Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

But Carmen? She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t shaken.

Spocatti stood next to her on the sidewalk. The video camera was poised in front of him, pointing down the street. She looked at him and swore she could see the hint of a smile on his face. He was getting Wolfhagen his money’s worth, but they needed to leave before the streets were closed. She’d give him 30 seconds.

Earlier, when Carmen called Pamela Dean, the woman did exactly what they hoped she’d do-she answered her phone, confirming she was home. For the last time in her life, she said “Hello” and listened to Carmen as she sent her Wolfhagen’s best. “You knew this day would come, Pamela. You ruined his life, and now he’s taking yours. He’ll be listening to this. Can you tell him how it feels?”

Before Dean could reply-but not so quickly that she couldn’t process what was happening-the cars parked curbside lifted from the pavement and started to flip in a fiery rush. Like dominoes, one car exploded and it set off the next car, and the next.

It was so engrossing, they hadn’t wanted to leave. Hollywood should have been there to see it if only because it would have understood that it got it wrong every time-this is how it looked. Better yet, in the midst of all of it, they’d watched a person in a white caftan turn into a funnel of flames as he stumbled toward Fifth. A hail of burning debris rained down on him and those running past him. When he fell, they each turned to run, knowing that the Escalade was about to explode and blow the surrounding area into nothingness.

They raced toward Madison, clipped around the corner and pressed their backs against the buildings just as the street flashed white, the buildings shook and somewhere behind them, other buildings fell. There was a rush of searing wind and then the fireball Carmen feared most whooshed past them down the street, incinerating those caught in its path. Then, with no tunnel to propel it, it lifted in the middle of Madison, rolled high in the wide-open space and evaporated.

There was no question that Dean was dead, so they continued to run, this time cutting through the traffic until they stopped at the getaway car.

She nudged Spocatti. “That’s it. We’re out of here.”

He clicked off the camera and put it in his bag in the trunk. She walked around the car as he pulled out his keys and unlocked the doors. “Who’s first?”

“Cohen is closest. We do him, then Dunne, then Casari.” His cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket. He removed it and looked down at the number, which he didn’t recognize. He hesitated, but answered it, anyway. Wolfhagen.

“It would help if you told me when you have a new phone, Max. I almost didn’t answer.”

“Sorry. Where are you now?”

“We just did Dean. We’re getting ready to do the others.”

“They’ll need to wait.”

“That’s a mistake.”

“There are two other people I need your help with first.”

“We don’t have time for two other people. Have you seen the news? Have you looked out your window? We told you this was happening tonight. They’ll be blocking the streets. If they haven’t already, the media will make the connections and report them. And when they do, the rest will run. If you want them dead, we’ve got a narrow window to make it happen.”

“And you will make it happen. You never fail, Vincent. That’s why I hired you and your sweet little conchita. And besides, this one will be quick, it has to be done for critical reasons and I can’t do it without you.”

“You’re going to be there?”

“That’s right,” Wolfhagen said. “At last, we’ll meet.”

“You shouldn’t be there. It’s too much of a risk. Let us handle it.”

“Sorry to keep saying sorry even when I don’t mean it,” Wolfhagen said. “But that old itch is back and with these two, I’m in the mood to watch what happens when someone is stupid enough to fuck with me, to cross me, and to think I won’t do anything about it.”

9:45-10:42 p.m.

In the hour that had passed since Maggie spoke to Mark Andrews, Marty made a round of phone calls that began with Gloria, who already had talked to the girls and to the Moores, and who was on her way to them when he called.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He was surprised by the concern in her voice. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you safe?”

“That’s an entirely different question.”

“I don’t know what this is about,” she said. “But I know it has to do with Maggie Cain. Whatever she’s gotten you into isn’t worth your life, Marty. You need to know that. You can back out of this right now, just walk away from it, and be safe. Those girls need their father. You and I may be divorced and have our differences, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you, too.”

“So, it’s just you, me, Jack and the girls?”

“And whoever comes into your life. We can make it work. If you’ve gone this far to protect your daughters, I know you’re in a bad spot. I’m asking you to get out of it.”

But he wouldn’t. That’s not how he operated and she knew it. Each job was a risk. It always had been. It always would be. He looked across the table at Maggie, who was looking across the room at Roberta. Just moments ago, Roberta had said to Maggie’s face that she was going to kill him. While he loved Roberta, he’d never bought into her belief that she was psychic. He’d always believed that it was part of her shtick, a way to appeal to her customers, another way to make money.

But now things were different. Another part of him couldn’t deny what he’d seen in her face-genuine fear, real concern, a premonition of sorts, if that was possible. There was no question in his mind that Roberta believed what she was saying. She believed Maggie was going to kill him.

“What did the girls say to you?”

“They’re scared,” Gloria said. “They don’t understand what’s happening.”

“How long before you’re there?”

“Ten minutes?”

“And you won’t leave the Moore’s?”

“I know the drill.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“You don’t need to do this.”

It was as if he was talking to the old Gloria again. For once, she’d dropped her artist bullshit facade and was just talking to him. “Keep an eye on the girls,” he said. “Bring Jack with you. Nothing’s going to happen on your end. I’ll make certain the same is true on my end.” He paused. “And thanks.”

“For what?”

“You know what.”

He severed the connection and, after trying to absorb what had just transpired between him and Gloria, whom he hadn’t had a civil conversation with in months, he called Jennifer Barnes. By now, she would be at Peter Schwartz’s house with a full crew and soon would go live with her story. She answered on the second ring.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Ted Yates is dead.”

Marty ran a hand through his hair.

“It came over the scanner a few minutes ago. He was having a drink at The Townhouse and collapsed at the bar.”

Marty knew The Townhouse. He and Gloria were once members-she’d insisted upon it. He was about to tell Maggie the news when Jennifer said, “There’s more. Alan Ross was found in an alley in the South Bronx thirty minutes ago. His neck was broken.”

Marty saw the questioning look on Maggie’s face and told her the news.

“They testified against Wolfhagen,” she said.

Marty held up a hand. “How did Yates die, Jennifer?”

“They’re thinking heart attack.”

“I’m thinking coincidence. Yates and Ross testified against Wolfhagen. Was Yates with anyone?”

“That’s all I’ve got. You’re positive they testified?”