Demarco was supposed to head quickly in the opposite direction and get the Mercury which was parked over on Beard Street, meet Beck, and drive out of the neighborhood.
But there were no cops swooping in and taking out whatever was left of the Russians on Conover and the Bosnians in the empty lot.
He checked again after the Porsche. It was out of sight. Good. Manny, Ciro, and Joey would be safe. Beck wasn’t worried about Demarco. He was probably already climbing into the Mercury on Beard Street.
Beck could have turned around and hustled over to Van Brunt, where Demarco would find him, but no. No way. Not now. Not with these bastards and that bald maniac alive and able to come after them.
He went through a quick calculation. His men were safe. He had all the weapons he could carry. His Browning was registered. The Benelli legal. He could hear Phineas making the argument that his client had been forced out of his home, only to be ambushed, whereupon he had no alternative but to fight to save his life.
Beck smiled in the dark red glow that pulsed on the other side of his building. It would end here and now, one way or the other.
68
Beck kept moving toward the disabled Suburban blocking the entrance to the empty lot, watching Stepanovich and the others as best he could. They were midway in the dark empty lot, having spread out behind his building.
He saw Stepanovich pointing and ordering two of his men to go back to the Suburban and see who had shot the SUV to pieces. That left six, plus Stepanovich out in the lot.
Beck watched the two come running back toward him. He slipped forward, staying low and squeezed between the SUV and the open fence gate.
He carried the shotgun in his right hand, and moved toward the rear of the SUV. If he could take out these two, that would cut his enemies to seven, but he had to do it silently or he’d lose any advantage surprise might provide.
Beck stayed where he was, watching the two men slow down and approach him across the empty lot. As they came near, they split apart so they’d approach on either side of the SUV. Beck cursed. Now he would certainly have to shoot them.
They walked bent over, wary of becoming targets for whoever had shot up their SUV.
Beck knew he could get the one advancing toward him on his side, but it would be tough taking out the second one.
Suddenly, the first of Stepanovich’s men loomed out of the darkness only about three feet from where Beck crouched, his attention focused across the street trying to spot who’d shot up the SUV. He never saw the butt of the Benelli which rammed straight up into the underside of his chin. Both sides of his jaw shattered, three teeth cracked, and his head snapped back so fast that his top two vertebrae ruptured.
The sound attracted the second attacker. He spun toward Beck, aiming an assault rifle at him.
Beck saw the weapon out of his peripheral vision. No way he could flip the Benelli around and get off a shot. Maybe he could fire wild, make the shooter duck or flinch, and hit him with the second shot.
He tried to turn the Benelli so he could get a finger on the trigger. Too long, too long, the assault rifle pointed right at him, he was going to die.
And then out of nowhere the solid form of Ciro Baldassare flew between the SUV and the small opening in the gate.
The man aiming the rifle at Beck heard Ciro. He turned toward the sound as Ciro’s huge right fist smashed into his face, splattering his nose and cracking his right eye socket.
Ciro hit him so hard, the man’s head snapped back with such force, that Beck thought Ciro might have broken the man’s neck.
Jeezus, thought Beck. Ciro. Ciro saved my life.
Ciro stomped the side of the shooter’s head for good measure, ripped the rifle out of his inert hands, turned to Beck, and asked, “How many left?”
“Six, plus the leader. Stepanovich.”
Just then, sirens could be heard in the distance. Beck listened, but couldn’t tell if they were police or firemen.
“Ciro, what the fuck, man. What are you doing? You have to get out of here.”
“Saving your ass. Don’t worry, I dumped all my guns with Joey. He and Manny are getting rid of everything like we planned. I’ll meet ’em over by the warehouses.”
Beck and Ciro heard yelling out in the lot. Nobody had come out from Beck’s building, and now the sirens were getting louder. They seemed to be coming from every direction, both the high-pitched wail of fire trucks, and the deeper pitched sirens of police cars.
There was more yelling and movement out in the darkness in front of them. Ciro and Beck saw the shapes of men running toward them, trying to get out of the lot before the cops arrived.
Ciro laid the rifle on the ground near him and yelled at Beck, “Gimme the fucking shotgun. I’ll take these guys. Go after the leader.”
Beck tossed the Benelli to Ciro and yelled, “Don’t kill them unless you have to. Keep them pinned down for the cops, then dump the weapons, and get the hell out of here!”
Beck took off after Stepanovich.
Ciro went down on one knee and started blasting shots at the men running toward the gate. Then he picked up the rifle and started shooting with that.
He aimed shots high and low, alternating between the shogun and the rifle, moving right and left from behind the Suburban, varying the angles, trying to give the impression that more than one person was firing.
The Bosnians dropped to the ground, trapped in the open. They began to return fire, even though they had little idea where to shoot.
Wailing fire trucks began arriving over on Conover. The police sirens were closing in fast on the Reed Street side.
Beck angled toward the south side of the lot so he wouldn’t be seen and ran toward the middle of the field, trying to get behind Stepanovich, who was now running full blast, away from the sirens, heading toward the fence at the other end of the lot.