Cross - James Patterson [65]
So where the hell was he?
Ah, Thirty-first Street. Coming up on Blues Alley, which was fairly deserted at this time of day—as opposed to nighttime, when the clubs were open around these parts of Washington and the crowds came calling. He was listening to James McMurtry and the Heartless Bastards now. He liked the CD well enough to stay in his parked car an extra few minutes.
Finally he climbed out, stretched his legs, and took a breath of moderately foul city air.
Ready or not, here I come. He decided to cut through to Wisconsin Avenue and check out the ladies there, maybe lure one back into the alley somehow. Then what? Hell, whatever he damn well felt like. He was Michael Sullivan, the Butcher of Sligo, a real crazy bastard if ever there was one on this spinning ball of gas and rock. What was that old line he liked? Three out of four voices inside my head say go for it.
The Thirty-first Street entrance to the alley was bathed in this faded yellow glow from the lights at a spaghetti joint called Ristorante Piccolo. A lot of the hot spots on M Street, which ran parallel to the alley, had their service entrances back here.
He passed the back entrance of a steakhouse, then a French bistro, and some kind of greasy burger joint spewing smoke.
He noticed another guy entering the alley—then two guys—coming his way, too.
What the hell was this?
What was going down here now?
But he thought he knew what it was, didn’t he. This was the end of the road. Somebody had finally gotten a step ahead of him instead of the other way around. Leather car coats. Squared-off, bulky types. Definitely not Georgetown students taking a shortcut to get a bite of cow at the Steak & Brew.
He turned back toward Thirty-first—and saw two more guys.
Mistake.
Big one.
His.
He had underestimated John Maggione.
Chapter 86
“MR. MAGGIONE SENT US,” called one of the toughs who was headed Michael Sullivan’s way, walking with plenty of strut and attitude from the entrance into the alley on Wisconsin. The hoods were moving fast now, and they had him penned in. So much for mystery and intrigue, not to mention that a couple of the goons had their guns out already, hanging loosely at their sides, and the Butcher wasn’t armed except for the surgeon’s scalpel in his boot.
No way in hell he could take out four of them, not with a blade. Probably not even if he had a gun on him. So what could he do? Take their picture with his camera?
“He misspoke, Butcherman. Mr. Maggione doesn’t want to see you,” said an older guy. “He just wants you to disappear. The sooner the better. Like today. Think you could do that for Mr. Maggione? I’ll bet you can. Then we’ll find your wife and three kids and make them disappear too.”
Michael Sullivan’s brain was reeling through all the permutations and possibilities now.
Maybe he could take the one guy out, the loudmouth; then it wouldn’t be a total loss anyway. Shut his ugly hole once and for all. Cut him bad, too.
But what about the other three?
Maybe he could get two of them, if he was good and lucky. If he could get them close enough to use his blade, which wouldn’t happen. They were probably stupid, but not that stupid. So how could he make something happen? He didn’t want to go down without a fight.
“You man enough to take me out yourself?” he called to the bigmouth. “Ay, babbo?” He used the mob term for idiot, for some useless underling. He was trying to get under his skin if he could. Hell, he’d try anything right now. He was going to die in the next minute or so, and he just wasn’t ready to go yet.
The killer’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “No doubt about it. I could take you out myself. But guess what, guess who’s the babbo today? Give you a hint. You probably wiped his ass this morning.”
The Butcher reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt, and he kept his hand there.
The bigmouthed hood immediately had second thoughts and put his free hand up. The others stopped walking. They all had their guns out, but they weren’t coming any closer to the legendary Butcher.
The big talker gestured