Chapter 29

‘All white guys, a father and son in one room, and single occupancy in the other rooms. This way, they hack the hotel, they won’t find a couple and a black guy.’ Tony handed Broker his room card and stifled a yawn. He had found them an upmarket hotel very close to Central Park, had checked in, using their names with a few other guys, and had stayed back to hand them their room cards so that they would have no interaction with the desk.

The hotel had a fancy restaurant, and Bwana and Roger were attacking it the next day when the others joined them. Breakfast was a serious business to be attended in silence, and it was much later when Bwana, with a wooden face, asked Broker, ‘Heard you nearly got your ass whupped?’

Broker growled, ‘You heard wrong. My well-shaped ass could handle two like those in its sleep. They could’ve sent three and wouldn’t have made any difference.’

Bear wiped his mouth with a napkin and stretched in his chair, which creaked in protest. ‘What do we hit today, and who do we shoot?’

‘We visit an old friend tonight, and tomorrow we go back to Elaine Rocka.’

Chloe grinned. ‘We shooting her?’

Broker rolled his eyes. ‘Nope. It’s time we asked her to go to the police. The NYPD will turn a blind eye to our doings, but we still have to report the missing man. They also have more feet on the ground and more resources and will be able to help.’

‘And who’s this old friend we’re meeting?’ Roger asked curiously.

‘Connor Balthazar.’

 

Connor Balthazar was a journalist, but he was no ordinary journalist who reported on snowstorms and ‘dog bit man’ stories. Connor headed the International and Special Features desk at the New York Times, where he oversaw the largest stories in the national and international editions.

It was Connor’s wife and son, Lauren and Rory, that Broker and Zeb had rescued from Carsten Holt. Connor knew what Zeb had meant to them and also knew some debts just were and could never be repaid.

 

Connor passed a bottle of Shiraz to Broker, who studied it, nodded and handed it back to Connor. Connor, his dark curly hair thinning but still thick enough to frame an intelligent face and piercing eyes, went to the sideboard and took his time pouring the wine in their decanters.

They had been greeted with heartfelt warmth when they arrived, Rory rushing into Bear’s arms when his frame filled the door. Despite their protestations, Lauren had taken charge and had insisted on their staying for dinner.

‘You’re all growing boys, I know.’ She had laughed in Bwana, Roger and Bear’s direction.

Connor knew this was no social call and had waited for his wife and son to go to bed. ‘Looks like you’re all loaded for bear.’ He chuckled mildly.

‘Nature of our job.’ Broker smiled briefly and handed over a slim folder to Connor, who skimmed through it quickly. ‘I know most of this… common knowledge. Proof, of course, is a different matter, and hence the NYPD hasn’t been able to do much.’

The folder was a summary of the gang’s activities and structure in the city.

‘You cover them still?’ Chloe asked him.

‘Not me personally. I’m more of a desk jockey now, but we’ve got reporters who cover them. You need some info on them?’

Desk jockey or not, Broker knew the reporter in Connor was very much alive and loved the scent of a big story. ‘You know this place they operate from downtown. It might be worth getting your reporters to keep a close eye on it for the next few days.’

Connor waited for more and got none.

‘Something’s going down?’ he asked carefully. He knew who they worked for and the sensitivity involved.

Broker nodded emphatically. ‘Something will go down and, in fact, has been going down for a few days. Might be a juicy story for those newshounds of yours.’

He laughed at Connor’s expression and, leaning across, filled Connor’s glass.

‘It started off like this…’

They were still there a couple of hours later after Broker had told him everything. Well, not everything.

‘This can’t be printed, I presume,’ Connor asked him, his eyes gleaming with interest. When Broker nodded, he continued, ‘And what exactly is going to happen in the next few days?’

‘It wouldn’t be a surprise, then,’ Bear interjected gruffly, and Connor let it rest.

‘What I would appreciate is anything you have on the Brooklyn chapter. Heck, anything you guys have on the gang will be useful.’

Connor laughed, and when he saw their puzzled expressions, he said, ‘Broker asking instead of hacking! Got to be a first.’

The heartbeat of the city had slowed by the time they left his apartment, and dim streetlights reinforced the dark. Roger and Bear glanced once around, and then Bear slipped in the driver’s seat. He waited a while before turning the key, looking at smudges of shadow in his side mirrors. When the shadows didn’t move, he fired up and drew away. Whoever he is, he’s very good, was unsaid and obvious to them all.

 

Just after dark the next night, the lights in the garage in Harlem flickered out. In the movies, they flickered once or twice before dying, but real life worked a bit different to the way Hollywood viewed it.

The streetlights in front went out too, and four shadows slipped over the walls of the garage. Five gangbangers who stood watch at night became instantaneously alert and pulled out their cell phones, to find there wasn’t a signal. Before they could raise any other alarm, they were overpowered, cuffed and gagged.

Later, they would swear that the shadows were darkly clothed and masked and didn’t utter a single word. It was as if they communicated telepathically.

They weren’t blindfolded, and they saw one of the shadows scale the camera mountings and spray-paint it. Another hung what looked like banners all over the garage. The men looked at one another, their anger in being overcome so easily giving way to puzzlement. No one hung banners in a gang hideout. It was too dark to see what the banners said.

Another shadow made its way to the garage office, paused at the locked door, and returned. Two shadows took some kind of a can and climbed to the roof of the garage and disappeared. Two others spent a long time moving slowly, bent over the paved surface of the parking lot of the garage.

The shadows from the roof joined the ones on the ground, and they all disappeared as noiselessly as they had come. The streetlights were restored in minutes, but the garage remained dark all night while the night around it lived and breathed.

Phones rang in the early morning, the air turned blue with swearing, and the garage turned into an attraction for a few hours as TV and newspaper reporters crowded around the police tape and camera lenses chased anyone wearing NYPD colors. Not satisfied with the standard, ‘No comment,’ they ran down any passerby who approached the garage for sound bites.

A blonde journalist was breathlessly reporting, ‘No one knows who put up these banners and posters over night. The NYPD has said they are actively pursuing all leads but are refusing to divulge more. Some of the cops have struggled to keep a straight face as we interview them. The garage owners have not responded to our calls and comments. The question remains on everyone’s lips. Are these banners true? Or are they an elaborate joke? If you have any information, call us on…’ She patted her hair down in the breeze as the camera cut in to show close-ups of the posters.

 

There was a giant poster on the main gate of the garage:

 

Your Friendly Neighborhood Gang has opened for business.

Come to us for drugs, kidnapping, murder, extortion, carjacking

and any other criminal activity.

 

Another poster read:

Money Back Guarantee.

If we fail to deliver to your satisfaction, we WILL refund your money. Call Dieter Hamm, NOW!

 

Yet another went:

Don’t steal, murder, blackmail, or kidnap to feed your drug habit. We will do that for you.

 

There were many such posters all over the garage, all of them signing off with Dieter Hamm’s name and phone number. There was even one that had a rate card, and this was the one Broker was chuckling over when the others joined him in his room.

They could see the southern line of Central Park from the window, office workers rushing across with no thought in mind except the day ahead, a few cyclists enjoying the sunshine, parents and babysitters letting their children play, and the usual traffic snarl. Another day in New York City.

Except it wasn’t for 5Clubs.

They had returned late at night and had already made arrangements to check into another hotel, this time under different genders and ages. Broker had looked into setting up safe houses a while back but had discarded the idea quickly. Hotels had their risk, but the benefits far outweighed them for their kind of business. Anonymity, multiple escape routes, vantage points, all these had convinced Broker that when needed, hotels and motels were where they should hole up.

The others laughed at one of the posters, interrupting his thoughts.

‘They’ll be hunting us now with a vengeance. From now on, we travel in two vehicles and split up in two groups and stay in separate hotels. Bear, Chloe and I in one group, and Roger and Bwana, you guys in another.’

He got a thumbs-up from all of them, and as they were leaving his room, his phone rang. Not many had that number.

He frowned as he listened briefly. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘NYPD,’ he said to the others. ‘They want me at One Police Plaza.’