Tony doesn’t say anything. He never does.
“It’s a low-stakes job,” says Paul. “All the bosses need is to make a statement with a few good mooks and a lotta bullets—that’s us. Not like we got bright futures ahead of us or nothin’.”
Mike gives a rueful laugh. “What, Paulie, you don’t think I’m a model citizen? Look at me, I take a few more bullets for the family and I’ll have a pension, just you watch.”
“You take a few more bullets and the lead will be worth more than your pension,” Paul chuckles.
The boys rib each other, laughing. Even I crack a smile. Joking about it helps, because the reality of everyday life for us is pretty goddamn grim.
“Nah, if the capo cared that much, we’d have a lot more people out here to take on Cleaners,” says Mike.
“Bruno’s fought with ‘em before, and he’s here,” Paul says. “Besides, Bruno, you’ve got all that special-whatever training your crazy uncle gave you. You call the shots tonight, how ‘bout that?”
“Think I’d leave you high and dry?” I say, raising an eyebrow into the mirror. “Don’t bother thinking about the big men in the cushy chairs back home, we rely on each other while we’re out here. But don’t go saying stupid shit like that, either,” I add with a warning glance. “We’re soldiers. We’re all on equal ground.”
“One more block and I’m stopping,” Tony says, giving us a heads-up. I nod before I look back to the two men. I feel like I’m obligated to give some kind of pep talk. These are good men, but they know as well as I do when we’ve been given a shit hand.
“Should be a small crowd tonight betting on a few dogs. We’re coming in about ten minutes early, so I want us to be in there before the fuckers take the dogs out of their cages. Paul, you’ve got a pit bull, I don’t have to tell you to watch your shot.”
Paul nods with a hardened face. He’s got a special hatred for fights like these. There’s nothing about them that isn’t monstrous.
“Cleaners don’t have numbers on their side, but they’re vicious,” I say. “They don’t pull punches, and neither should you. We’ve all been to this junkyard before, so no surprises. Hit them hard and fast, don’t give them a second to organize. The gamblers are going to scatter, but unless one of them pulls a gun, let ‘em go—the more people hear about tonight, the better.” I glance between the two of them. “If I didn’t trust the two of you, I wouldn’t be bothering with this shit, alright? Let’s show these assholes who runs the Bronx.”
The men give me resolute nods just as we come to a stop on the outside of a fence with barbed wire running along the top. Tony turned the headlights off a while ago. All four of us climb out of the sedan, and Tony moves around to the trunk to take out a big, thick carpet.
As we make our way to the fence, Tony hands me the rug. I open my mouth to tell him we’d see him later, but he says, “Let me come with. Got a bad feeling about tonight.”
I’m surprised, but after a quick glance to Mike and Paul, I give Tony a curt nod. “Lock the car. You carrying?”
Tony pulls his jacket to the side to show off a pair of glocks strapped to his chest. I smile. Tony’s from the old country, like me. We don’t fuck around with business like this.
I take the lead, climbing the fence up to the wire. With a quick motion, I toss the thick rug over it and use that as padding to climb over. This isn’t exactly a high-security lot. They might as well have left out a welcome mat for anyone wanting to do what the Cleaners are doing tonight.
Once inside, the four of us start making our way through the shadows of the junkyard. Rain patters on crumpled, rusted metal all around us. The half-smashed, ruined cars and machines piled up all around us are like ridges of a mountain. I hear a rat scuttle away every thirty paces or so.
It doesn’t take long for us to start hearing voices. I glance back at my men to make sure everyone’s still good. I draw my weapon, and they do the same, triple-checking that they’re loaded and ready to go.
As we get closer to the sounds, it’s clear where the group is set up. There’s an encircled dirt clearing not far from the center of the junkyard that’s protected by a ring of stacked cars and warped metal. Perfect for things like this. Only a few ways out, but plenty of cover. You can’t hear anything going on in there from outside the junkyard.
I know, because I killed a man here a year ago. He was a loan shark who’d crossed the wrong people—I don’t regret it.
I look back to nod to Paul and Tony, gesturing for them to circle around to another entryway. There’s one almost directly across from the one I’m taking Mike toward. We should be able to see each other with no problem.
“What’s the signal?” Paul asks in a low whisper.
“You’ll know,” I say simply. Paul gives me a look, but he knows better than to question me. He nods, and the two of them disappear, hugging the shadow of a semi-truck as they slide around to their position.
Me and Mike make it to a small outcropping made of what looks like the remains of a Volvo and a stack of tires, where we crouch down. Through the smashed-out window, we have a clear sight of the scene.
There’s a makeshift ring set up in the middle of the clearing, set up from rebar, heavy metal barrels, and a few other odds and ends the ringleaders must have thrown together. A few people are leaning on the edges, beers in hand, while others crowd around a man standing on top of a small platform, taking bets. Next to him is a big burly guy with a scar across his face, bulging arms crossed.
That’s one guard. I spot a second one walk by the opening between two stacks of metal, a third and a fourth by the ring. I always assume there’s at least one more that I can’t see.
“Something look off to you, Mike?” I murmur, narrowing my eyes at the scene.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Where’s the dogs?”
I notice the man taking bets checking his watch periodically. His brow is knit, and he’s looking red-faced. He shouts at the guard every now and then, who looks unmoved.
“Must be running late,” I say. “All the better. No risk of hurting anyone who doesn’t have it coming.” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the little glass bottle I stashed in there on the ride over.
It’s filled with alcohol and a little rag. The Americans call it a Molotov cocktail.
“That’s your signal, huh?” Mike says through a smirk.
“Told you I was going in hot,” I say with a wink before I see the patrol disappear behind the cars again and dart to the edge of the entrance. Crouching low, Mike follows behind me. I glance around the corner long enough to see Paul’s face in the shadows on the other side.
I take out a lighter and set the tip of my Molotov ablaze. I give myself a half-second to take aim at the edge of the ring where two of the guards are standing, and I hurl it.