Red rain 2.0 (34 page)

I go down, crouch beneath the tank. I can see the Palace, see the sidewalk in front of it, though most of the street's blocked from view by the El. Good enough.

Go.

Subway back to Manhattan, drive out to Newark, sleep in a motel near the airport. Up very, very early next morning. I dress in thermal underwear, black jeans, black sweatshirt, the windbreaker. Everything else—the suit, shirt, underwear, wig, wingtips—I stuff in the little backpack I'd bought at that Gap. In my duffle, I carefully place the rangefinder, Zeiss compact binoculars, a single box of rifle ammunition, a space blanket, a water sack, three empty plastic soda bottles, three MREs, a sock filled with sand, the wig and cap. Pat down: HK in a shoulder holster, Walther tucked in the small of my back. Two extra magazines for each. The SIG's in its ankle holster. After I check out, I put on the wig and the cap, have coffee and an Egg McMuffin at a McDonald's. Toss the backpack into the Dumpster in the rear as I drive off.

Park the car in Hoboken, catch the PATH train into Manhattan, the subway to Brighton. I'm carrying only the duffle and that guitar case. The bakery hasn't opened yet. I go up

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the fire escape, settle in on the roof under the rusty, riveted iron girders supporting the water tank. I take out the binoculars. Clear sight of the Palace's main entrance and the service entrance 10 meters to the left. I take out the Bushnell. Range, 473 meters, with an error factor of plus or minus 6 meters.

I wait. I think. Cold, clear. The range is a stretch for the Weatherby, even if I use the quick-release scope mounts to change the 3X-9X variable for an 18 X Leupold target scope. Had no time to get hold of a serious, tuned sniper rifle. The scope has no bullet-drop compensator, no illuminated reticle. Just a quarter-MOA target dot. Made for the bench, the rifle range. Not for wetwork.

I will make it work.

I put the sand-filled sock on a low rung of the iron ladder to the water tank. I open the guitar case, take out the Weatherby, rest the fore end on the sandbag, sight in on the Palace. I have a shot. Bad angle, but a shot, a very long shot. The parapet would be a more stable rest, but I can't use it, could be spotted there. Have to stay back here under the tank. I lay the Weatherby in the open case. I've taped the shiny stainless fluted barrel with black duct tape. The stock's dark gray synthetic, mostly Kevlar.

I settle in for the long wait. I think. When I get bored with myself I watch the street a while. Lots of broad Slav faces, even though most of them are Jews. That's who turned this place into Little Odessa. Jews the Soviets finally let emigrate, back when there still was a Soviet Union, not Russia and Ukraine and a bunch of those Stan countries. Should've called it Little Kiev.

Trains rumble past at no regular intervals I can figure. The whole fucking roof shakes when they do. Very weird feeling when something that seems so solid starts to move under you. Heard people who've been through earthquakes say that's even weirder; the whole world shifts. Felt this milder version a few times in Sarajevo, near misses by big howitzer shells.

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To get my head ready, start to visualize, like in Sarajevo. Visualize the rifle butt snugged firmly into my shoulder, left palm under the forestock two inches forward of the magazine with fingers clawed up, right hand filled by the butt-stock palmswell, trigger finger extended just far enough so the first pad is on the curved smooth metal, cheek welded to the stock comb at the exact height it needs to be for a straight alignment with the scope's ocular. Easy, easy. The muscle memory's still fresh. The mental memory's fogged in. Vague gray images of unheated rooms with windows blown away, the Barrett tripod nailed to the floor, Mikla's voice calling out ranges, possible targets, the scope reticle centered, the squeeze, the sudden huge blast.

Jesus! Just a subway going by fast.

When it gets good and dark, I drill with the Weatherby. Fuck. The target Leupold's useless even though the Palace front is garishly and brilliantly illuminated at night. The target dot's too small, too hard to see. I switch back to the 3X-9X with its heavy duplex reticle.

I begin to think goatfuck. I should have moved more deliberately, come in properly equipped with the right rifle and the right scope—a Steyr SSG, a Remington 700 in .308. Even better, a Sako, like Mikla used. But that would've taken time, left a trail when I made the purchases. I want this done by a ghost no one saw, no one heard.

One shot. That's all I'll get. Then I'll vanish.

I wait. I piss in one of the empty soda bottles. I take an Imodium so I won't have to shit. I eat half an MRE, cold limas and ham. I sip from the water sack. I see Vassily leave I his silver Mercedes and enter the club around eleven. I see him leave around three
a.m.
He's in and out too fast to make [anything happen. I wrap up in the space blanket and sleep as I long as I can.

Next day I'm cold, shivery. I do crunches, push-ups. I'd like to walk around, but I can't risk being seen. I do a lot of visualizing. Good jolt when Vassily's silver Merc pulls up
aro
und 10 P.M. Letdown when two guys I never saw before

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get out and go into the club. I piss in the bottle, eat the second half of the MRE. Same two guys leave the Palace at midnight. I keep the Zeiss binoculars on the place 'til the 3
a.m.
closing. Not an attractive crowd. Red-faced men with big bellies, women over the top with jewels and furs and too much makeup and overdone hair. No taste at all. I sleep until I can't sleep anymore.

Wait and watch the third day. Nothing. The mind games start. Time has nothing to do with the hands on the chronometer anymore. It's all in the light, the long slow arc of it, the shifting of the shadows. Deal with the cramps in the legs, cramps in the arms, as they come. Flex, relax. Deal with the wandering attention—snap it back, lock it on the mission.

It's always this way. Deal with it. You're trained to deal with it, Shooter. But it's hard anyway. It's always hard past a certain point. It never eases. It gets harder still.

Fight it. Beat it.

Use all the experience ... fight to stay clear, stay concentrated. I begin to crack along my fault lines. Think of Mikla in a blown-out apartment, think of squeezing off the Barrett, think of the rush when I made a hit. Think of her little notebook, list of shots taken, hits made, a couple of pages stuck together by something stiff, dark brown.

Don't think. Breathe. Relax each muscle group one by one, starting with your toes.

Do this, Luther. Keep doing it.

The Merc pulls up close to midnight. Vassily's out fast and in through the service door. Zeiss glasses to my eyes. Shivery. The crowd leaves at three. The fucking Merc's still at the curb! A long, long time passes. I don't want to check my watch, find it's only twenty minutes. No, it's gotta be near dawn. My eyes strain, it gets hard to focus.

Then the Palace service door moves. Or does it?

Move fast anyway. Drop the glasses, pull the Weatherby. lay the fore end on the sandbag. Swing a little right. No, go left. Get the crosshairs on the door. Move faster.

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The door opens. Light blue steel.

There's three, weaving a little, still drunk. Has to be a chest shot, this rifle at this range. Round's already chambered. Cocked. Hunting cartridge, Weatherby loaded with a Barnes X-Bullet. Only 130 grains, but leaves the muzzle at 3,600 feet per second. Penetrates, mushrooms, huge wound channel. Chest shot. No instant kill, but anywhere in the chest, he'll choke to death on his own blood in less than three minutes.

The guy in the middle, his big arms draped over the shoulders of the men flanking him. Fucking drunk, Vassily. I love that mad Russian. Center the reticle his sternum, move it six inches right: windage allowance. Breathe deep, exhale half.

Doit!

Boom.

I take my finger off the trigger. There's no shot. Fucking subway roars past, by the time I see twin red taillights Vas-sily's slipped right out of the crosshairs and into his car.

Too fucking dumb to live! Suck the fucking barrel and pull the trigger, maggot. And I hate it more because I know exactly why I've blown it. I chose the easy way, couldn't face making it personal. Not even after all the shit Vassily's done. Because once we fought side by side, became brothers. Wanted it real cool and businesslike, just a job, not revenge, not justice, not execution.

Fuck me. I went the pussy route on this. Vassily wouldn't have. Bad, bad choice.

Abort.

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I toss the fucking useless Weatherby into the case, but I don't go. No fucking way.

Grab my cell, punch in Vassily's number while his car's still idling at the curb.

"Hello, brother," I say when he answers. "You just came out of a blue steel door at the Palace. You're wearing a gray suit with a red tie. I had you in my crosshairs. Could you feel it, my friend? Could you feel the death coming at you?"

"Big joker you are, little brother," Vassily laughs. "I wouldn't be feeling shit if this was true. I'd be too fucking dead."

"You are dead, my good friend. You just don't know it yet. Your Merc is pulling out now, you're heading south on the boulevard. There's a cross street about a hundred meters in front of you."

The Merc suddenly speeds up, fishtails through a hard right turn.

"Wow, I could hear the tires squeal on that turn, Vassily. But I can still see you. Watch out! Almost sideswiped that parked taxi. Vassily, some advice. Your driver is really shitty. Get a better one."

"You sound like happy man. You sound like you want to get happier. How do you plan to do that, little brother?" Vassily's voice is soft now, all the laughter gone. "You

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going to shoot me sometime? Or maybe you want only to talk to me?"

"And say what? Say take your hitters out of Baltimore if you want to live, Vassily my brother? Would you do it? Somehow I have trouble believing in this. Too late, I think, for this."

"Never too late between friends. Was only business. You understand business. Ups and downs. Always some way to smooth things out, make things right."

"Always? Maybe I'll consider, consult with my friends."

"Seems to me we are possibly even, little brother. I got three or four of yours, that Dog and your father get what, four of mine? Maybe is enough, yes?"

"Not even. You fucked with my family, Vassily. Brother never does that to brother."

"I make bad mistake with that. I admit this. I am sorry for it. No harm would have come to them, I swear this true."

I laugh. "True? You know the meaning of truth? Hard to believe, brother. But I'll consider. I'll consult. I'll be in touch. Count on it."

I pause. Vassily stays silent.

"Right now I'm going to pack up and climb down from this roof. Nice view from this roof, over the bakery. Maybe I'll come up here again sometime. Just for the view."

I click off, shoulder my gear and sprint for the fire escape. I figure I've got four to six minutes before Vassily can punch in a number, get someone sober on the line, bark some orders, and get some heavies over here from the Palace. Plenty of time to duct-tape two blocks of C4 under the corroded black iron grating of the fire escape's top landing, insert detonators, run a very thin black tripwire across the grating. Though I doubt, if they're Spetsnaz, they'll hit it. They'll spot it, disable it.

I do it anyway.

Then I pull on thick leather gloves and basically slide down the fire escape's ladders. I hit the concrete hard at the bottom and start running. I'm just getting into a subway sta-

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tion when a white flash from behind throws me a new shadow. Split-second later comes this sharp crack, instantly followed by a deep, rolling boom.

Overestimated the fucks. But I don't turn, I don't stop. I go-

From my room in a cheap hotel on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, I start the backup plan—which, dammit, should have been my alpha assault instead of that stupid sniper goatfuck. I call Annie on the worldwide cell around midnight, when I'm pretty sure she'll be home alone. The phone clicks on after the second ring, but there's only the sound of breathing at her end.

"Did the package arrive?" I say.

"Yes."

"Please give it to IB tomorrow. Not at work. He'll tell you where."

"Yes."

"Thank you," I say. "Later."

"Wait!" Annie says. "Do you have to do this thing? You're going to murder him, aren't you?"

"Nothing to discuss."

"There is. You're a cop. You can't go through with this. Please don't go through with this." She's near tears, by the hitch in her voice.

"No choice, no option. No way to go but all the way."

"Oh God, oh God."

"I need that package. You'll do it?"

"Yes."

"See you." I switch off.

Then I call IB. He picks up on the first ring, blurts, "Where are you, man?" I hear babies wailing in the background.

"In the fucking Bahamas, sipping daiquiries, dipshit. You get that package?"

"Yeah, it arrived."