I lean forward. “Did you imagine it might go poorly?”
“No. But you know how you Italians can be—a little impulsive and unpredictable.”
“Perhaps. But I also know how you Russians can be—a little too stoic for your own good. Not to mention glacial in their decision-making.”
“I prefer to think of it as being prudent.” He stands. “Come. And don’t you even think about taking out a card.”
By the time we settle up the bill, there’s a recognition, an understanding, that two men who’ve been circling the same target from opposite sides of the world are finally in one another’s orbit.
And that we’re both within striking distance of getting revenge.
We walk out into the late spring chill. East 52nd Street is quiet after the lunch rush, and traffic is thinning. My car is already atthe curb, my driver behind the wheel. Max nods toward a black sedan three spots back.
“There is my ride,” he says.
He steps over to me and extends his hand. I take it.
“This evening,” he says. “Six o’clock. I will be in touch. I am looking forward to working with you, Gabriel.”
“Likewise, Max.”
He releases my grip. “Never thought I would say such a thing about a Camorra boss, but I suppose these are strange times.”
“Strange times, indeed. And likely momentous ones.”
He considers that for a moment, then nods, as if agreeing. With that, he turns toward his car.
I hear the roar of the engine before I see the vehicle.
It’s a specific pitch accelerating hard. I turn to see a black SUV barreling down the street in the wrong direction.
My hand is in my jacket before the thought catches up.
The SUV tears toward us, coming from Park Avenue. No plates, tinted windows. The passenger-side window is down. And in the half second it takes my brain to register the muzzle flash, I’m already diving, my arms slamming into the pavement hard enough to tear my jacket.
“Max!” I shout.
The first shot catches him in the back. Three more follow, the sound of gunfire swallowed by the city noise. Max is spunaround from the momentum, and he staggers forward. I can see the confusion on his face—not pain, just incomprehension.
He takes one more unstable step forward before his knees buckle.
I draw.
I level my gun and take aim, just as the SUV comes to a stop thirty feet away.
Everything slows down. I can see the driver, a man with a shaved head and long beard, wearing sunglasses. And I can make out the gunman—young, dark curly hair, with steady, gloved hands.
Two professionals.
One of them with his gun raised and pointing in my direction.
I fire twice.Bang, bang.
The first round punches through the open window and catches the shooter in the chest. The second gets him in the throat. He jerks back, then slumps sidesways, the rifle falling out of his hands and landing in the street.
I can’t see the driver’s eyes. But I can make out his brow crinkling in surprise as he realizes what just happened. Surprise shifts to panic, and he floors the accelerator.
I fire one more shot. That’s all I need. The windshield breaks into a spiderweb of cracks, and the SUV swerves hard left, jumps the curb and plows into a delivery van. The impact makes a metallic, wrenching sound that cuts through the air like the atmosphere is being split open.
