Sims was holding his pistol to the head of Betty Desmond, his forearm wrapped firmly around her throat, his mouth so close to her ear, she could hear the cognac sloshing. He yelled out that if they did anything, if he heard or saw anything like a “flash or bang or grenade, tear gas or any other tricks,” he would immediately “kill the lady.”
Outside, Hart said, “This guy is so far gone.”
“Do we have a shot?” LaBarbera asked the SWAT unit commander.
“Not yet.”
Inside, Sims said, “Say a prayer, Mrs. Desmond. One single woman created Evil and Terminal. You must be the mother of the year. I am the motherfucker of the year.”
Betty Desmond looked around for something she could use to hit this deranged person.
Outside, I moved back closer to Sal and asked, “Who is the SIC?”
“What the fuck is the SIC?”
“Sniper in charge.”
“Where do you come up with this shit?” Still, he pointed to a man on a porch across 89th Street and two houses down. “Don’t do anything crazy now, Lyons.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I said as I scampered away to the house with the snipers, two on the roof, two on the porch. The taller of the porch shooters was in charge.
“I’m with Sal.”
“I know who you are. You’re a distraction, goddamnit. Get the hell out.”
“One question. Just one. Do you know who Zaistev was?”
“The greatest sniper of all time. Not counting me. Now go!”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”