“No. You know how to do it. You make sure any losses are small.”
“I can do that. I can. But I need time. And if you let your maniac hit me with that hammer, how much do you think I’ll be able to work?”
Markov patted Crane on the cheek. “You can work with your right hand. You make me money in the past. You going to make me more. But you have to learn a lesson here, Alan. You let things get out of hand. I don’t know what is going on, but I know someone comes to Milstein and demands money. You think I should leave my money where it is? Where some criminals can try to extort it?”
“I’m not letting Milstein take one penny of your money. Nobody is going to extort money from your funds.”
Markov shook his head, looking at Crane like he was making a huge, unfortunate mistake.
Crane immediately backpedaled. “No, no. You’re right. I understand. You don’t want to be anywhere near this. I understand. I’m sorry. If I’m the reason for this trouble, I’m sorry. I went overboard with that woman. But I never thought…”
“That’s the problem, Alan. You don’t think. But after today, you will.”
Markov looked at his watch.
“This fucking criminal she sets on us is coming here to talk to you.” Markov checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Crane heard the elevator open, and thought it might be the man Markov was talking about, but it was Gregor’s men. Two of them. Markov watched them enter the apartment and motioned them over.
He turned back to Crane. “Listen to me. He comes here. I tell him there is no money in this for him, or this woman. Not a fucking dime. Not a penny. I tell him I never want to see him, or hear from him again. Or from the woman.”
Crane nodded.
Markov raised a finger. “I watch him. I see if he understands me. Then, I ask him who is behind him. I ask him questions. If he doesn’t answer me or if we think he is lying, then we tape him to the table and Gregor takes the hammer to him. And you watch and see what we do. Not just a hand. Gregor breaks as many bones as I need: hand, arm, knees, face. Every part of him until I learn who he is. Who is behind him?”
Crane swallowed and listened.
“Then, when I know everything, I have Gregor put a bullet through his head.” Markov put a fat finger on the top of Crane’s head pointing down. “Gregor has figured out to shoot down this way, so the bullet doesn’t come out of the head and make a mess. We chop him up and put him in garbage bags and take him out of here. And you, you clean up the mess, and you get me my money. And maybe, maybe if I see you have right attitude, I let you clean up with both hands.”
Crane nodded. This was a fucking nightmare. This had gone somewhere he couldn’t believe. Why had he had anything to do with Olivia Sanchez? He was beginning to wish he had never seen her.
And then the buzzer from the street pierced the silence.
17
As Beck pressed the buzzer for Crane’s apartment, he thought he saw a change in the fish-eye lens set into the panel, as if the camera were focusing on him. He expected a voice to ask his name or something, but he heard nothing other than an electronic click that released both the front door and the inside lobby door.
As he waited for the elevator, he slipped his Bucheimer sap into the back pocket of his black jeans, unbuttoned his shearling coat, rolled his neck.
Beck had been in a few of these loft apartments, so he wasn’t totally surprised that the elevator opened directly into the apartment rather than into a common hallway. That small bit of knowledge saved his life.
Because he expected to be entering directly into the loft apartment, Beck had his head up ready to see what was inside.
It took him less than two seconds to see everything:
The tall bald guy Beck had thought was a personal trainer, pointing a gun at him.
Behind the gunman, two others.
To his left, a large open kitchen, granite counters, gleaming appliances, bright white overhead accent lighting.
To his right, a living room/dining area. A man whose left arm was taped to the dining table, and the fat guy from the Mercedes splayed on a couch.
Beck saw all of it, but didn’t process any of it. Didn’t analyze. Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he realized the tall guy had positioned himself near the elevator so the gun would be pointed right at his face, terrorizing him, intimidating him. But the man had made two mistakes. First, Beck wasn’t at all intimidated. And second, he was way too close to Beck.
Beck went for the gun, fast. Springing forward, both hands rising up, left hand slapping the inside of the gunman’s right wrist, right hand grabbing the barrel of the automatic, lifting it, twisting it out of the shooter’s hand. Then he pivoted, slammed the back of his head into the gunman’s face, stunning him, pulling away, taking the gun with him.
Beck never stopped moving. He turned spinning into a crouch, bringing the gun up in a two-hand grip, finger on the trigger, pulling the trigger back past the safety pull, firing at the first body closing in on him.
Two shots. Fast. Deafening. The body coming at him flew back away from Beck.
Beck continued turning to find the third attacker, but he was too late. He slammed into Beck’s left side, knocking Beck off his feet, getting his arms around Beck, locking onto him.
Beck held onto the gun, a Glock, managed to twist to his right in midair, just before he landed. He hit the floor sideways, crashing down on the arm of his attacker. Beck heard a grunt, but the grip around him didn’t break.
The bald one was already back on his feet, his nose bleeding, a small cut just over his right eye. He had a weird grin on his face, as if he were both pleased and surprised that this had turned into a fight.
He ran three steps to where Beck was trapped on the floor and launched a fast sweeping sidekick at Beck’s hands.
The instep of his foot caught Beck’s wrist. The Glock flew across the floor, skidding and spinning toward the living room area of the loft.