Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(74)

“If you survive tonight,” I say, “we’re going to have to do something about that.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” he says. “Any particular reason you’re bringing it up right now?”

“Because, as Admiral Ackbar so nicely put it, it’s a trap!”

Five cuts his eyes at me as I pull out my phone, making sure the son of a bitch is still on since it hasn’t rang. “You think we’re walking into a trap?”

“I sat out here the other night, watching this place, and in the span of thirty minutes I counted no less than a dozen people in and out. Tonight? Not a single soul.”

“Could it be they’re all at Aristov’s?”

“Maybe,” I say. “But if that’s the case, there’s no way Scarlet’s here. He’s not leaving her unguarded.”

“So either she’s not inside anymore or...”

“It’s a trap,” I say, calling Three’s number.

He picks up on the second ring. “Yeah, boss?”

“Anything happening over there?”

“Seems pretty quiet,” Three says. “A few cars, a few lights, but otherwise, nothing unusual.”

“She hasn’t signaled you yet?”

“No,” he says. “I’m guessing the kid’s not inside.”

Or else it’s another trap...

“Hold your position,” I tell him. “Don’t go into that house, Three. That’s an order. You got me?”

“Uh, sure,” he says. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I know something’s wrong,” I say. “Were you aware Five here hasn’t watched Star Wars?”

“What?”

“Seriously, I can’t wrap my head around it, so I’m going to need a few minutes. Stay where you are, and call me if anything changes.”

I hang up, tapping my phone against my cheek a few times, as if that’ll help me think. Plan B. Plan C. Plan D. I’m quickly sliding my way right down to X-Y-Z, but only one idea is springing to mind.

Well, one idea that doesn’t involve a grenade. Still haven’t taken that off the table.

“When Han Solo rescued Princess Leia from the Death Star, you know how he managed it?”

“This sounds like it might contain movie spoilers.”

I laugh under my breath. Smart ass. “He dressed up like the enemy. He put on a stormtrooper uniform and waltzed his ass on through, undetected.”

“So, what, we need to become Russian? Not sure how that’s going to work...”

“No, we just need to not be who they’re expecting,” I say. “We need uniforms.”

I dial another number, waiting as it rings. And rings. And rings. I think maybe he’s not going to answer, but finally, he picks up, his voice hesitant. “Gambini?”

“Ah, Jameson, how are you and the boys in blue this evening?”

“Was doing pretty good until you just called,” he says. “You need something?”

“I need you to raid a place for me.”

“What place?”

“This place Aristov runs down in Brighton Beach... Limerence.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“You hear what I said, Jameson?”

“I’m hoping not,” he says, “because it sounded like you were asking me to put together a raid on a strip club in Brooklyn, where I don’t have any jurisdiction, without any probable cause.”

“Well, it’s more like a whorehouse...”

“There’s no way,” he says. “No judge is going to sign off on that.”

“I don’t expect you to get a search warrant. I just need you and the guys to, you know... go in, lock it down for me, so I can take a quick look around.”

He curses under his breath.

“I can talk to the guys, see if we can work something out,” he says. “When do you need this to happen?”

I glance at the clock.

7:50 p.m.

“In about ten minutes.”

“You’re joking,” he says. “I can’t even fucking get to Brooklyn in ten minutes, Gambini.”

“Well, then, you might want to use the siren,” I say. “I’ll owe you one.”

I hate those words. I’ll owe you one. I hate owing anybody anything. But it does the trick, like I need it to, because he tells me to hold tight before he hangs up the phone.

“Uniforms,” Five says. “Smart.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see if it works.”

Another few minutes go by, still seeing no sign of life around the club. Light’s on, but nobody’s home.

Eight o’clock comes and goes.

Nobody makes a move.

Plan officially fucked.

8:17 p.m.

I see the cars speed by, whipping in along the curb—two unmarked NYPD cruisers and an unmarked SUV, lights and siren off, trying to go undetected. The officers climb out, conversing, getting their gear together as Jameson stands along the curb, eyes scanning the neighborhood, falling upon me.

Instead of approaching, he pulls out his phone.

Mine rings seconds later.

“Only seventeen minutes late,” I tell him.