Read Online Angel Face by Stephen Solomita - Free Book Online

Lincoln Tunnel, even at eight o’clock, but once past Forty-Second Street, the traffic moves along and he parks the van facing Angel’s apartment at eight fifteen.
    Carter settles into the back of the van and carefully checks his surroundings, using the windshield and the side mirrors. He’s on a block in the very early stages of gentrification. A few doors in from the far corner, a drug crew services cars and pedestrians. In the middle of the block, four Hispanic teenagers, three boys and a girl, lean against a car parked in front of the low-income project on the south side of the street. They’re sharing a forty-ounce malt wrapped in a brown paper bag, clowning around, the girl shrieking from time to time. Across the road, Angel’s building is one of the block’s few bright spots, three tenements renovated to form a single building, its central entrance protected by a wrought-iron gate heavy enough to fend off the Mongol hordes.
    Carter’s prepared to wait for hours if necessary. He’s looking as much for Bobby Ditto as for Angel. He’s thinking Bobby, or whoever he sends, will initially do what Carter’s done, which is put the apartment under surveillance. But Carter’s overestimated the patience of New York mobsters. Not ten minutes after he settles down, the wrought-iron gate swings open to reveal Angel Tamanaka accompanied by two men. The younger of the two walks on Angel’s left. He’s got a jacket, a woman’s jacket, folded over his left arm, which is pointed at Angel’s ribcage. His right hand grips the back of her neck.
    Fish or cut bait, engage or withdraw. Carter has no more than a few seconds to decide. Then the second man, much the older of the two, reaches out to squeeze Angel’s ass, his thin lips parting in a grin as cruel as it is narcissistic. He’s got the power, the juice. He can do anything he wants to this disposable human being. Can and will.
    Carter exits through the side door of the van. Angel and her escorts, still fifty feet away, are walking right toward him. He ambles in their direction, moving to the outside of the man presumably holding a gun. When he comes within striking distance, he steps in front of the man and pulls the left side of his jacket away from his body, revealing his own weapon. Instinctively, the man brings his gun to bear on the threat.
    Carter waits until the gangster’s hand moves a few inches before driving his foot into the man’s crotch with all the considerable force at his command, a snap kick against which the man has no defense. Almost in the same motion, he draws his Colt and slams it into the side of the man’s head.
    One down and one to go. Carter levels the gun at the second man, who stands frozen in place, immobile as a department store manikin.
    â€˜You move, you’re dead,’ Carter explains. Then he asks, ‘What did I just say?’
    â€˜Don’t worry. I’m not packing.’
    Carter repeats the question. ‘What did I just say?’
    â€˜If I move, you’ll kill me.’
    Carter squats and strips the gun, a semi-automatic Glock, from the hand of the first man, who rolls on to his back and groans. Carter ignores the blood running along the man’s face and neck. He rummages through the man’s jacket and discovers a cellphone. The cellphone goes into his pocket, the gun beneath his waistband.
    â€˜Are you the brother?’ he asks the older man as he rises to his feet.
    â€˜Whose brother?’
    The man has a narrow face, a hatchet face, dominated by a sharp hollow nose that reminds Carter of a triangular sail on a racing yacht. He stares at Carter through contemptuous eyes, having apparently concluded that Carter’s not going to kill him. But not killing and not hurting are two different things. Carter slaps the man across the face with his free hand, the crack loud enough to arouse the kids across the street. They erupt in a chorus of