Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [99]
He wasn’t sure if he was ready for what the Apaches had planned. This would be his first bout of heavy action since the fire that had disabled him, and while he could taste the fear, the adrenaline flow he always felt still hadn’t kicked in. He knew the other members of the team were out there, positioned in the dark, ready to pounce, each of them probably running through the same emotional checks he was clicking off in his mind. He knew it was every cop’s natural instinct to hesitate before going into a bust, but for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down he seemed suddenly uncomfortable with those feelings.
Rev. Jim had always loved the rush that came with being a decoy, walking in blind, never knowing when or if the hit would come or if the assigned backup would really be there. It was all part of the play, risk being as important as the takedown. Rather than fear it, he had always welcomed it. Except for now.
Lying down next to the steering wheel of his beat-up Gremlin, Rev. Jim wondered if it was too late for him to be a cop again. Wondered if he had lost too much of what he needed.
He checked the red digital light on his wristwatch.
8:56 P.M.
In less than four minutes he would have his answer.
• • •
BOOMER AND DEAD-EYE sat on opposite ends of the fire escape, backs to the wall, separated by the streaks of light pouring out from the kitchen. Both wore thin black leather jackets, thick black sweaters, and black racer gloves. Boomer had a .38 revolver in his right hand and another pushed into the back of his jeans. Dead-Eye had two semis, both snug inside their shoulder holsters.
Boomer glanced into the kitchen and saw the man with the knife talking in animated tones with the one whose back was to the window. Sweat ran down the man’s forehead and into his eyes. Boomer knew the layout of the apartment and the backgrounds on the men inside from the sealed packet he had received earlier that morning from One Police Plaza. If everything in the narcotics report held accurate, this would be the first hard slap by the Apaches against Lucia Carney.
“We gotta freeze the guy with the knife,” Boomer whispered to Dead-Eye. “Otherwise, he sticks the kid.”
“Make that my worry,” Dead-Eye said. “You deal with his friend.”
“Mrs. Columbo can handle the ones hanging by the sink,” Boomer said. “Any other surprises, we’ve gotta take ’em.”
“Two minutes more.” Dead-Eye checked his watch, then rested his head against the red brick wall, his eyes closed.
“Let’s hope Geronimo hasn’t lost the touch,” Boomer said. “Otherwise we’re in for a tough stretch.”
“Ain’t Geronimo I’m worried about,” Dead-Eye said, still with his eyes closed.
“Who, then?” Boomer asked.
“Me,” Dead-Eye said.
• • •
GERONIMO WAS ON his knees, a short wire in his hand, a thick ball of plastique stuck to the door lock leading into the apartment. Mrs. Columbo and Pins were against the wall on either side of him, guns drawn, eyes on the stairwell and the other apartment doors.
“You going to make this?” Mrs. Columbo asked, looking down, watching Geronimo circle the coil wire into the plastique.
“It’s easier taking them apart, that’s for sure,” Geronimo said, his voice as calm as his manner.
“How long’s that fuse gotta burn for?” Pins asked.
“Ten seconds.” Geronimo pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket and looked up at Pins. “If I did it right.”
“What if you didn’t do it right?” Pins said with just a bit of an edge. “And it doesn’t blow?”
“Then we knock,” Geronimo said, “and hope they let us in.”
• • •
INSIDE THE APARTMENT, Albert, the man with the knife, stared down at the cooing infant. The man across from him, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to