Among Thieves Read online

  As Beck stepped back another pace, the man he’d shot came into view, lying in a fetal position, a pool of blood forming underneath him. Nobody paid him any attention. They were intent on finishing this.

  Another step back. On his left, Beck’s peripheral vision caught sight of an open space, desk, expensive exercise equipment. To his right, he saw the man with his arm duct-taped to a large rectangular dining room table. A ball peen hammer on the table. Was that Crane? Had to be. What the hell was going on?

  “Come on, Gregor,” the man on the couch snarled. “End it.”

  Gregor didn’t respond to Markov, but the command reminded him that he had to take this one down alive. He watched Beck carefully. He saw that there was no fear in his face. He had survived this far. Clearly this required caution. Maim him first, thought Gregor. Get him down on the floor. Beat him. Break his radius bone or the ulna, or both, grind them together, then he will talk. He will beg.

  They had Beck backed up almost to the wall. Stepanovich reached behind his back and pulled out an expandable steel baton from his rear pocket. He extended it with a quick snap, giving himself sixteen more inches of reach. At the same time, his partner pulled out a combat switchblade knife, razor sharp with a serrated edge on top.

  Beck had to constantly look right and left to keep them both in sight. No wonder they were taking their time. Not just two against one. Two with weapons against one without. Or at least that’s what they thought.

  Beck knew when they moved, they would move at the same time. He had to choose one, the moment he ran out of room. The choice was easy. The steel snap baton would be brutal. But the knife could be deadly. Beck had seen too many knife wounds in prison. It only took a second to stab a hole into a liver or heart, or slash through a tendon or major artery.

  Another slow step back. He could sense the wall looming behind him. He reached behind him, touching a shelf or a windowsill, his hand felt something. A book. Too light to do any major damage, but enough. Without hesitating he whipped it into the face of the one with the knife. At the same time, he pulled the sap out of his back pocket, took three fast steps and slid on the polished wood floor toward the knife wielder.

  Beck nearly skidded past the man, but at the last second, just after the knife blade passed inches over his head, Beck jackknifed into a sitting position and whipped the Bucheimer into the side of the knife man’s left knee.

  The collateral ligament ruptured, the right side of his femur shattered, and the fibula cracked three inches from its top. The knife wielder fell to the side as his leg collapsed. He toppled across Beck’s torso, blocking the first baton blow coming from Gregor, but still managed to stab his knife down, slicing through the outside of Beck’s left thigh and burying the point an inch into the wood floor.

  The wound stung and burned deep. Beck slapped the Bucheimer into the knife wielder’s face, causing an explosion of pain. The lead weight cracked the supraorbital bone above his right eye, crushed the lacrimal bone, and split the nasal bone, knocking the man out cold.

  Beck shoved the man off him and tried to roll away from the baton blows whipping down on him, but his pant leg was pinned to the floor by the knife.

  Beck caught stinging blows on the shoulder, left arm, his back. Without his heavy shearling coat the baton would have broken bones.

  Beck blindly whipped the sap sideways at Gregor, connecting with his right shin. That stopped the blows from the baton. Beck finally pulled away from the knife pinning his pants down, ripping the thick denim to get free. He scrambled to his feet. Gregor had gone down on one knee, but now he was up and limping toward Beck.

  Beck backpedaled, slipping on blood.

  Gregor kept coming. Beck overhanded the Bucheimer at Gregor, hoping to catch him in the face or head with the lead weighted end.

  Gregor just managed to duck under the spinning sap. It flew past him and hit the frame of a window, cracking the thermal pane.

  The fat man at the other end of the loft finally managed to push himself up off the couch, looking around for the Glock that had been kicked in his direction.

  Gregor slashed the baton at Beck’s head. Beck leaned back, barely avoiding getting whipped in the face by the steel tip, and immediately lunged forward, catching Gregor’s arm before he started a backhand slash. He punched hard under Gregor’s armpit. The blow cracked into a bundle of nerves at the top of Gregor’s rib cage, paralyzing his baton arm, but Gregor retaliated with a hard left fist to Beck’s ear.

  The blow caused instant, searing pain. Beck saw black for a moment, but the pain fueled him. He punched hard into Gregor’s ribs. Once, twice. Gregor dropped the baton, but managed to grabbed Beck’s coat with both hands, immobilizing him. He lifted a knee aimed at Beck’s ribs.

  Beck twisted and caught the knee on his hip, countering but paying the price in pain. Gregor drove Beck backward, trying to trap him against the elevator.

  Beck chopped both arms down to break Gregor’s grip, but only managed to break free from one hand. He twisted an elbow into Gregor’s jaw, tried to push Gregor off, but Gregor hung onto Beck’s coat with his left hand. Beck twisted around and slapped the elevator button behind him, turned back to punch Gregor in the face, and hit him a perfect shot in the temple which nearly cracked three knuckles on his bare fist.

  Gregor sagged, but still hung on to Beck’s coat.

  The elevator door started to open. A gunshot suddenly exploded, followed by a sharp splat of metal on metal as the bullet hit the slowly opening elevator door.

  Beck flinched and ducked.

  He thought he heard the fat man yell, “Stop!”

  The elevator door opened. Beck grabbed Gregor’s right hand with both of his, turned the hand back, twisting Gregor’s wrist until his grip broke, then Beck pushed the hand straight down, bringing Gregor to his knees.

  He jammed a foot into Gregor’s chest and shoved him away, sending him down onto the floor. Gregor still tried to grab for Beck’s leg, almost catching his foot as Beck fell back. Two more shots sounded. The elevator doors started to slide shut.

  Beck pulled his legs into the cab, barely clearing the closing door. He slammed his palm onto the elevator buttons, not caring which floor it took him to, just trying to get the damn elevator moving.

  The door shut, another shot rang out, the fat man yelled something, the elevator descended.

  18

  Gregor was on his feet banging the side of his fist against the elevator, cursing, screaming, hitting the call button. Markov finally reached him, wrapped both arms around Gregor’s right arm and pulled him back.

  “Stop. Stop it!”

  Gregor could have easily put Markov down, but he let Markov pull him away from the door.

  Markov cursed. “Christ, you with the fucking guns all the time.”

  Gregor turned to Markov, testing his jaw where Beck had elbowed him, rotating his arm to get the feeling back. He walked slowly away from Markov, limping because of Beck’s sap hitting his shin.

  “A gun in the face stops any resistance.”

  “Except this time,” said Markov.

  “Who is he? Why did he come up here ready for us?”

  “Ready for you?” said Markov. “How? He had no gun. Comes alone. Now he’s fucking gone. Idiot!”

  For a moment, Gregor looked as if he might go for Markov. The Russian saw it in his eyes and yelled at him.

  “Gregor, calm down. Come, we have to figure out what to do with your men.”

  Gregor struggled to contain himself. Clenching his jaw, making guttural sounds, he followed Markov over to the man Beck had shot. He lay in an enormous pool of blood. They slowly lifted him into a sitting position and propped him against the base of the kitchen counter. The man gritted his teeth and hissed at the pain moving him had caused.

  Gregor squatted down and began pulling his shirt up to find the wounds.

  Markov muttered a Russian curse as Gregor checked the bullet wounds.

  “Fucking guy wasn’t even lo
oking. How does he get the gun from you, much less shoot one of you?”

  Gregor ignored Markov.

  There were two bullet holes, one three inches above the bottom rib on the left side. One two inches below.

  Gregor squinted at the wounds. He gently pulled the wounded man forward so he could see his back. The two bullets had exited so close together that the exit holes had merged into one large, ragged wound.

  Gregor had seen many bullet wounds. His man wasn’t coughing up blood, so he calculated that the bullets hadn’t pierced a lung. But there had to be massive damage to his stomach and liver and spleen.

  Gregor told Markov, “We get him to hospital, and they stop the bleeding, he’ll live.” But he’d said it only to give the wounded man false hope. He could see a gray pallor coming over him. With the enormous blood loss and traumatic shock, he estimated only a twenty percent chance this soldier from his old brigade would live.

  The other soldier had made it up onto one foot, keeping himself up with a hand on a chair. Markov turned to him, “Can you drive?”

  He could not stand on his right leg, his face was lopsided from the fractures under his left eye, which was completely hidden by grotesque swelling, he had only one useable hand, but he nodded at Markov and said, “For a while. Not too long.”

  Markov knew Stepanovich and his men were beyond tough, but it was hard to believe either of the two wounded men could get very far. But that didn’t matter. All Markov wanted was for them to get far enough away that they wouldn’t be his problem.

  “Where’s the car?” asked Markov.

  “Across the street.”

  “Legal?”

  “No.”

  Markov hoped to God the car hadn’t been towed.

  “Okay, Gregor will help you down. You drive away from here with your comrade. Don’t try to make it to hospital. Go north.” Markov tried to think of a neighborhood where a carjacking might be possible. “Try to make it into the twenties. Off the highway. There’s a project over there. The story is, you and Igor got hijacked at a stoplight. They pulled you out of car and beat you. Igor fought back. They shot him and ran. Blacks. You can’t identify anyone. You call nine-one-one. Wait for ambulance. That’s it. You don’t remember anything else.”

  Markov turned to the man who had been shot. There was no point in telling him the story.

  Markov turned back to Gregor. “Can you carry Igor down to the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wrap a towel around him, so you don’t leave blood everywhere. Then bring it back up. We’ll leave everything for Alan to clean up.”

  Crane turned to yell at Markov, “For chrissake Leonard, get this fucking tape off me.”

  Markov turned to him and suddenly something snapped. He moved quickly to Crane, picked up the thirty-two-ounce hammer, and began smashing it into Crane’s precious cherrywood dining table.

  He hit the table over and over and over, banging divots and dents into it, all the time yelling, “Shut up, shut up, fucking shut up.”

  Crane kept his head down, trying to cover his face with his right hand so he wouldn’t get hit by flying chips of wood. He couldn’t look. He had his left hand in a tight fist, steeling himself, hoping the hammer didn’t land on him.

  Finally, Markov’s rage ended. He dropped the hammer on the destroyed wood and muttered a final curse.

  He turned away to watch Gregor lift Igor to his feet. He then moved to the third man, who put his good arm around Gregor’s shoulder. Stepanovich was strong enough to get them both as far as the elevator door, but Markov saw they might never make it to the car. He would have to go down with them and bring the car to their side of the street.

  He shouted for them to wait as he made his way toward the elevator. There was an astounding amount of blood where the fight had taken place. Puddled on the floor, splattered on furniture. Counter stools had been turned over. Books had been knocked off shelves. Chunks of Crane’s carefully plastered walls were gouged out from bullet holes.

  What the hell had just happened, Markov wondered.

  * * *

  The elevator stopped on the ground floor. Beck dug in his coat pocket and found a knit watch cap. He wedged it into the bottom of the elevator door to prevent it from closing, so it couldn’t return to Crane’s apartment.

  He limped out onto Hubert Street, blood squishing in his left shoe. He checked his leg. The pants were torn, exposing a ragged knife wound oozing blood. He tried to calculate how much attention he would attract trying to get the Mercury out of the garage versus the mess he would make in a taxi.

  He decided to get the Mercury. Blood all over a cab would attract too much attention.

  He walked as quickly as the pain would allow him to the parking garage on Greenwich. Just before he entered, he plastered the loose flap of black denim against the wet knife wound, hoping the cloth would stick. The blood didn’t show much on his dark jeans. Maybe the garage attendant wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, Beck saw he was making bloody left footprints on the garage’s concrete floor.

  He reached the attendant’s booth and slipped his ticket under the Lucite barrier. A tired-looking, small Hispanic man time-stamped Beck’s ticket, took his money, then came out and hustled off to get Beck’s car, too busy to even glance at Beck.

  As he waited, Beck called Manny.

  “It’s me. Your cousin still there?”

  “She’s just leaving.”

  “Don’t let her go. Tell her she has to stay.”

  Manny knew by Beck’s tone not to ask any questions.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  Beck hung up. The blows from the steel baton were beginning to hurt now that the adrenaline had burned off. Beck tried to remember where else he had been hit. His right wrist, below the back of his hand. Elbow. Knee. Nothing felt broken, but it was going to be hell getting out of bed for the next week or so.

  The Mercury came.

  He tipped the garage attendant, who hustled back to his booth.

  Beck slid into the driver’s seat, furious at how much he had misjudged the situation. Milstein had double-crossed him. And he never envisioned the arms dealer stepping in so quickly with fighters of that caliber. But was he protecting Milstein? No, more likely all he cared about was his money. It looked as if he was about to begin torturing Crane when Beck walked in.

  Beck took a quick look at himself in the rearview mirror. There was a red welt forming on his jaw just under his left ear. His hair was disheveled. He was flushed and sweating. But there was no blood or noticeable bruises on his face that would attract undue attention.

  He took a deep breath. Ran a hand through his hair. Told himself to take it easy. Use the ride back to calm down, plan what to do. As he drove the Mercury out of the garage and took the right turn that would take him past Alan Crane’s block, he thought to himself, man, the next time you get surprised like that … you’re dead.

  19

  By the time Beck had reached the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel exit onto Hamilton Avenue, he had called everybody he needed to come to the Red Hook headquarters.

  By the time he pulled up in front of the bar, he still hadn’t figured out exactly what to say to Olivia.

  He double-parked the Mercury next to Ciro Baldassare’s Cadillac Escalade.

  He limped into the bar. Only Demarco was downstairs, leaning against the back bar, in his usual spot.

  Beck tossed the car keys to Demarco and said, “Put it in the garage, will you D? Sorry, but there’s some blood on the front seat and the floor mat. I don’t think there’s any on the carpet.”

  Demarco’s eyes widened. He came out from behind the bar, heading for the front door, checking Beck for obvious wounds as he passed him.

  “Who’s here?” asked Beck.

  Demarco paused at the front door. “Manny and the lady, Ciro and Alex. All upstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the doctor called. Said he’d be here soon. Said to cle
an out anything that’s bleeding before he gets here.”

  “Right.”

  Beck’s left leg hurt with every step up the back stairs.

  He didn’t bother to stop on the second floor. He kept going to the third floor, the drying blood on his left shoe sticking to the wooden stairs with every other step. He didn’t stop in his bedroom for clean clothes. He went right into the bathroom to strip off everything, get in the shower, and go to work on himself.

  Beck’s shower had a tiled ledge big enough to sit on. He sat for ten minutes, letting the hot water wash over him and his knife wound and bruises. He’d taken 800 mgs. of ibuprofen and much of the pain and stiffness had begun to ebb.

  The first five minutes, he’d just let the shower wash off all the blood. Then he’d turned his left thigh into the spray, letting the water stream into the wound, gritting against the pain.

  He’d brought a squeeze bottle of Betadine scrub into the shower. He turned away from the water and covered the wound with the sterilizing scrub, then worked it into the torn skin and muscle. After a minute, he let the shower rinse it away. He did this three times. Then he turned away from the shower water again, picked up another bottle and poured hydrogen peroxide into the wound, watching the liquid bubble and foam.

  Beck knew there was no way he could tend to this wound.

  By the time he stepped out of the shower, Brandon Wright sat waiting for him in Beck’s bedroom. Without a word, he stood up when Beck entered, waited for him to put on fresh shorts and a T-shirt, then led Beck to the large room at the west end of the third floor that served as Beck’s workout studio.

  Beck lay down on a massage table in a corner of the large room. Wright said nothing. He just started working. Beck closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of surgical supplies being torn open. A needle being threaded. The quiet hiss of Lidocaine being sprayed on his wound.

  He felt the coolness of the numbing spray. He ignored the insistent pricks and pushes and pulls as the doctor began stitching. Beck figured the wound would need at least thirty stitches to close it.