He worked in Sudan, Libya, Iraq, and once in Guatemala on an antidrug assignment which did not go well.
After Guatemala, he went with private security companies. He was the leader of his current team, which consisted of Anastasia, an ex–Army Ranger called Harris, and a South African Special Forces brigade member turned mercenary called Williams.
Anastasia didn’t know if those were their real names, and he didn’t care. He knew something about Harris’s training and almost nothing about the South African’s. None of that bothered him. He considered both men about as expendable as paper plates.
Their first assignment on this particular job on this particular winter afternoon was pretty standard stuff. Find a location based on an address he’d been given. Survey the surrounding area. Attempt to find out who was at that address. Lay out attack options. And do it without attracting any attention.
Piece of cake.
But as he walked through the Red Hook neighborhood, Anastasia became increasingly concerned about being spotted. From the moment they parked their rental car, he had an uneasy feeling. He wasn’t worried about being attacked. Any of the locals who might attempt anything along those lines wouldn’t last ten seconds. All three men were armed with Beretta 9-mm automatics, and various other personal weapons. Harris, the Army Ranger, had a supercompact MP5K fitted with a fifteen-round magazine concealed under his winter coat. He also had a spare magazine in each pocket for a total of forty-five rounds, more than enough to shoot their way out of a problem.
Anastasia’s main worry was the lack of pedestrian traffic. They’d passed pockets of black guys near a bodega. And hanging out near a park. But there were almost no people walking on the streets they could blend in with. He had no idea that this section of Red Hook was so industrial.
He’d told Harris and Williams to pair up, and walk together. That would attract less attention than a group of three.
He split off and moved out ahead of them by about a block as he made his way to the location on Conover Street where the target was located. Anastasia walked with purpose, without hesitating or looking around or trying to find a street sign, a sure tip-off that he was a stranger to the area.
*
Beck walked with Manny and Demarco, north along Conover. He walked slowly and talked softly.
“So our friend Willie Reese spotted some boys who don’t look like they belong around here. Supposed to be coming our way.”
Beck described them and what they were wearing. Both Demarco and Manny were already looking ahead, trying to spot them.
“I don’t want to take them out. I want to see what they’re here for. It’d be best if we got behind them. They should be crossing onto Van Brunt around now. D, you head over to Van Brunt and hang out by the pharmacy or a little south and see if any of them pass you by. Then fall in behind and see if they keep heading toward our place.”
Demarco drifted left on Coffey Street, while Manny and Beck continued up Conover.
Beck said, “Manolito, let’s split up. You take the other side of the street. If they show up, let ’em pass between us. Then I’ll figure out what to do from there.”
Manny nodded.
Under his peacoat Manny wore his apron and work clothes. Beck watched him slip his Charter Arms Bulldog into his right coat pocket. If it came down to it, he knew the gun’s short four-inch barrel would mean Manny would have to get close to make sure he hit his target. Beck also knew that Manny wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.
The heat of the kill fairly radiated off Manny. He’d been seething for days.
Beck blinked, tensing up. If the men Reese had spotted were here to attack Beck’s bar, he knew it would get very bloody, very fast. They’d walk into shotgun blasts from Joey B and a steady stream of rifle fire from Ciro. And if they tried to escape from that, Beck knew they’d be running into Demarco and Manny, and himself.
But that didn’t mean Beck and his men would escape unharmed. The last thing Beck needed was gunfire and dead bodies. That would bring cops. And cops would mean endless trouble.
He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on finding out who these men were, and what they wanted.
52
Walter Pearce walked through the familiar doors of One Police Plaza. He’d been in the building enough times to know his way around. Other than promotion ceremonies, it wasn’t a place that any cop really wanted to be. One PP was the house of the bosses. And no cop in his right mind wanted to be around the brass. Not much good ever came from it.
He showed his identification, checked his gun, went through security, and got a visitor’s badge at the reception desk. He was four minutes early for his appointment, but as he turned from the desk, he noticed a young woman dressed in a conservative skirt, jacket, and white blouse waiting for him. A civilian.
She smiled and explained that the chief would be meeting him on the third floor.
Walter smiled back. They rode the elevator to the third floor and she escorted him to a small conference room.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
Walter could have used more coffee, but he was unaccustomed to being treated like a guest at One PP, so he declined.
She left him sitting in a small meeting room with space for a table and four chairs.
He patted his jacket pocket and pulled out the information he had on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare. He wondered how this was going to go. He told himself that he should stop worrying so much. This wasn’t his idea. He was just the messenger.
Bureau Chief Martin Waldron appeared suddenly at the doorway of the small room. An aide was right behind him, a young man in a brown suit who looked even younger than the woman who’d escorted him.
Chief Waldron had the look of a lifelong NYPD cop. He was stuffed into his dress white shirt and black tie, the shirt decorated with collar bars and a badge plate with all his decorations.