A Dark and Broken Heart Read Free Page A

always out front. Eyes look for the money, and when the money comes up, well, then—and only then—are they all eagle-eyed out back. These guys may be tough, but they’re not the brightest lights in the harbor. That, and the simple fact that Sandià owns the whole neighborhood and no one in their right mind would even consider robbing him . . .
    But Madigan hasn’t got any room to maneuver; desperate situations call for desperate measures.
    Madigan, Fulton, and Williams will be up on the roof of the outbuilding before the delivery’s even made. The outbuilding adjoins the property, its roof sitting beneath the window by three feet, no more. The way it goes is this: Landry’s out in the street. He sees the money going in the front. He radios Madigan, andMadigan, Fulton, and Williams are coming through the upper floor as the money reaches the top of the stairwell. The four goons are dead in a hail of gunfire, and then the money goes out the back, along the alleyway beside the house, into the van, and away. Five minutes, tops.
    Madigan closes his eyes. He feels the rush. He feels the punch of the thing in his lower gut. If this goes, then maybe there’s an out for him. If this dies a death, then regardless of whether he makes it out of the house there’s no chance. If he doesn’t get caught by the cops, Sandià will find him. And then there will be the inevitable conversation, and Sandià will torture Madigan for a month and leave his heart in a box on the sidewalk in front of the apartment where his kids live. This is what Sandià will do. This is the kind of man that he is.
    Landry grips the wheel. His knuckles are white. Madigan watches him for a moment, and then he glances over his shoulder at Fulton and Williams. Any other day and he would be kicking the crap out of people like this for the money they owed Sandià. But today? No, not today. Today is different.
    “We’re out of here,” Madigan says quietly, and such is the tension and anticipation in the van that they would have gotten that message had he only thought it.
    Fulton opens up the back door.
    Williams goes first. Blue jeans, tan work boots, a black jacket with the collar up against the cold. Over his shoulder is the duffel. It’s all in his eyes, his body language, his gait—the fear, but also the need to feel that fear.
    Madigan nods at Fulton. Fulton does the two-fists-clenched, I’m ready for this gesture, and then he’s out the door as well. He follows Williams, is no more than ten feet behind him, and Madigan waits for a good five minutes. He allows ample time for them to walk back around the block and come up to the alleyway beside the house from the far side.
    “Whatever happens,” Madigan tells Landry, “whatever you hear, whatever the hell you think might be going on in there, you don’t take off until I’m back. I don’t care if Zeppo comes back here with half his head blown off. I don’t care if half of Costa-fuckin’-Rica comes out of that house with Harpo’s head on a stick and his balls in a paper bag. You don’t go anywhere until I’m in here with you. You get me?”
    “Hey—” Landry starts, and he smiles. He’s done this kind ofthing before. He knows the score. He knows what’s meant to happen and what really happens are sometimes as far from each other as north and south.
    “Hey nothing,” Madigan says. “You just say, ‘Yes, sir, Mr. Groucho.’ That’s all I wanna hear right now.”
    Landry nods. “I got it, man. I know the deal here.” He bangs the steering wheel with his palms a couple of times for emphasis, and then he grips it again like a lifeline.
    “So we’re good?”
    “We’re good, man. We’re good.”
    Madigan tucks the leather loop of the Mossberg over his shoulder and buttons his overcoat. He jerks back the lever and the door opens. He steps down into the street and looks back one more time at Bobby Landry. He’s a young guy, only twenty-five. He has a thin film of sweat varnishing his