Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

“Come on out, bitch,” he yelled. “You stuck the wrong priest. Now, I’m gonna cap your sorry ass.”

Garcia had to make a choice which side of the row of pews he was going to cover best. He’d seen the woman’s act with the knife and knew she was no one to take lightly, especially because he didn’t know if she had another. He listened for a moment, then chose the side closest to the stone wall.

Four pews away, Azzam cursed herself for getting rid of the gun. However, her information was that only two police officers would be in front of the building and that the old priest, who would have chased other visitors out by then, would be by himself in the church. Now, the only weapon she had left was a razor-sharp throwing star; she was going to have to make it good as her adversary had another ten rounds at least in his clip. She listened for the stealthy approach of the man’s feet and at the moment she expected him to come around the end of the pew she stood, ready to throw.

He wasn’t quite where she expected him to be. Cunning, this one, she thought, he came forward and moved back. And he was aiming at her. She threw at the same moment, he fired.

Dodging to the side, Alejandro saw his bullet strike the woman on her upper shoulder, spinning her to the side and down. At the same time, he felt a sting on the side of his neck. Instinctively, he reached up and felt a surprising amount of blood. He jumped up on a pew to try to see her but wasn’t prepared when she stood up ten feet farther down the aisle than he’d expected and sprinted for the church door. He felt faint as he aimed and fired, but she was fast and his hand was growing less steady by the moment. She reached the door and was gone into the night, even as he sank to his knees on the pew.

The next moment, he was lying on the floor looking up at Father Dugan, who leaned over him and was pressing something against his neck. “Lie still, ’jandro,” he said.

“Am I going to die?” the young man asked.

“You don’t hear me giving you last rites, do you?” Dugan said. “No, you got a pretty good cut, but I don’t think she got anything major. And help is on the way. Do you feel strong enough to keep this pressed against your neck? I want to check on our police guards.”

Alejandro nodded though at that moment he would have preferred that the priest stay with him. Dugan patted him on the shoulder and got up, a groan escaping his lips. Alejandro saw that the knife still protruded from the priest’s back. “You okay?”

Dugan glanced over his shoulder at the weapon. “Hurts,” he conceded. “But I’ve had worse.” He hurried to the front of the church, but was back in a minute.

“I’m afraid the police officers are dead. There’s no sign of the woman, except a trail of blood. I think you got her pretty good.”

“Shoulder,” Alejandro said. “She took off running like Reggie Bush on first down. That was some tough, bitch…oh, sorry, Father.”

“An extra Hail Mary on the way to the hospital,” Dugan said and smiled as he sank down onto one of the pews, the sound of sirens drawing nearer. “You saved my life, Alejandro. You are truly a blessed soul.”

Alejandro’s round face was split by his trademark ear-to-ear grin. “Denada, Padre,” he said. “You saved mine a long time ago. Besides, it’s not every day a gangster gets to shoot up a church and it’s okay.”

“Well, let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Nah, once in a lifetime, Father, once in a lifetime.”

Marlene was in bed with Butch, negotiating the terms of a quick romp before sleep when the telephone rang. It was Fulton calling to tell them about the attack on Dugan and Alejandro, as well as the deaths of the two officers.

The detective could scarcely contain his rage when he arrived at the loft with a driver to take them to the hospital. “The two feds who were supposed to be backing them up said they got a call from NYPD that the stakeout had been called off. I’d like to know whose cluster fuck that was, ours or theirs.” But he was also angry at the two NYPD officers as well.

“They knew this was a hot assignment and that people had already been killed. But they let themselves be lulled to sleep, and now they’re dead.”

When Fulton, Marlene, and Karp arrived at the hospital, Dugan was in surgery to repair damage to his shoulder. “Nothing too serious,” said the surgeon, when he came out to announce he was finished and the patient would be back in his room soon, “mostly, ligament and bone. But he lost quite a bit of blood, probably more because of the blood thinners he’s on for his heart, and at his age everything is more dangerous than it was forty years ago.”

The cut on Alejandro’s neck had required fifteen stitches, but the doctor had released him. He was sitting in Dugan’s room when they got there. The short, barrel-chested young man greeted Marlene warmly, embracing her with his heavily tattooed arms. He was more reserved with Karp, shaking his hand and then stepping back and crossing his arms in the instinctive manner of a gangbanger in the presence of The Man.

They talked to Alejandro about what happened. “Good thing you called,” he told Marlene.

“Good thing you came,” she replied.

“Nothing else I could do,” Alejandro said. “He’s the only family I got.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Alejandro.”

The three turned to see that Dugan was looking at them through half-lidded eyes.

“What’s the matter with your heart?” Marlene asked him in an accusing tone.

“Nothing,” the priest replied.

“Priests shouldn’t lie,” Marlene scolded. “They know better. The doctor said some of your blood loss was due to blood thinners you’re taking for your heart.”

“It’s nothing. The oil’s just a little thick in the engine,” he growled in a manner meant to discourage further probing. His eyes flicked to Alejandro, whose smile at seeing the priest awake had been replaced with a look of concern.

Marlene got the idea and changed the subject until Dugan fell asleep again. Then she and Butch left Alejandro, and a pair of police officers sent to guard the room and went home to bed. Neither was in the mood for romping anymore.

Early in the evening two days later, Marlene was back in Dugan’s hospital room when the priest received a package from “a well-wisher.” The priest was still too weak to open it so he’d asked her to. “At least it’s not flowers,” he said. His room already looked like a florist shop.

“Or a card, and hopefully not candy.” Marlene laughed as she slid the wrapper from the box and opened it. “Two white knights,” she said quietly.

“Beautiful,” Dugan said when he saw the pieces. A fan of chess himself, he started to reach for one. “They’re Torreses, he’s a famous sculptor of-”

“-chess pieces. Yeah, I know,” Marlene said.

“Exquisite detail, inlaid jewels. Regular works of art,” Dugan said. “Which means they’re not really for me. What do they mean?”

“The next two intended victims of Andrew Kane. It’s a nasty little game he’s playing,” Marlene replied and gave him the rundown on what was going on.

“Any idea who the white knights represent?”

Marlene pondered the question. “My first thought was the twins,” she said. “A mother’s conclusion; but much to their dismay, I don’t think they quite rate knighthood. If Flanagan was a black knight, I think it’s going to be someone at his level-only on the white ‘good guys’ side.”

“Butch?” Dugan said.

“Nah, don’t tell him or he’ll get a big head, but I think we’ll know Kane is after him when we get the white king,” Marlene answered. “Besides, I think the whole point of this stupid game is to torment Butch. He’ll be last. One could have been Alejandro; it’s pretty clear Samira Azzam wasn’t expecting him to show up packing heat.”