting FBI jackets. Some of them broke away, entering the apartment after calling out. Other cops formed a second perimeter fifteen feet away, training their guns on the hoods. A third perimeter kept onlookers back. One of the hoods, the passenger, made a move to his waist, triggering a burst of firing in the air by the cops. His hand fell away, then skyward, his second hand joining it. The driver, sucking on a Colt shotgun thrust through his window, kept his hands motionless on the wheel.
The ESU team leader tore open the trash bags, riffled through them, and sporting a broad grin, waved a thumbs-up in the air. The cops from the apartment returned, pushing three cuffed hoods ahead of them; all of them were bundled in a police wagon.
By now the media had arrived, TV cameras and reporters surrounding the team leader, other less fortunate reporters interviewing onlookers.
Bwana stripped his rifle down and put it away, lowered the windows, and spent fifteen minutes scrubbing away all traces of his presence. He hit the street, turned swiftly away from the scrum, and made his way to the courier van.
Roger was already there in the rear and helped him stow away the rifle, and they headed out.
‘Hold it, guys.’ Broker’s voice came over Bear’s phone. ‘Pick me up first. We’re joining Isakson.’
Broker was in a café a block away, and their original plan was for them, leaving separately, to rendezvous back at the apartment.
Half an hour later, they were in a NYPD police van driven by a cop, Isakson and Rolando in the second row.