Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [20]
Surrounding the Camaro, a group of pissed-off punks stared down at Jack. Scruffy, hostile, and more than a little inebriated, they had been bored and looking for action. They had found some. One of the youths grinned and juggled a butterfly knife, another slapped a stout nightstick in the palm of his hand.
"What the fuck are you doing in my coupe?" growled a dark-skinned man with dangling braids and a lightning-shaped tattoo on his right cheek. Cornrows crisscrossed his scalp.
Jack swallowed hard as he watched the black Mercedes speed away.
3
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
11:04:12 P.M. EDT
The parking lot of Tatiana's
Jack stared through the windshield at the dozen hostile faces surrounding the car with what he hoped was a neutral, nonthreatening gaze. The black Mercedes was gone, the missile launcher stashed in its trunk still a threat to innocent lives. Yet Jack was compelled to thrust that dilemma aside for the moment.
Rather than challenge the youths and risk a fight he might be able to avoid, Jack placed both hands on the steering wheel to convince the men he was unarmed. "Look, I can explain this. My name is Bauer. I'm a Federal agent..."
"You're a fuckin' Fed?" cried the big man with the lightning tattoo. He smiled, revealing a gold front tooth. "All the more reason to bust your head for trying to jack my ride."
"Look," Jack continued. "Just let me go and we can work this out..."
Someone ripped the door open. Strong hands moved in on Jack to strike him. He guessed that only two or three men were actually assaulting him. The rest of the group stood back and watched, shouting encouragement and enjoying the show.
The men on Jack slapped at him. Jack stayed in the car, didn't resist — not yet. Instead he tucked his head in his chest and curled up on the seat into a defensive ball, protecting his soft spots — along with the Glock in his belt. His left arm covered the shoulder holster where he'd slipped the dead marshal's gun after he'd lost his own. He would need both weapons soon. Then he felt and heard a crack. Someone had swiped at his head with a bat or stick. It was a glancing blow, or he would have been dead instead of seeing stars.
The men dragged Jack out of the vehicle and dumped him onto the pavement. He rolled, dodging kicks, to their frustration. Finally the big man with the lightning tattoo bent down to pry his arms apart. Jack kicked him in the groin with all his strength. A scream cut the night and Jack lashed out again, seizing a handful of the man's long braids. He used them to drag his head down and strike it against the pavement, stunning him into silence.
Jack backed against the car and rose, Glock in hand. Most of the crowd scattered then, ducking behind cars or fleeing into the street. But five men stood their ground, whipped out guns of their own. If they'd fired just then, Jack would have been a dead man. Instead they began to wave their weapons around in an absurdly threatening manner, hurling insults and threats.
"You want to start shooting, mother..."
"Hey man, go ahead, you pull your trigger and we'll pull ours..."
"You gonna die, asshole, 'cause you don't know who you're messing with..."
They were untrained, unskilled, not particularly bright, but they made a lot of noise. Punks, not professionals, but they had him outgunned five to one. Jack knew from experience standoffs like this never lasted long. Someone always got impatient or scared or stupid or all three. And no matter how the situation ended, someone was bound to end up dead.
Jack had to break the impasse, the only way he knew how. He raised the Glock and aimed.
* * *
11:08:36 P.M. EDT
Tatiana's Tavern
Georgi Timko knew the four men were trouble the moment they walked into his tavern.
Up to that time, it had been a quiet night, by Tatiana's standards at least. Some fists were thrown early in the evening, but the tussle was dealt with by Alexi, the bar's three-hundred-pound bouncer and veteran of the failed Soviet