Blindside (Michael Bennett #12)(50)

The heavy, sloppy Ollie added, “And on cops.” He had a breezy, endearing smile. It’d be hard not to like him in other circumstances.

Christoph said, “Aren’t Americans used to public shootings?”

“Not by slipshod amateurs like you. It must’ve been embarrassing knowing you had to use that kind of firepower on two unsuspecting people. Now you had to get extra help just to deal with me. Don’t you have any standards?”

I could tell I was getting to the neat killer. He had an image he was trying to maintain. Just like Henry. The fat one, Ollie, couldn’t have cared less. He said something in Dutch and his buddy didn’t say another word.

From the catwalk, Henry called out, “Enough. You can chat with him on the way. Just get him out of my sight. We have work to do. We need to go to the new office.” He clapped his hands to get everyone moving quickly.

It was more information but nothing that could help me right now. I felt a little desperation creep into my mind. I might have to do something drastic soon.

Then the door behind me burst open, and I turned quickly. The door hung at an odd angle, swaying on broken hinges, as someone began to enter the room. I saw the gun first.

It was the FBI’s finest: Bill Fiore.





CHAPTER 71





ALL EYES WERE on the FBI agent. Fiore looked focused as he stepped all the way into the room. He took a position near a concrete support column close to the door. He showed good tactical sense.

Everyone stood perfectly still. Including me. They just stared at the portly FBI agent with his Glock 9mm held out in front of him. Just as I was thinking, Don’t say something like “Freeze” or “You’re all under arrest,” Fiore opened his mouth.

He said, “Nobody move.”

Great. That should scare them into submission. I stepped backward until I was close to him. The heavy support column was a few steps to our left. I checked it out because something told me we might need it.

Then the handsome Christoph, the one who’d started shooting in New York, pulled a pistol from behind his back. At almost the same time the “janitor,” Gunnar, did the same thing.

Out of instinct, I yelled, “Gun.” It was the universal signal among police that there was real danger in real time.

Fiore fired three times quickly before we both jumped to our left, behind the column. Before I did, I saw Gunnar go down. His pistol clattered on the hard, tiled floor. Blood quickly leaked into the grout and spread all around him. There was nothing neat or clean about a bullet wound.

I had to ask Fiore, “How’d you find me?”

“You gave me the address, you moron. You said it was across from Toit’s City.”

The FBI agent was starting to impress me.

Now shots echoed as Henry’s people fired on us. Fragments from the column burst into dust, clouding my vision. There was enough dust to make me cough. I still wasn’t going to move from my position.

I crouched next to Fiore as he returned fire, and I drew my own pistol. I wanted a quick shot at Henry. It was the old theory that if you cut off the head of a snake, the rest of the snake is no threat.

When I popped out from behind the support post, no one was on the catwalk. Henry and Natalie had disappeared.

Fiore stopped firing for a moment. I ducked back behind the post. When he looked at me, he was astonished. “Where the hell did you get a gun?”

I shrugged and said, “Just picked it up.”

I heard him mumble something foul about the NYPD. Then he started to shoot again.

I knocked down the guy with the teardrop tattoo. I hit him in the leg and then the pelvis. He flopped down onto the floor, screaming in Estonian. He ignored his gun and desperately tried to stem the bleeding next to his groin. I knew he was out of the fight.

The sound of the gunfire boomed in the big room and shut down my hearing. We still had to deal with the main killers I had seen in action before. I didn’t know where they had dropped back to. I couldn’t get a bead on them.

Then I heard Fiore grunt. I leaned back and saw blood pouring from a bullet hole in his shoulder. It also seeped between his fingers where he was holding the side of his abdomen.

He started to pant. He was losing color.

All I said was “How bad?”

He turned and lifted his hand so I could see the wound. Even through his mangled shirt, I knew it was nothing to fool around with.

“I have an idea.”

Fiore said, “Is it better than your idea to come here alone?” “Only marginally.”

“Better than nothing. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m gonna lay down some heavy fire. And you scoot out the door.”

Fiore said, “I’m not going to leave you here.”

“You’re not going to do either of us a favor by bleeding out on the floor. Go get some help. And some immediate medical attention.”

I could see him thinking about it.

Then I said forcefully, “You need attention right now. On the count of three, you get out that door. And don’t forget to get me some help.”

I counted quickly. “One, two, three.” Then I slid to the right of the post and emptied my magazine. I spread the fire around, trying to keep anyone with a goddamn gun in the room from raising his head.

One bullet struck the metal handrail along the catwalk. It caused an impressive spark. The air was thick with dust and gunpowder. The slide on my pistol locked back. I was empty. I threw myself behind the support column.