“Here’s what I know about them—they’re the best people I’ve ever known. They’re better than me.”
He walks away.
His phone rings.
It’s Russo.
He wants to meet.
Chapter 30
Morningside Park.
The tension like barbed wire across Malone’s chest.
At least he isn’t wearing a wire. O’Dell wanted him to, but Malone told him to go fuck himself.
O’Dell didn’t want him to go at all. “If you’re right about their suspicions, they could kill you.”
“They won’t.”
“Why go at all?” Weintraub asked. “We have enough to pick them up right now, you go into the program.”
“You can’t arrest them at home,” Malone said, “not in front of their families.”
“He could make the meeting,” Weintraub said, “and we could pick them up then.”
“Then he’d have to wear a wire.”
“Fuck that,” Malone said.
“If you don’t wear a wire,” O’Dell said, “we can’t provide backup.”
“Good. I don’t want backup.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Weintraub said.
But that’s what I am, Malone thought. I’m an asshole.
“What are you going to tell them?” O’Dell asked.
“The truth,” Malone said. “I’m going to tell them the truth, what I did. At least give them a chance to prepare their families. You can arrest them tomorrow.”
“What if they run?” Weintraub asked.
“They won’t,” Malone said. “They won’t leave their wives and kids in the wind.”
“If they do run,” O’Dell says, “it’s on you.”
Now he stands in the park and watches Russo and Monty walk up from Morningside Avenue.
Russo’s face is twisted with anger; Monty’s is flat, unreadable.
Cop faces.
And they’re carrying heavy. Malone can see the extra weight on Russo’s hip, can see it in Monty’s walk.
“We’re going to pat you down, Denny,” Monty says.
Malone raises his arms. Russo steps in and searches for a wire.
Doesn’t find one.
“You sobered up?” Russo asks.
“Sober enough.”
“You have something you want to tell us?” Monty asks.
They know—they’re cops, they’re his brothers, they see it on his face, the guilt. But he can’t bring himself to say it. “Like what?”
“Like they flipped you,” Monty says. “They caught you and they flipped you and you gave us up.”
Malone doesn’t answer.
“Jesus, Denny,” Russo says. “At my home? With our families? You wore a fucking wire at my home? While our wives talked and our kids played in the pool together.”
“How did they get to you?” Monty asks.
Malone doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
“It doesn’t matter,” Monty says.
He pulls his .38 and aims it at Malone’s face.
Malone don’t go for his gun, just looks at Monty. “If you think I’m a rat, do it.”
“I will.”
“We have to be sure,” Russo says. He’s almost crying. “We have to be one hundred percent sure.”
“What do you need?” Monty asks.
“I need to hear him say it,” Russo says. He grabs Malone’s arms. “Denny, you look me in the eye and tell me it isn’t true, I’ll believe you. Please, shit, man, tell me it isn’t true.”
Malone looks him in the eye.
The words won’t come out.
“Denny, please,” Russo says. “I can understand if . . . it could happen to any of us . . . just tell us the fucking truth, we can still fix this.”
“How are we going to fix it?” Monty asks.
“He’s my kids’ godfather!”
“He’s going to put your kids’ father in jail,” Monty says. “Mine too. Unless he’s not around to corroborate the tape and testify. I’m sorry, Denny, but—”
“Denny, tell him we got it wrong!”
“He’s going to think what he’s going think,” Malone says.
Russo pulls his piece. “I’m not letting you do it.”
“What, we’re all going to shoot each other?” Malone asks. “That’s who we are now?”
His phone rings.
Monty says, “Go ahead. Slow.”
Malone pulls his phone from his jeans pocket.
“Put it on speaker,” Monty says.
Malone does.
It’s Henderson from IAB.
“Denny, I thought you should know,” he says, “I just got my head handed to me by the feds.”
“The fuck you mean?”
“Fed named O’Dell told me to lay off the Task Force, they got a guy in there,” Henderson says. “Denny, it’s Levin.”
Malone feels sick.
O’Dell, what did you do?
“You told me Levin was clean,” Malone says.
“He showed me the 302,” Henderson says. “It had Levin’s name on it.”
“Okay.” Malone clicks off.
Russo sits down on the grass. “Jesus Christ. We were going to shoot each other. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m sorry, Denny.”
Monty holsters his .38.
But slow.
Malone can see the big man thinking, playing chess in his head, going through the moves—Henderson is Denny’s guy, feds only show documents to city cops when they’re forced to . . .
He ain’t sold.
Now it’s Russo’s phone that rings. He listens for a minute, clicks off and says, “Speak of the fucking devil.”
“What?”
“Levin,” Russo says. “He’s got a visual on Castillo.”
They walk to the work car.
Monty’s eyes boring into him.
Malone can feel a .38 round going through the back of his head.
Old school.
And I’d deserve it, he thinks. I fucking deserve it.
I almost want it.
He slows down, gets beside Monty. “Were you really going to shoot me, Big Man?”
“I don’t know,” Monty says. “Let me ask you this—if the shoe were on the other foot, what would you have done?”
“I don’t know I could shoot you.”
“None of us know, do we,” Monty says, “until we get there.”
“What are we going to do about Levin?” Russo asks. “If Levin is with the feds, we’re fucked, he puts us all in jail.”
“What are you saying?” Malone asks.
“That if we bust Castillo,” Russo says, “there are two people who can’t come out of that raid alive.”
Monty says, “Drug busts are dangerous work.”
“You have a problem with that?” Russo asks.
Malone feels sick. What the fuck was O’Dell doing, covering for me? Tell them, tell them now. Three syllables—I’m a rat.
He can’t say it.
Thought he could.
Instead, he says, “Let’s move.”
Maybe, he thinks, I’ll get lucky.
And I’ll get killed.
The building is on Payson Avenue, across the street from Inwood Hill Park.
“You’re sure about this,” Malone says.
“I saw the van pull up,” Levin says. His voice is tense, excited. “All Trinis. They brought out duffel bags.”
“And you saw Castillo,” Malone says.
“They dropped him off and left,” Levin says. “He went to the fourth floor. I saw him there before they pulled the shades.”
“You’re sure,” Malone says. “You’re sure it was him.”
“One hundred percent,” Levin says.
“Anyone else come or go?” Malone asks.
Levin says, “No one.”
So we don’t know how many people Castillo has in there, Malone thinks. Could be the ten Levin saw, could be twenty more already inside. Casti
llo’s in there checking and counting before he puts the smack out, making sure none of his own people skimmed.
What we should do, Malone knows, is keep it under surveillance, call Manhattan North, let Sykes bring in an Emergency Services squad, the SWAT guys. Except we can’t do that because this isn’t a bust, it’s an execution.
They all know the risk. And they all, with the exception of Levin, know why they’re taking it.
No one says anything.
A silent assent.
“Gear up,” Malone says. “Vests. Automatic weapons, we’re going in heavy.”
“What about a warrant?” Levin asks.
Malone catches Russo’s glance. He says, “Gunshot warrant. We saw known gang members on the prowl, followed them and then heard gunshots. We didn’t have time to call for backup. Anyone have a problem with that?”
“We still owe these people for Billy,” Russo says, passing out the HKs.
Levin looks at Malone.
Malone says, “Arrests might not be our priority here.”
Levin meets his look. “I’m good with that.”
“You still good if there’s a shooting board?” Malone says. “IAB?”
“I’m good.”
Russo says, “We’re mixing it up a little on this one. I’ll breach, Levin goes in first. Malone sloppy seconds. Monty guards door.”
He stares at Malone, like don’t go against me on this. Levin looks at Malone, too—Malone always goes in first.
Malone asks, “Levin, you okay with this?”
“It’s my turn,” Levin says.
“Let’s go,” Malone says.
He fires two shots in the air.
Monty trots to the door and sticks the Rabbit in. Levin slides up beside him, presses himself against the wall and holds his HK at high port, ready to go.
The lock pops.
The door swings open.
Russo tosses in the flashbang.
The interior lights up.
Levin counts to three, yells, “Moving!,” pivots and goes through the door. Rounds hit him instantly, from low to high—into his legs, his belly, his chest, his neck, his head.
He’s dead before his body hits the floor.
Malone drops behind him and sees Trinis in green bandannas crouching behind the stairwell railing. They have Kevlar body armor and combat helmets with heavy visors and night-vision goggles.
They run up the stairs.
Malone flattens himself on his back behind Levin’s body. Hits the button on his radio and yells, “10-13! Officer down! Officer down!,” then stretches his HK out over Levin’s chest and squeezes the trigger.
Rounds come back, stitching into Levin.
Russo stands at the edge of the door, firing shotgun blasts. “Get the fuck out of there, Denny!”
Malone rolls over Levin’s body and fires.
Then he gets up and moves.
Up the stairs.
“Denny! Back out!”
But Russo comes in.
So does Monty.
Malone hears them pounding up the stairs behind him.
He never used to worry about his back because Monty was behind him.
Now he’s worried about his back. Because Monty’s behind him, worried about his back, too, wondering if Malone stuck a knife in it.
Malone hears the Trinis running above him. Fuckin’ kids are a lot faster than him. Racing to the fourth floor, protect the smack and the jefe. But it don’t matter if they win the race, they got no place to go except the roof and that’s a death trap.
But they stop and fire.
Rounds bounce around the stairway like it’s a pinball machine. Off the walls, off the railing.
Malone hears Russo scream, “My eye!”
Malone turns to see him drop, curl into a ball and grab his face. A rust fragment from the railing. Monty presses him down, steps over him, squeezing his heft along the wall as he comes up.
“I’m okay!” Russo yells. “Just come down!”
Malone don’t come down. Instead he runs up to the fourth-floor door, Monty behind him, gun lowered.
Malone steps aside.
Monty kicks in the door.
Malone goes in shooting.
Hears one Trini scream as a round hits him. Bullets come stitching across the concrete floor, throwing up sparks and fragments.
Malone drops to the floor and rolls to the side.
Looks back to see Monty raise his .38.
At him.
Malone crabs back to the wall next to the door. Pushes his back into the wall. Nowhere else to go.
Raises the HK at Monty.
They look at each other.
Monty fires into the doorway.
A Trini twirls out, hit in the groin below the vest. His AK fires into the ceiling. Monty takes him down with two shots to the legs. The Trini jackknifes and falls backward.
The Trinis aren’t gonna give it up; they know they’ve killed a cop and they’re not going out of there in cuffs. Their only options are the back door or killing the surviving police.
Malone swings his gun through the open door and fires, then ducks back as Monty uses the cover fire to move to the other side of the door. Looks at Malone like, we’re in it now. Then he juts his chin at the doorway—go.
Malone launches up and through the door. Feels heavy punches in his ribs as rounds smack into his vest and he goes down.
A Trini walks toward him, a Glock aimed in front of him.
Malone lunges, tackles him around the legs and drives him to the floor. Wrests the gun out of his hand and beats him in the head with it, again and again, until the Trini’s body goes limp.
Then he hears another burst and a body falls hard on top of him. He looks out from under and sees Monty lower his gun.
Monty looks at him.
Thinking about shooting again.
Friendly fire—it happens.
Sirens scream through the night. Flashers pulse outside the door. Malone pushes the body off him.
A body bolts off the fire escape landing.
Monty goes out the window after him.
No heroin in the room. No money counters.
No Castillo.
It was an ambush.
Castillo must have gone out the back before we got here, Malone thinks. He sussed out the surveillance and set me up, knowing I’m the one who always goes through the door.
That first blast was meant for me.
Levin took it instead.
Russo staggers into the room.
Footsteps pound up the stairs and Malone hears “NYPD!” They come down the hallway, firing.
“NYPD!” Malone screams. “We’re police!”
Tries to remember the color of the day.
Russo yells, “Red! Red!”
Malone hears more shots from outside.
Bullets smack into the walls above them. It’s Task Force—Gallina and Tenelli—coming up the hallway, firing in front of them. Russo hits the floor, crawls under a table. Malone squeezes himself into a corner. Takes off his lanyard, throws his shield out onto the floor where they can see it. “NYPD! It’s Malone!”
Tenelli sees him, pretends not to.
She fires twice.
Malone throws his arms across his face. The rounds hit left of his head.
Russo yells, “Fuck! Stop! It’s Russo!”
More feet, more voices.
Uniforms from the Three-Two, yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire! It’s cops! Russo and Malone!”
Tenelli lowers her weapon.
Malone gets up, goes for her. “You fucking cunt!”
“I didn’t see you!”
“The fuck you didn’t!”
A uniform gets between them.
Russo asks, “The fuck’s Monty?”
“He went down the fire escape.”
They go after him.
Fucking chaos in the streets. Sector cars rolling up, brakes screeching. Shouts, people running.
Monty lies on his bac
k on the sidewalk.
Blood pumps out of his carotid artery.
Malone kneels and presses hard against the neck, trying to stop the bleeding. “Don’t you go out on me, don’t you go out on me, brother. Please, Big Man, don’t you go out on me.”
Russo spins around like a drunk, holding his head, crying.
A radio car from the Three-Two squeals in, the uniforms jump out with guns drawn and aimed. Malone screams, “We’re on the job! Task Force! Officer down! Get medics here!”
He hears one of the uniforms say, “Is that fuckin’ Malone? Maybe we got here too soon.”
“Call a bus!” Russo yells. “One officer dead, two wounded, one critical!”
More cars are coming in, then an ambulance. The EMTs take over from Malone.
“Is he going to make it?” Malone asks, standing up. Monty’s blood is all over him.
“Too soon to tell.”
One of the EMTs goes over to Russo. “Let’s get you help.”
Russo shakes him off.
“Take care of Montague first,” Russo says. “Go!”
The ambulance takes off.
A uniform sergeant walks up to Malone. “What the fuck happened here?”
“One dead officer inside,” Malone says. “Five dead suspects down.”
“Any of the perps alive?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
A uniform walks out of the warehouse. “Three DOA. Two bleeding out. One’s shot in the femoral, the other’s skull is bashed in.”
“You want to talk to any of these fuckers?” the sergeant asks Malone.
Malone shakes his head.
“Wait ten,” the sergeant tells the uniform. “Then call in five perps DOA. And get another bus here, let’s recover that officer’s body.”
Malone sits down and leans against the wall. Suddenly he’s exhausted, the adrenaline dump dropping him into the black hole. Then Sykes is there, bending over him. “What the fuck, Malone? What the fuck did you do?”
Malone shakes his head.
Russo stumbles over. “Denny?”
“Yeah?”
“This is fucked up.”
Malone gets up, lifts Russo by the elbow and walks him to a car.
A cop’s doorbell rings at four in the morning there’s only one reason.
Yolanda knows it.
Malone sees it on her face the second she opens the door. “Oh, no.”
“Yolanda—”
“Oh, God no, Denny. Is he—”
“He’s hurt,” Malone says. “It’s serious.”