The Harbor Light was a six-story ramshackle beds-by-the-hour hotel that had started out back in the twenties as a fairly decent apartment block with a limestone facade and an art deco entranceway. Back in those days Crotona Park was a high-end neighborhood, and the street was a nice little uptown shopping strip. Now the six-block stretch was a collection of tenements, groceterias, bodegas, bad bars, and flophouses. People watched Luke and Grizzly stroll up the block toward the Harbor Light, nodded politely, and lost no time getting in off the stoops. Teenagers in baggy sports jackets and floppy running shoes made pig noises from a safe distance.
Luke checked for a clocker on the stoop of the Harbor Light and saw no one who looked like he was there to warn people inside. It seemed odd to him. If Elijah Olney were really in there, he’d done something to piss off even his own gang members. Usually the Bloods did more for their runners than leaving them to twist in the wind inside some South Bronx rathole. Maybe they were tired of him too.
Maybe he really was going to rat out a Blood operation in Georgia and they got him out of the L.A. County Jail just to whack him, but Olney had seen it coming. And maybe the only reason the Bronx Marshals had gotten wind of Elijah Olney’s presence in the city was because somebody in the Blood organization wanted him dead. It was all wheels within wheels. You never knew the whole story. As far as Luke was concerned, he didn’t give a damn why somebody had handed Elijah Olney a black spot. Olney was sewage, and whatever he got, it was much too late and a buck short.
The entrance to the Harbor Light’s once-classic art deco foyer was now a single smeared glass door flanked by rust-covered steel shutters dense with sprayed-on gang symbols. Past the doorway there was a twenty-foot stretch of stained green linoleum and walls painted the color of bad meat. In the ceiling a single fifty-watt bulb inside a steel cage cast a liverish-green light down on the hallway. A worn-out flight of stairs covered in black rubber led up into a murky darkness. The hall reeked of stale smoke and Dustbane.
The night clerk who ran the place was an elderly black man with tired eyes in a drawn but still handsome face. He had a certain air of faded elegance and a Cab Calloway mustache. He looked like his better days had been pretty good. He gave his name as Chicago and spoke to Luke and Grizzly from behind a green-tinted bulletproof plastic enclosure with a sliding tray for money and room keys to be passed back and forth. Inside the enclosure there was a gray steel desk covered with cards, a battered and overstuffed chair, a pay phone, a cooler filled with ice and cans of Old Milwaukee, and a tiny black and white television. The sudden appearance of two U.S. Marshals in black raid gear didn’t seem to faze him much. He looked at the mug shot of Elijah Olney, then raised his weary eyes again. His voice was clear and his speech careful.
“Yes, officer. I think that’s the man. An unpleasant young man.”
“How’s he registered?”
“Registered? His ID was two pictures of Ben Franklin, officer.”
“He home now?”
“Boy never goes out.”
“You know his room?”
“You intend to smash up the place?”
“Why?” said Grizzly, sarcastically. “You own it?”
A flicker of something passed over the old man’s face, a brief recollection of pride and power.
“I used to. I’ve been here for a long time. This used to be a nice place.”
Grizzly gave the man a big smile.
“Well, it’ll be a whole lot nicer in about ten minutes. What’s his room number, sir?”
Chicago reached under the counter and pulled out a crumpled plastic sheet. It was the room plan of the hotel. He pointed to a flat on the second floor. “Number 9B.”
“It have a fire escape?”
“City insists.”
Luke was looking at the diagram.
“You have a room plan for 9B?”
“All the rooms are the same, sir. They broke ’em all up in the sixties. It was too bad.”
He showed them a drawing on the wall.
“See? One room, bed bolted to the floor by the window, toilet to the left there, sink over the toilet. One window, sash type, that lets you onto the fire escape. No closets. Every room’s got a TV though. Pay phone on every other floor, only they’ve been stolen.”
He looked down at a sheet of yellow paper on a clipboard beside him.
“Only one guy. He’s a regular, went out to sell some blood two hours ago. He’ll be at the Sonic by now, drinking bourbon. It was my intention to go over there in an hour and help him in the process. If you fellows don’t spoil my evening.”
“What’s the door made of?” asked Luke.
The old man’s face got a little more tired.
“See? You’re in a mood to break things up, son.”
“You wanna give us a key?”
He considered them for a long moment.
“Nope,” he said after a while. “Rules are rules.”
“Which rules are those, sir?” said Luke.
“The ones a man can read even if he can’t read. Sir.”
Luke and Grizzly looked at the old man and nodded. They turned to go up the dark stairs, and the man called to them.
“One thing, officers.”
Luke stopped on the second step, turned to look down.
“Yeah?”
“That boy, he’s got a woman in there right now.”
Great.
“A hooker?” asked Grizzly.
The old man gave him a look.
“I don’t believe it was Whitney Houston, officer.” He pronounced her name How-ston. Grizzly looked up the stairs at Luke.
“I better go get the peeper from Walt. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. Tell them it’s 9B, tell them take the fire escape. I’ll be a few steps up here.”
Grizzly was back in three minutes, carrying a black nylon case.
“They know the layout. Walt says he had a shooting here in 1979.”
“Why didn’t he say something?”
“I don’t know, Luke. If we live, I’ll ask him. Let’s do this, okay? I’m getting hungry. They’ll be in position in five minutes.”
“What’d they do with Bubblegum?”
“He’s passed out in the car. Walt handcuffed him to the door. He’ll be out of it for hours.”
“Man,” said Luke, “he’ll drool all over the seat.”
“It’s vinyl. Let’s go, can we? I’m too old for this shit.”
In silence now they climbed the rest of the creaking ancient staircase into the brown-shadowed darkness above. Luke had his nine-mill out and was holding it in front of him, forearm braced, his left hand supporting his right, his Mini-Maglite strapped to his right forearm in line with his pistol, but not switched on. Showing a bright light in this kind of situation was as much a danger as it was a protection. Grizzly was following a few feet back. They took the turn in the landing quickly, and saw that someone had broken every ceiling light on the second floor. The long hallway was a black tunnel with an EXIT sign glowing just over their heads, casting a pale red glow for a few feet down the hall. The rug was sticky and the hall smelled of fried food and urine and dry rot.
They came slowly along the hall toward 9B. A line of yellow light was showing under the ragged edge of the door. Keeping a few inches off the wall, the two men positioned themselves beside the door. Music was coming from inside the flat, and they could hear a woman’s voice saying something in a tone of complaint.
Luke nodded to Grizzly, who kneeled down by the door and placed the black nylon case on the floor. He opened the lid and pulled out a narrow rod covered in black plastic. He flicked a switch, and a tiny red light came on in the top of the machine inside. Grizzly pulled at the thin black rod, and a length of black wire followed it out of a coil. He flicked another switch. A tiny liquid-crystal TV screen bloomed into pale blue light on the top of the machine. The image flickered and moved a bit as Grizzly moved the black rod. It was a fiber-optic minicam with a fish-eye lens in the tip, narrow enough to slide under a door.
Luke watched the two-inch screen as Grizzly maneuvered the rod underneath the door of 9B. The screen filled up with a rat’s-eye view of the interior. Grizzly could see the screen as well. He twisted the rod carefully, and the image bounced and panned around the room. The view was distorted, but they saw an expanse of bare floor, a lamp on what looked like an old crate, and a bed about fifteen feet across the room from the door. They could see a large black male lying naked on the bed, and a woman, naked as well, leaning over the man, holding him and stroking him. She was speaking softly, her voice muffled by the door, saying something about it being okay but she charged more for that. And the man’s voice, also muffled, insistent and deep, demanding something the hooker found … unpleasant.
Grizzly twisted the rod around until they had a clear pan shot of the entire room. The layout was exactly as Chicago had described. There were only two people visible in the room, both of them on the bed. Grizzly pulled the thin black camera cable slowly out from under the door. He gave Luke a questioning look. Luke nodded. Grizzly ran his fingers delicately across the surface of the door itself, reading it. Every door had its own way. You had to know its weaknesses and strengths. Sometimes you used a ram, sometimes you blew it up with a shaped charge. Sometimes you just kicked it as hard as you could. This door was cheap particleboard, hollow in the center. The hinges were cheap white metal. Grizzly figured they had sold the original hardwood doors back when they broke up all the rooms and turned the place into a flophouse hotel. He packed the camera away and stood up facing Luke. Time to get it done.
They had been doing this kind of thing for years, had done it as a team almost a hundred times and practiced it more than that at MOUT facilities in Quantico or down at the training center in Glynco. Grizzly had the weight, so he’d take the door. Luke had the speed, so he’d take the target. Grizzly would cover and support. Rico and Walt would block the escape and come in to mop up. If the target got his hands up and surrendered, he’d live. Most of them decided to live, especially if the Marshals came in fast enough to control the situation. Some of them went out like Delbert Sutter, but not many. It was all routine. They’d done it for years.
So why was Luke’s hand shaking?
Now, as usual, his lungs were filling up with a cold fog, and he was losing sensation in random areas of his back and belly. Grizzly backed up against the far wall and faced the door of 9B. He had his favorite raid piece tonight, a Heckler & Koch MP-5K, a minisubmachine gun with a half-moon magazine holding thirty rounds of nine-millimeter full-metal jacket.
Luke had Delbert Sutter’s stainless Taurus, a kind of superstition piece for him. Out of a long-standing habit, he did a press-check on the piece, pushing the slide back slightly to confirm the presence of a round in the chamber. Fifteen in the mag and one in the chamber. He had already done this before he came up the stairs, but the action was grooved, semiconscious, perhaps even slightly magical, as if he could not be hurt as long as he did everything precisely the same way and in the same order as he did in every other takedown.
Grizzly focused all his attention on the doorway, getting himself together. Luke could feel the energy developing in Grizzly’s massive frame. Six feet two inches and two hundred twenty pounds of federal muscle was about to collide with the door of room 9B of the Harbor Light Hotel. He knew he’d only get one chance to take it down. Miss that chance, and Olney would be spraying the whole wall with outgoing rounds. Grizzly held up his left hand and spread his fingers.
Five.
Luke looked at the luminous dial of his watch. Walt and Rico were in position. If they weren’t, Rico would have clicked twice on the shortwave radio. This close in, nobody ever talked aloud or transmitted on the two-way radio. It was choreography. A dance they all knew.
Four.
Grizzly’s face was bright red, the way it always got before a kick-in. His fingers were rock steady. He folded another one.
Three.
Luke took in a deep belly-breath through his nose and blew it out slowly through his open lips. Rookies always forgot to breathe. Breathing was how you maintained self-control. He relaxed his entire body for a second, pushing the tension away, slowing the adrenaline flow. If he went in with too much adrenaline, his hands would shake, throwing off his aim.
Two.
What if it isn’t him?
If it isn’t him, I won’t kill him.
Fuck that.
It’s him.
One.
Grizzly gave Luke a final look. He winked. Part of the ritual. Luke felt a sudden rush of deep affection for the man.
Grizzly tensed and then—exploded—off the wall, a bull rush of black cloth. His face was contorted and bright red. His right boot slammed into the wooden door right next to the middle hinge-plate—the whole frame of the door burst inward—Grizzly now rebounding—clearing the door for Luke. The door itself slammed down and back, falling into the room. Before it hit the floor, Luke was racing inward—his right boot actually drove the door the last few inches of its fall. It hit with a thunderous slam, and a cloud of dust flew up into the air. A woman was screaming—her voice was shattering glass—Luke heard his own voice, deep but hoarse, saying “Federal officers—freeze—federal officers!” The man on the bed was a blur of motion—brown muscles slithered as he clutched at the naked woman. She fell backward, fell into the sights of Luke’s nine-mill—Luke with his feet spread and his right arm extended, piece out and sight picture perfect. Luke saw a flash of her pale blue-veined skin—her bright-red pubic hair—breasts caught and crushed by a huge black arm, sheets piling around the two of them as the man—on his knees now—his naked body covered by the woman—lifting her up in front of him—Luke had him in his sights and was squeezing the trigger. He saw the face clearly—froze it in time—ran it—it was Elijah Olney—the make was instant and complete, and he felt his right hand closing down on the trigger even as he heard the window smashing, heard Rico’s voice shouting. Elijah Olney’s face was black with rage and his eyes were huge, red-rimmed—his mouth twisted in a kind of snarl of fear and anger—his eyes locked on Luke’s face, and his right arm reaching under a pillow. Luke’s trigger moved, and he felt the little metallic click in his palm—he had a clear shot over the woman’s shoulder—Olney’s right hand was still under that pillow—he was searching for something—Shoot him now—and Rico saying, “Freeze!” Olney’s eyes flicked away from Luke, and his head moved—cleared the white naked shoulder of the girl in front of him—Luke was ten feet away—Olney’s hand definitely scrabbling for something under that pillow—Pull now—the Taurus jumped twice in his hand—crack crack—two tiny black holes appeared in the side of Elijah Olney’s cheek. Blood sprayed the wall behind his head. His head snapped around, and again his eyes locked on Luke—his hand was coming out from under the pillow. Grizzly stepped around Luke—Luke saw him moving, his MP-5K braced. Luke fired twice more—another black dot appeared in Olney’s throat, and a second in his forehead—something wet and shapeless smacked against the wall behind him—he bounced against the wall—slid—the white sheets wrapped him tight as he twisted with the woman—the room was still echoing—dust motes drifted in the huge silence—a puff of breath came out of the man’s lips—a little spray of red mist—and then—he simply … stopped … moving.
As if somone had hit the pause button on a video.
A profound stillness settled on the young man’s body. He seemed to turn from flesh to warm stone in the space of three ragged gasps from the young white woman. They all watched it happen.
The woman’s breathing was the only sound in the room. Short sharp gasping sobs. She was struggling with the dead man’s arm, still pinned against his body. Blood had sprayed her right cheek and was running in little spiderweb rivulets down her breast.
Grizzly stepped over to the bed with his MP-5K extended, put out a gloved hand, and pulled the woman away. Rico stepped up to her with a gray hotel blanket and wrapped it around her. She took it and wrapped it tighter. Then she looked back at the dead man on the bed, and her face went bright scarlet. She stepped away from Rico, turned to face him, and slugged him as hard as she could on his jaw point. Rico reeled, recovered, and Grizzly stepped in between them, gathering the woman into his arms and holding her tight. She was in the white rage phase. Later, the shock would make her sleepy.
“You assholes!” she shrieked at them, kicking out backward at Grizzly, struggling in his arms. “You fucking cowboys!”
Rico’s lower lip was bleeding. He raised a gloved hand, touched the lip, and looked at his fingertips. Grizzly smiled at him.
“You caught him good there, ma’am.”
She twisted to look up at him.
“He deserved it.”
Rico smiled at her. “Ma’am, your trick selector is outta whack. What’s your name?”
She shuddered, seemed to calm herself deliberately.
“Joanna. Can I sit down? I don’t feel so good.”
Grizzly led her over to a chair and sat her down. Luke was looking at Elijah Olney’s right arm. It was covered to the elbow by the pillow he had been lying on.
“He was reaching,” said Luke.
“Yeah,” said Grizzly. “I saw that. Risky shot, though.”
“Yeah. It was.”
Walt Rich stepped in through the shattered window and walked across the broken door toward the bed. He stood beside Grizzly and Luke and looked down at the pillow over Olney’s right forearm.
“Well, somebody better lift that up,” he said.
Nobody moved.
“Okay. I will.” He reached down and got a handful of the pillowcase. Hesitating, he looked back over his shoulder at each one of them.
“Come on,” said Grizzly. “Don’t be a smart-ass.”
He pulled the pillow up with one rapid jerk.
There was a large stainless-steel revolver in Elijah Olney’s right hand. The hammer was half-cocked, his finger still tight around the steel blade. Walt Rich reached into one of the pockets of his raid jacket and took out a Polaroid Spectra camera. He pointed it down at the dead man’s right hand and snapped a shot. The flash lit the scene for a half-second, a white bloom of light that put a brief red glitter into Olney’s half-open eyes. The film buzzed out, and Walt pulled it free. He handed it over to Luke. The image was still faint, a gray fog with a black shape slowly developing, a shimmer of silver light.
Rich leaned over and examined the pistol without touching it.
“It’s loaded. I think it’s a .357.”
“That’s a Dan Wesson,” said Rico, still holding the young woman by the shoulders. People were gathering out in the hallway, Chicago and a couple of other older black men. The room stank of cordite and the copper reek of fresh blood.
“Yeah. Dan Wesson,” said Grizzly.
“Stupid bastard,” said Rico.
“That he was,” said Grizzly. “He could have lived. Had to be a hard guy, didn’t you, son?” There was a genuine regret in his voice. The boy was a mess now, but there was power in his muscular frame, and a kind of grim intensity surrounded him like a strange amber light. Olney had chosen to die, maybe, but it made you sad to see something that vital turned into two hundred pounds of bad meat.
“That Wesson’s a nice piece,” said Walt. “Zebrawood grips.”
Luke slid the Taurus back into its holster and ran a hand across his chest. His right hand was vibrating, so he shoved it into his pocket.
Luke shook his head, looked down at his right hand.
“No. I’m not.”
“Good,” said Rico Groza, watching him. “Good for you.”
“Well,” said Walt Rich, “somebody better call EMS.”
“Yeah.”
“He might be alive, right?”
“Yeah. He might.”
EMS got there a short time later.
He wasn’t.