Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [33]
“If they go, you’ll shoot me,” the man said. “And I still won’t have my answer.”
“I’m gonna shoot you no matter what,” Geronimo said. “But I promise you’ll have an answer before you die. If you let them go.”
“I want it now,” the man said. “I want to see for myself if you’re as good as they say.”
Geronimo knew the man was without fear. In the madness of his dark world, that feeling had been stripped away. More than the grenade in his hand, it was the lack of fear that gave the man the advantage.
With a smile, the man made his move.
He tossed the grenade toward the woman clutching her child.
Geronimo moved as he fired. Three quick 250-grain bullets flying at 860 feet per second landed in the man’s forehead and chest.
He was dead before his head hit concrete.
The grenade bounced off the screaming woman and fell to the ground.
Geronimo, in full leap, landed on top of it, one hand holding the metal tight, the other slapped against the medallion hanging around his chest.
Four seconds later, the grenade exploded across his body. For Delgaldo “Geronimo” Lopez, the dream he feared the most had come true.
He lost to a bomb and he lived.
5
Pins
JIMMY RYAN SAT in the backseat of an idling black Ford van and watched the woman in the red patent-leather pumps cross Madison Avenue against the light Her tight black skirt stopped at mid-thigh; her black blouse was covered by a red Lagerfeld jacket, double-breasted and snug. Her thick hair, black and curled, fell across her shoulders, swinging past a set of pearl earrings that dangled near her neck. She strolled with confidence and her figure matched her style.
Augie Calise, the young detective behind the wheel, muttered, “I’m fallin’ in love. Just sittm’ here and lookin’ at her, I’m fallin’ in love.”
Andy Fitz, the detective sitting on the passenger side, slowly shook his head. “You’re married, shmoe.”
“Your point?” Calise asked, still looking at the woman as she sauntered through the entrance of a doorman building.
Ryan snapped open an attaché case on his lap. Inside was a Sony SRS-P3 recorder, its high-frequency tape spooling from one end of the machine to the other. He turned the volume to high, sat back, and listened to the clicking sounds the woman’s heels made as she walked across the lobby toward the elevator bank.
“Great sound,” Fitz said. “It’s like we’re right next to her.”
“I’d feel better if we were right next to her,” Calise said. “These guys smell a mistake, they’re gonna take everything but her teeth.”
“They won’t know she’s wired,” Ryan said. “Unless they strip her naked.”
“I’d do that even if I didn’t think she was wired,” Calise said.
“Where’d you lay the wire?” Fitz wanted to know.
“Inside her right bra cup,” Ryan told him. “They’ll never find it.”
“Her bra cup?” Calise turned his head, staring at Ryan with awe. “How the hell did you get it in there?”
“Secrets of the trade,” Ryan said, smiling. “If I told you, Andy here would have to pump two into the back of your ears.”
Calise refused to smile back. “Least you could do is let me take the wire out.”
“Sorry, Augie,” Ryan said, snapping a cord into a set of earphones and resting them around his neck. “I’m the only one who can touch her. My hands’ve got a priority one clearance.”
“Who the hell gave you that?” Calise asked, checking the traffic in front of the building.
“I was born with it,” Jimmy Ryan said.
• • •
JIMMY RYAN WAS orphaned at birth, abandoned in an upstate New York hospital by frightened teenage parents. His childhood memories revolved around a series of loveless foster homes inhabited by faceless adults, too anonymous to call parents, too familiar to call strangers. He grew up quiet and alone, confiding in no one, reluctant to form bonds, knowing they could soon be severed by the sudden shrill ring of a telephone.
The calls always came at night.
They would soon be followed by the mad rush to pack secondhand clothes into a worn valise and the false warmth of hurried good-byes. The car rides to each new