“And I’ll keep on watching the house,” Three says. “Probably won’t take him long to be alerted to what’s happening—a few minutes, at most, but it should be enough time for you to get Morgan out. If he leaves, I’ll warn you he’s on his way. Lexie’s going to try to stay behind… chances are, if you’re hitting his club, he’s not going to be worried about her… so she’ll grab the kid and meet me outside once he’s gone, and then we’ll all meet up.”
Once again, the others mumble in agreement.
It’s a nice little plan, barring nothing goes wrong, but that’s the problem with plans like this: something always does. People don’t act like you expect them to, things don’t happen the way you hope, and all it takes is one little hiccup before nobody fucking knows who’s doing what anymore.
“All right, let’s do this,” Three says, standing up, the rest of the guys joining him on their feet. They say their goodbyes, hyping themselves up, nothing short of fucking chest-bumps as they go separate directions, ready to get this all started.
Sighing, I shove up off of the couch, getting to my feet, and stroll out of the living room behind them.
I leave this shit to them… the planning. They’re good at it, at orchestrating schemes, timing shit to work to our advantage. It doesn’t mean I’m not in charge, though, and they know it. They still yield to me at every turn. All I have to say is ‘no’ and it’ll come to a screeching halt.
I don’t say a word.
Not now. Not yet.
I’ve got a bad feeling about it all, though.
Something’s not right.
But I sure as fuck don’t have a better idea, so I’ll go with theirs until we hit a roadblock, and then I’ll do what I’m best at doing—making shit up.
“You want me to drive your car, boss?” Five asks.
I hesitate, pulling out my keys, before tossing them to him. Why not?
I climb in the passenger seat, relaxing back, as we head south out of Queens, down into Brooklyn, making our way to Brighton Beach. We branch out different directions when we reach the area, Three making his way toward Aristov’s house near the shoreline while the rest of us head to Limerence.
It’s dark out, nighttime falling by the time we reach the club. We pull in down the block, parking as close as we can get, as the car carrying the rest of the guys parks across the street.
Five cuts the engine as I glance at the clock.
7:21 p.m.
Thirty-nine minutes to go.
Five glances at me. “You think this is going to work?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it.”
Five might be the most cynical guy on my crew. Highly suspicious. He listens to his gut on everything, but the problem with his gut is it’s all twisted up, making him a paranoid son of a bitch. I appreciate that about him, though. He won’t sugarcoat or bullshit.
“It could work,” I say. “Probably won’t, though.”
He frowns. “I don’t think so, either.”
“You got any other ideas?”
“None that won’t get half of us killed.”
“Same here.”
“Might come to that,” he says. “Only option might be guns blazing, whole shebang, a lot of people dead.”
“I won’t let it,” I say, reaching into my pocket, pulling out my tin. Empty. Damnit. Still haven’t gotten around to rolling any joints. “I won’t let this take you guys down. It’s my fight, not yours.”
“Bullshit,” Five says, cutting his eyes my way as he pulls out a small bag of weed and a glass bowl, offering it to me. “No offense, but seriously... that’s bullshit.”
I take his weed, because fuck it... I need the relief.
“Before you came along, we were castoffs,” he continues as I pack the bowl and snatch up a lighter from the center console, inhaling the smoke when I light it. “Me? Not enough Italian blood for the Italians, yet too goddamn Italian for everyone else. And Declan, nobody would have a damn thing to do with a pretty rich boy from Midtown who wanted to do this for the thrill. We’re the fucking Island of Misfit Toys. So I think I can speak for the rest of the guys, too, when I say your fight is our fight. You gave us a chance to prove ourselves. We’re not going to punk out now when you need us for something. That would just prove everyone right who said we were worthless.”
I pass the bowl back to him, saying nothing, staring straight ahead at the club. There’s nobody coming or going, I notice.
I glance at the clock.
7:33 p.m.
Twenty-seven minutes to go.
Nothing yet from Three, either.
Bad, bad feeling...
I watch in silence for a few more minutes, as Five and I pass the weed back and forth. The haze fills the car, surrounding us both, time steadily passing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
7:45 p.m.
Fifteen minutes to go.
Nothing.
“You ever see Return of the Jedi, Five?”
“No.”
His answer is unapologetic. Turning my head, I look at him through the darkness that shrouds the car, wondering what kind of monsters I’ve befriended if he’s never seen Star Wars.
“If you survive tonight,” I say, “we’re going to have to do something about that.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” he says. “Any particular reason you’re bringing it up right now?”
“Because, as Admiral Ackbar so nicely put it, it’s a trap!”
Five cuts his eyes at me as I pull out my phone, making sure the son of a bitch is still on since it hasn’t rang. “You think we’re walking into a trap?”
“I sat out here the other night, watching this place, and in the span of thirty minutes I counted no less than a dozen people in and out. Tonight? Not a single soul.”
“Could it be they’re all at Aristov’s?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But if that’s the case, there’s no way Scarlet’s here. He’s not leaving her unguarded.”
“So either she’s not inside anymore or...”
“It’s a trap,” I say, calling Three’s number.
He picks up on the second ring. “Yeah, boss?”
“Anything happening over there?”
“Seems pretty quiet,” Three says. “A few cars, a few lights, but otherwise, nothing unusual.”
“She hasn’t signaled you yet?”
“No,” he says. “I’m guessing the kid’s not inside.”
Or else it’s another trap...
“Hold your position,” I tell him. “Don’t go into that house, Three. That’s an order. You got me?”
“Uh, sure,” he says. “You think something’s wrong?”
“I know something’s wrong,” I say. “Were you aware Five here hasn’t watched Star Wars?”
“What?”
“Seriously, I can’t wrap my head around it, so I’m going to need a few minutes. Stay where you are, and call me if anything changes.”
I hang up, tapping my phone against my cheek a few times, as if that’ll help me think. Plan B. Plan C. Plan D. I’m quickly sliding my way right down to X-Y-Z, but only one idea is springing to mind.
Well, one idea that doesn’t involve a grenade. Still haven’t taken that off the table.
“When Han Solo rescued Princess Leia from the Death Star, you know how he managed it?”
“This sounds like it might contain movie spoilers.”
I laugh under my breath. Smart ass. “He dressed up like the enemy. He put on a stormtrooper uniform and waltzed his ass on through, undetected.”
“So, what, we need to become Russian? Not sure how that’s going to work...”
“No, we just need to not be who they’re expecting,” I say. “We need uniforms.”
I dial another number, waiting as it rings. And rings. And rings. I think maybe he’s not going to answer, but finally, he picks up, his voice hesitant. “Gambini?”