“I’ve got the recorded clips ready to substitute for the real footage when you get ready to breach,” Smith reported. “Just waiting for Handsome and Davis to enter the target’s penthouse,” which was not covered by the cameras at all. “Besides the man we assume is monitoring the cameras, I’ve only got two men on the first floor. No one is on the second club level, and I see two guards outside of the door to the target’s penthouse.”
The team on-site did the math. Including Jefferson, that made six confirmed Tangos. It was unknown whether or how many men were inside Jefferson’s apartment.
Inside the club, the man who escorted them entered a code into the elevator panel, then pressed the call button. Burke couldn’t see what digits he pressed. “I don’t do elevators, claustrophobic,” he said. “Where’s the stairs?”
“Get in the elevator, pussy,” the big man said.
“No, man, I got a serious and real aversion,” Burke insisted.
The man looked disgusted. “Fine,” he grunted, not wanting to expend any more energy on him. He led them to another door further down the wall. There he entered the code to unlock it and swung it open.
Burke saw the numbers he pressed this time. “Zero, four, three, zero,” Burke recited once they were in the stairwell with the door closed.
“Odd, they’ve got camera surveillance of the elevator but not the stairs,” Smith reported.
“Good thing for us,” Dupont replied.
As soon as the third-floor camera footage showed Davis and Burke going through the door into Jefferson’s apartment, Smith clicked away on his keyboard, replacing the live camera feed with the saved loop he’d recorded for each of the cameras.“They’re in and the cameras are playing my loop,” Smith transmitted.
“Roger that,” Rogers replied. “Team two, entering now.” He and Saxton ran the remainder of the distance to the back door.
“Your immediate twenty is vacant, Team Two,” Smith advised.
At the front door, Wilson slipped the lock-picking tools into the lock. “How’s it looking inside my location, Hound dog?”
“So far, clear, Taco. I’ll keep watch. Advise when you’re entering.”
Inside the penthouse, Burke came face to face with Jefferson. He was dressed in black satin pajama pants and, despite it being December, he wore no shirt. His chest was littered with gang tattoos, including ACAB in large script letters across his pectorals. Burke would agree with him that the cops on his payroll were bastards.
“This better be good, Davis,” Jefferson said. “I don’t like surprises, you know that.”
Davis pointed to Burke. “This is a gift. Not a surprise. Meet Agent Burke of the ATF.”
“Get in there, team!” Dupont transmitted. This was not part of the plan. Davis was compromising Burke.
“What the fuck?” Jefferson said.
Burke kept a neutral facial expression, playing it cool. He wasn’t sure what Davis was up to, but he had immediately planned that he’d shoot Davis first, as he was armed. In those satin pajama pants, Jefferson wasn’t hiding anything, least of all a weapon. He would grab him and use him as a shield, as certainly the two men in the hallway would burst in if they heard a gunshot.
Davis smiled. “You said you’d love to own a Fed. Well, he isn’t DEA, but he’s the next best thing with all the guns you’re trafficking.”
“Okay, maybe it’s not as bad as I thought,” Smith said. “Team Two, get that camera room under your control and neutralize either of those guards if you cross paths with them. Taco how long until you’re in?”
“Just picked it. Entering now. I see the entry is clear, where’s the location of the first-floor security?”
“Affirmative, one man is in the john, the other is in one of the private rooms smoking a blunt,” Smith replied.
Parked on the street, Dupont watched both sides of the club that he could see.
Rogers and Saxton had just rounded the bar. They went through the door at the back of it and penetrated the small hallway. The door to the security room was the second door on the left. They held position and waited for Taco to be within the building.
“Are you in position yet, Taco?” Rogers whispered into comms.
“Almost, making my way through the club,” Wilson replied.
Just as he approached the bathroom, the men’s room door swung open and the mountain who’d escorted Davis and Burke in came out, still zipping up his fly. Wilson didn’t hesitate. He rushed him and with his pistol in his hand, hit him in the solar plexus, which knocked the wind out of him momentarily, leaving him gasping for breath. Wilson followed up with a throat punch. He grabbed the man’s head and smashed it into the tiled wall behind him. The man went down.
Wilson dragged him back into the bathroom and secured his hands behind his back. “You didn’t wash your hands, gross,” he said to the unconscious man. “One Tango neutralized.” Then he crept back through the club, keeping his eye on the doorway that led into the private rooms where the other Tango was. “Coming into your hallway,” he whispered as he ducked behind the bar.
