And then he saw what they were up to. They intended to drive the SUV into the lot. Why? What were they thinking?
Beck began worrying that Ciro and Joey B might start shooting as soon as they saw the SUV pull in, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were across the street in the parking lot behind a tall wrought-iron fence. Too far away to signal them.
*
Out in front of the bar, Manny Guzman watched a second SUV, a black Chevy Tahoe, turn onto Conover. He remained back in the doorway, hidden by a small slice of shadow. Waiting. Watching.
He agreed with Beck that killing any of these men would bring way too much heat down on them. But if it came down to it, he would kill as many of these bastards as he could, and die doing it before he let anybody hurt Beck, or the bar, or any of his brothers.
The Tahoe stopped on the other side of the street, right across from the bar. Manny nodded. So far so good. If Demarco could do what he had to.
Well, thought Manny, if anybody can, it’s Demarco Jones. If not, fuck it. What happens, happens.
*
Back by the empty lot, Beck realized it wasn’t quite as bad as he first thought. He saw what they were doing. It was actually pretty smart. Once they got the gate open wide enough for the SUV, the driver made a slow Y-turn and backed it into the lot so it ended up facing out toward Reed Street.
The driver rolled the big Chevy into the open space where the gate had been, halfway in the lot, halfway out on the sidewalk, effectively blocking most of the only way in or out of the empty lot.
*
Out on Conover, Manny watched the passenger door behind the driver ease open. One of the men in the SUV stepped out onto the street, leaned back in the SUV, and brought out a five-gallon polyethylene gas can which he placed on the cobblestone street. Then he leaned in and brought out another five-gallon poly can.
Once the gasoline cans were on the street, the man crouched down next to them. He was short, stocky, wearing dark clothes.
Manny watched as he looked at the bar for a moment, and then unscrewed the lids on both cans. He turned the lids over, revealing the spigots, and screwed them back on the cans. The rest of the crew got out of the Chevy and took cover behind the length of the big SUV.
They moved quietly. No slamming doors. No talking. Two positioned themselves behind the hood. Two behind the roof. One crouched at the back end of the SUV. The driver stayed in the vehicle.
So far, Beck had called it right.
They all looked at Beck’s building. It was dark and quiet. Either it was empty, or everyone inside was asleep with the lights off.
There was no movement anywhere on the desolate street. No sounds except a distant foghorn way out in New York Bay.
The arsonist stayed crouched down low, waiting, listening. And then he was ready. He slid one of the five-gallon containers around and grabbed it with his right hand, leaving the other for his left. He turned to say something to the men on the other side of the SUV.
Just before the attacker with the gasoline turned back to face the bar, Manny slipped out of his doorway and moved quickly for the cover of an old wooden utility pole. He reached the pole and stayed behind it, leaning his back against the rough wood. He took a deep breath, leaned out, and aimed his long-barrel thirty-eight at the red can on the arsonist’s left side.
His first shot missed the poly can by a quarter of an inch, and plowed into the side of the arsonist’s leg, just above the ankle. He went down. Manny fired again. This time his shot hit the polyethylene can on the left. The hot bullet didn’t ignite the gasoline, but the container exploded, and five gallons of gas, probably mixed with some sort of accelerant, splattered everywhere.
By the second shot, the men behind the SUV had seen Manny and began firing back.
They were Kolenka’s men. Seasoned. Calm. Shooting rapidly, but without panicking. Two were leaning flat on the hood of the Chevy, bracing their shooting arms, firing semiautomatic handguns slowly. A third held fire and watched, while the fourth fired a rifle somewhat blindly over the roof of the tall SUV. The fifth man crouched behind the back of the vehicle, fired two-shot bursts in Manny’s direction from another handgun.
Manny had twisted back behind the telephone pole, standing sideways. The pole just about covered him completely, but bullets zinged past him, wood chips from the pole flying around him. He couldn’t move. He was trapped. But he had just one more thing to do, and with the hail of bullets, it would be impossible not to get hit.
Shit, thought Manny. Come on, D. Get to work, man.
*
The gunfire over on Conover Street couldn’t have been timed better. The sound forced Stepanovich and his men to get moving.
Now Beck saw how many attackers had come. Six more men, including Stepanovich, piled out of the SUV, joining the two already outside the vehicle. They all started running into the empty lot, fanning out to get in position behind Beck’s building. Beck saw three with some sort of rifles. The rest seemed to be holding handguns.
Across the street Ciro had maintained iron discipline, following Beck’s orders even though the SUV had ended up in a place different from what they’d planned. Exactly one minute after the last man had exited the Suburban, Ciro stepped out from behind Olivia’s Porsche, walked to the wrought iron fence bordering the parking lot, and started methodically shooting rounds from his M-16 into the SUV. Joey B followed next to him and began pumping blasts of 12 gauge into the vehicle, aiming for the tires first, and then the windshield.
Ciro stood as if he were on a firing range with zero regard for the possibility of anybody shooting back. He had the barrel of the assault rifle between the iron bars of the fence, his aim rock steady. He fired shot after shot into the engine block, placing twelve bullets into an area no larger than a square foot.
Joey B obliterated the front tires and the windshield.
Within five seconds, the Chevy had become a useless wreck.