Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [68]
“I’m pretty sure he’s desperate,” I said. “He owes somebody a lot of diamonds.”
“Couple number two,” Adam said.
“Chukov likes to hire dirty cops,” I said as Ty panned to the two men in the Crown Vic. “The one in the FedEx getup is Nick Benzetti. Partner is John Rice.”
“That’s their play?” Adam said. “Knock, knock. Who’s there? FedEx. That’s a goddamn insult. Do they think you’re a complete idiot?”
“They probably figure all art students are as easy to pop as Leonard Karns. I guess I owe Leonard a debt of gratitude.”
The driver of the Mercedes stayed behind the wheel. The camera zoomed through the windshield, and I saw a familiar face.
“Chukov,” I said. “He must have the entire Russian mob up his ass to show up, but he’s not going to storm the castle. He’ll just sit there and watch.”
“You realize Ty could take him out right where he’s sitting?” Adam said. “Do you have any wiggle room in your don’t clutter the neighborhood with dead bodies policy?”
“None whatsoever,” I said.
“Okay, I’m headed back to the first floor. Once you’ve drawn them up here, Zach and I will box them in from behind.”
“Bartender to DJ,” Ty said over the walkie-talkie. “Cue the music.”
He pulled back to a wide shot. The four dancers were on the way.
Tango time.
Chapter 80
BENZETTI, THE COP in the FedEx outfit, entered the vestibule alone and rang my bell.
I responded on the intercom. “Who is it?”
“FedEx,” he said. “I got a priority envelope for Matthew Bannon. That you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m about to jump in the shower. Just leave it at the front door. I’ll get it later.”
“No can do, fella,” he said. “Needs a signature.”
“Who’s it from?” I said.
“Katherine Sanborne.”
“Damn,” I said. “I can’t come down. Do you mind walking up five flights of stairs?”
“No problem.”
I buzzed him in. He opened the door. He was oblivious to the CCTV camera, and I watched him slap a piece of duct tape on the latch. The door closed but it didn’t lock. A few seconds later, the other three followed him into the building.
Zach called in from apartment 1. “FedEx man and two others on the way up. They left a sentry at the front door.”
Thirty seconds later, Benzetti rapped on my apartment door. “FedEx.”
“Door’s open,” I said.
Three of them stormed in—Benzetti, Clarke, and Virzi—pistols drawn and suppressed and ready to shoot. But there was nobody to shoot at. They slowly fanned out around my living room.
“Where are you?” Benzetti called out. “I got deliveries to make.”
“Be right out,” I yelled. “I’m in the john.”
Hearing my voice, Virzi pushed Benzetti aside and rushed to the bathroom door. Planting his boot inches above the doorknob, he splintered the jamb and sent the door crashing inward. I put a bullet through his head before the door even struck the wall. He never crossed the threshold.
As soon as Virzi hit the floor, I could see the Jamaican charging toward me from behind him. I fired, but the bastard was quick. He lunged straight at me, his body going horizontal, narrowly ducking my shot. He plowed into my midsection and we both went down in a heap on my bathroom floor.
Benzetti, more accustomed to shakedowns than shoot-outs, began firing in our direction. I’m sure he didn’t care if he killed the Jamaican, too, as long as he kept himself alive. But Umar Clarke cared. When a bullet shattered the tile an inch above both our heads, his eyes grew wide and the scar on his face seemed to flush. He turned his attention away from me and fired a pinpoint shot at Benzetti. The bullet passed through Benzetti’s thigh and the cop fell back against the wall.
Benzetti staggered toward the door, and the Jamaican turned to me. We had both held on to our guns, but his knee was pressing mine to the floor. I desperately grabbed his wrist, twisting the barrel of his gun away from my face. He pressed so hard, I felt the trigger guard of his Beretta jammed under my nose. He strained to turn the barrel a few more inches so he could fire a 9-millimeter slug through my left eye.
If he had been smart, he would have hauled back and pistol-whipped