Jason Pinter - The Mark

They got off at 96th Street, turned left and headed toward East End Avenue. Mauser could see what Parker was talking about; the river looked absolutely beautiful. Dark blue, the surface glittering like a million silver dollars were resting at the bottom. A cold fear ran through Mauser’s body, but he couldn’t quite place it. The hunt was almost over. John’s death so close to being avenged. Parker was waiting for them, the taste sour like metal in his mouth.

“I don’t want the NYPD there until we’ve had our shot,” Mauser said. “I want a fifteen-minute lead time. Call Louis, tell them we need backup at 14:30. That’ll give us some time. I don’t want Parker in custody until we’ve seen him first.”

“They’re not gonna want to wait, Joe. They want blood as bad as you do.”

“Tell Carruthers he doesn’t have a fucking choice,” Mauser spat.

“It’ll only do so much good,” Denton said. “They’ll come whether we tell them to or not. This is NYPD jurisdiction now. Louis is keeping us in the loop.”

“So step on the goddamn gas and get us there faster.”

“You got it, Joe.” Denton dialed in the order. He heard Louis’s voice, accommodating. Denton clicked the phone off.

“We have fifteen minutes. They’ll have a small army ready at two-thirty, but not a moment sooner. Lou understood. Said if he were you he’d ask for fifteen minutes, too.”

Minutes, Mauser thought, were unnecessary. One moment was all he needed.

The car accelerated, the headlights blurring into one long illuminated strand. He looked at Denton, who smiled, spoke earnestly.

“Hey, I want my shot, too, Joe.” He grinned. “Getting Parker could be my big break.”

Mauser nodded as the car sped into the night, leaving only a cloud of exhaust in its wake.

Angelo “Blanket” Pineiro admired the room, one of the few times in recent memory he’d had time to fully soak it in. He listened closely when their man made contact, but he soon found his mind wandering. He scanned the gorgeous oil portraits of Michael’s family that lined the cherry-red walls, the lineage dating back multiple generations. There was something romantic about them, and Blanket hoped one day he’d be remembered like that, having lived a life worthy of such a painting. Surely he was on his way.

With its high windows, marble columns and authentic Persian rugs, Michael DiForio’s penthouse was truly a museum of modern art. Blanket watched the man himself, sitting in his Salerno leather chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for divine intervention. The voices over the phone were full of static, barely understandable. When the line went dead, Blanket waited for Michael’s response. He received only silence.

“You hear all that, Mike?” Blanket could almost see the gears turning in Michael DiForio’s head. No doubt the police would be at the scene in mere minutes, forget the fact that the goddamn loose cannon Barnes was nowhere to be found. Blanket knew Barnes as well as a man could know a ghost. The killer was a thoroughbred, unstoppable, and a hugely valuable asset when his blinders were on. But somewhere along the line he’d run off the tracks. To Barnes, recovering the package now seemed incidental, and that was the problem.

“Call the Ringer,” DiForio finally said, rising up and striding around the ornate wooden balustrade. “I want to give that asshole one last chance.”

Blanket could see the man’s knuckles were white from gripping the chair. He knew how badly Michael needed that package, how much time and money had been spent accumulating the treasures inside. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could set operations back years, maybe decades. Michael would lose his best-perhaps his only-chance to own this miserable city.

Fucking Gustofson. Guy’d been on his last legs when DiForio bailed him out with that assignment. Then the junkie fuck went and blew it all in spectacular fashion. For whatever reason, the middleman-Luis Guzman-never received the album. Now John Fredrickson was dead and a shit storm the size of the tri-state area looked ready to rain down at any moment.

“Boss, you want me to take some guys down to that building, try to find Parker?”

Michael shook his head, his eyes still closed. “By the time you get there, the building’ll be swarming with cops and Feds. If we just send Barnes, at least there’s a chance for him to slip in and slip out. Your crew? Like a bunch of retarded children trying to work a bulldozer.”

Blanket held his hands out, pleading.

“Mike, I don’t think Barnes still has his heart committed to, you know, the cause. I think he wants Parker dead, and I don’t think our package is on his list of priorities anymore.”

DiForio ran a hand through his hair. Blanket considered Michael’s thoughtfulness a source of pride for the whole organization. To have an impetuous leader was to have a leader without a plan, without a vision, and any organization led by that example was doomed to failure. And Michael, he always had a plan. This situation, though, couldn’t have been foreseen.

The plan should have been foolproof. The Guzmans had never missed a drop. Hans Gustofson was a rung away from the bottom and malleable. John Fredrickson was as loyal an employee as they got. Parker was the wild card they never could have anticipated. And in good wild-card fashion, he’d fucked everything up. A precision watch smashed into tiny bits by an invisible hammer.

Michael’s eyes suddenly locked on Blanket.

“Send four men to that building on East 80th. I want them to do everything possible to get to Parker before the cops do. And tell them to keep an eye out for Barnes. No telling what that man’s capable of.”

“You got it, Mike.” Blanket turned to leave.

“Wait, Angelo.”

Blanket spun around. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Make sure the four you send are expendable.”

The Crown Victoria pulled up to the corner of 80th and East End at 2:13 here were no spots, so Denton parked next to a hydrant. The streets were deathly quiet. They had seventeen minutes before the NYPD would bust everything open. The clock was ticking.

At first Mauser wondered if they’d be able to spot the building Parker was referring to, but it was obvious as soon as he stepped out of the car. A cavity in a mouthful of pearly whites, the tenement didn’t belong here. Like Parker himself.

The only entrance was through a wrought-iron gate, swung open just enough for one body to fit through at a time. Deep rivets had been dug into the ground. Clearly few people ever entered-or left-the building.

Even in the faint light of the moon, Mauser could see the dark stains on the brick, the utter hopelessness of the building’s facade. Joe slipped his hand down to his holster, unbuckling his Glock. The metal felt cool, inviting, as though it had lain dormant for too long. He heard another snap, saw Denton’s hand move from his hip. Finally they were about to confront Henry Parker, and both of their safeties were off.

Mauser entered first. He moved slowly, inching across the cement, listening for any movement. The gate led to a small portico. Crouching by the stone steps, Mauser pointed at the door, nodded to Denton. Leonard raised his pistol for cover as Mauser approached.

Joe tried to breathe steadily, evenly, his heart like a hummingbird’s wings. When he reached the top step, Mauser looked back at Denton, then quickly peeked through a dirt-streaked window. He saw a tiny flicker of light at the top of a stairwell, but no sign of life.

Gently Mauser turned the doorknob, the wind whistling past his head. He met no resistance, and entered the darkened foyer. The air inside smelled stale. Joe slunk along the wall, his Glock raised, his pulse racing. Denton joined alongside him and they cautiously made their way to the stairwell.