You remember that.”
Maven nodded, swallowing the toast. The elevator dinged and a red arrow appeared on the overhead panel. Maven followed Royce down the hall, everyone pulling down his balaclava mask and converging on the doors.
They opened, and the first two were inside immediately. Royce advanced with his Beretta out of his holster, aimed low at the floor, ready. Muffled yells and wall-thumps, but no gunshots. Maven couldn’t see inside, remaining a few yards back, uncertain whether he should draw. The door tried to close twice, each time Royce stopping it with his foot.
The scuffle ended, and the Latino exited the elevator car with the Venezuelan in front of him, the man’s wrists cuffed behind his back. A nylon mouth gag accentuated the wild and stunned look on the Venezuelan’s face. The black guy came out second with a bigger guy, identically bound and gagged, but more bent over, perhaps more hurt. He wrenched the man’s arms higher and handed him to Maven, who gripped the guy by his elbow.
Royce retrieved the wheeled suitcase, then the black guy stepped back inside the elevator, Maven seeing, reflected in the wall mirror before the door closed, him screwing a tube-shaped suppressor onto his pistol muzzle.
Then they were running, feet thudding heavily on the carpet asthey pushed their captives around the corner, rushing to the stairwell. Maven followed the Latino’s lead, strong-arming the muscle up the steps, bumping him around a little when he resisted. He saw someone moving floors below them, but it was just the blond coming up the stairs.
At the top floor, Royce squeezed past them to the front, knocking the Venezuelan’s head against the wall to get his attention. Royce unzipped his own jacket and pulled down the flap on the front of his vest. White block letters read FBI.
The Venezuelan’s gagged grunting echoed inside the deep stairwell.
Royce bounced him off the wall once more for emphasis, and the Venezuelan sagged but the Latino held him up. Royce reached for Maven’s jacket and unzipped it, tearing down his FBI patch too. Maven didn’t feel good about this.
Royce said to the Venezuelan, “Play along and your lawyer will have you out by midnight. But fuck with us, and you die resisting arrest. Comprende? Entiende? ”
They went down the twenty-ninth floor hallway, met halfway by the black guy, holding another man doubled over in front of him. His face was bloody and he wheezed into his gag—probably a lookout posted at the elevator.
The blond took the lookout, and the black guy lined up on the hinge side of door 2919. The Latino pushed the Venezuelan’s face into the peephole. Royce crouched beside him, his gun pointed at the Venezuelan. He pulled down the man’s gag and knocked on the door.
A voice on the other side said, “Yep,” and the door started to open, and the Latino drove the Venezuelan forward. The black guy went in solo behind him, long gun out. Then the blond with the bloodied man, then Maven.
Maven’s guy tried to kick him and pull free, so Maven shoved him down, hard, the man crashing into a table and falling onto his side. Maven had his gun free and was in a good two-handed crouch—but it was already over.
Nobody moved. Not the goon who had answered the door and was thrown back against the wall. Not the goon by the window, his hand frozen halfway to his holster. Not the fat Maracone brothers, seated at the far table like diners awaiting their meal.
It was the letters FBI. Not one shot was fired.
The Maracones looked at the bound and gagged Venezuelan with disgust. They kept their fat hands visible and their mouths shut. The black guy went over and shouldered each one to the floor, twin silver .25 handguns falling from beneath their fleshy thighs.
Everybody was then cuffed, hands and ankles. Furniture was cleared away so that they could be laid out on the floor, heads in, like a six-petal flower. The Venezuelan’s muscle, the heaviest of them all, was left
Maven nodded, swallowing the toast. The elevator dinged and a red arrow appeared on the overhead panel. Maven followed Royce down the hall, everyone pulling down his balaclava mask and converging on the doors.
They opened, and the first two were inside immediately. Royce advanced with his Beretta out of his holster, aimed low at the floor, ready. Muffled yells and wall-thumps, but no gunshots. Maven couldn’t see inside, remaining a few yards back, uncertain whether he should draw. The door tried to close twice, each time Royce stopping it with his foot.
The scuffle ended, and the Latino exited the elevator car with the Venezuelan in front of him, the man’s wrists cuffed behind his back. A nylon mouth gag accentuated the wild and stunned look on the Venezuelan’s face. The black guy came out second with a bigger guy, identically bound and gagged, but more bent over, perhaps more hurt. He wrenched the man’s arms higher and handed him to Maven, who gripped the guy by his elbow.
Royce retrieved the wheeled suitcase, then the black guy stepped back inside the elevator, Maven seeing, reflected in the wall mirror before the door closed, him screwing a tube-shaped suppressor onto his pistol muzzle.
Then they were running, feet thudding heavily on the carpet asthey pushed their captives around the corner, rushing to the stairwell. Maven followed the Latino’s lead, strong-arming the muscle up the steps, bumping him around a little when he resisted. He saw someone moving floors below them, but it was just the blond coming up the stairs.
At the top floor, Royce squeezed past them to the front, knocking the Venezuelan’s head against the wall to get his attention. Royce unzipped his own jacket and pulled down the flap on the front of his vest. White block letters read FBI.
The Venezuelan’s gagged grunting echoed inside the deep stairwell.
Royce bounced him off the wall once more for emphasis, and the Venezuelan sagged but the Latino held him up. Royce reached for Maven’s jacket and unzipped it, tearing down his FBI patch too. Maven didn’t feel good about this.
Royce said to the Venezuelan, “Play along and your lawyer will have you out by midnight. But fuck with us, and you die resisting arrest. Comprende? Entiende? ”
They went down the twenty-ninth floor hallway, met halfway by the black guy, holding another man doubled over in front of him. His face was bloody and he wheezed into his gag—probably a lookout posted at the elevator.
The blond took the lookout, and the black guy lined up on the hinge side of door 2919. The Latino pushed the Venezuelan’s face into the peephole. Royce crouched beside him, his gun pointed at the Venezuelan. He pulled down the man’s gag and knocked on the door.
A voice on the other side said, “Yep,” and the door started to open, and the Latino drove the Venezuelan forward. The black guy went in solo behind him, long gun out. Then the blond with the bloodied man, then Maven.
Maven’s guy tried to kick him and pull free, so Maven shoved him down, hard, the man crashing into a table and falling onto his side. Maven had his gun free and was in a good two-handed crouch—but it was already over.
Nobody moved. Not the goon who had answered the door and was thrown back against the wall. Not the goon by the window, his hand frozen halfway to his holster. Not the fat Maracone brothers, seated at the far table like diners awaiting their meal.
It was the letters FBI. Not one shot was fired.
The Maracones looked at the bound and gagged Venezuelan with disgust. They kept their fat hands visible and their mouths shut. The black guy went over and shouldered each one to the floor, twin silver .25 handguns falling from beneath their fleshy thighs.
Everybody was then cuffed, hands and ankles. Furniture was cleared away so that they could be laid out on the floor, heads in, like a six-petal flower. The Venezuelan’s muscle, the heaviest of them all, was left
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