behind him. As he stepped cautiously into the hall, sniffing the hospital smells of medicine, bad food, and vomit, he tensed, animal-quick eyes darting from nearby nurses and a lean black man cleaning the floor, to the door Marced “Exit.”
Pressing his lips tightly together, feeling his heart pound, he rubbed his hands against his thighs and walked quickly toward the door. He didn’t know where the garage was.
But he’d find it. He had to. And quickly.
CHAPTER 2
J OHN BOLT SPOKE IN a whisper, lips hardly moving. “Yeah, that’s him, that’s the bastard. Lonzu the lover. Bandage on his forehead, see it? Never thanked me for giving him that, the prick.”
In the cool semidarkness of the hospital garage, a corner of Bolt’s mouth moved upward in a small, cold smile.
Shit, was it three days ago that he had kicked Alain Lonzu in the head? Damn if it wasn’t.
That night Bolt and three other federal narcotics agents had busted through a hotel door, and everything had happened at once. Claude Patek had either blown his cool or thought he was a fucking bird, because before you can say “boo,” that sucker’s gone crashing through a window and broken his ass two stories below.
And Alain Lonzu, the big man’s little brother, the cocksman of all France, dope pusher and lover, what the hell does he do? He goes for a gun in his belt, and Bolt, who wants Lonzu alive, grabs a chair and throws it in his face.
Lonzu falls backward, gun flying from his hand. But damn, that Corsican son-of-a-bitch is a bad-ass, and he starts crawling, and scrambling for the piece, cursing and yelling his fucking head off in French about shooting somebody’s balls off. He reaches the gun, and Bolt remembers the wild look on Lonzu’s face, and what the hell, you want the dude alive, but you don’t want to get blown away bringing him in.
So you kick him in the head. Hard. And you don’t worry about it. You just kick his fucking brains through his ears. Yeah, Bolt remembered that night.
But now it was morning three days later. And the hunt was still on. John Bolt, with two other agents, was hiding in the shadows and darkness of the hospital garage, the three of them spending precious seconds watching Alain Lonzu, forty yards away, talk to three men standing around a dark blue 1973 Ford.
O.K., thought Bolt, no more standing around with our noses pressed against the candy-store window. We move in and grab little brother, before he disappears for good. His friends, too, because anybody hanging around that Corsican bastard ain’t no altarboy.
Bolt’s harsh whisper came from the side of his mouth. His heart jumped, picking up a faster rhythm and holding on to it. Fear? Nerves? A little of both. Believe it, baby.
“Spread out. Vanders, you left. Weaver right, and me straight up the middle. Get ’em in between us. And dig it: we want Lonzu alive and well. Little brother’s got a lot to tell us if we lean on him hard enough. Especially that story we keep running into on the street about a Mr. X the Corsicans are supposed to have in the Justice Department. Some funny things have happened with cases we had locked in, so maybe there’s some truth to this particular tale. Anyway, hot lips Lonzu over there can fill us in. Just like he can tell us about those two hundred keys supposedly heading for New York. But first we get our hands on little brother. On my signal. Nobody do shit till then. O.K., move it. And stay loose.”
Weaver and Vanders nodded once. They were pros and understood. Move in. Stay quiet, keep low, and wait for big John to spring the good news on Lonzu.
In seconds all three agents had slipped deeper into shadows and darkness, crouching and moving low, guns out and held tightly until it seemed the knuckles would burst through the skin. You needed the gun. Because Alain Lonzu was important in the dope world.
And important men in the dope world were hard arrests, goddamn hard. They didn’t want to go to a federal prison
Pressing his lips tightly together, feeling his heart pound, he rubbed his hands against his thighs and walked quickly toward the door. He didn’t know where the garage was.
But he’d find it. He had to. And quickly.
CHAPTER 2
J OHN BOLT SPOKE IN a whisper, lips hardly moving. “Yeah, that’s him, that’s the bastard. Lonzu the lover. Bandage on his forehead, see it? Never thanked me for giving him that, the prick.”
In the cool semidarkness of the hospital garage, a corner of Bolt’s mouth moved upward in a small, cold smile.
Shit, was it three days ago that he had kicked Alain Lonzu in the head? Damn if it wasn’t.
That night Bolt and three other federal narcotics agents had busted through a hotel door, and everything had happened at once. Claude Patek had either blown his cool or thought he was a fucking bird, because before you can say “boo,” that sucker’s gone crashing through a window and broken his ass two stories below.
And Alain Lonzu, the big man’s little brother, the cocksman of all France, dope pusher and lover, what the hell does he do? He goes for a gun in his belt, and Bolt, who wants Lonzu alive, grabs a chair and throws it in his face.
Lonzu falls backward, gun flying from his hand. But damn, that Corsican son-of-a-bitch is a bad-ass, and he starts crawling, and scrambling for the piece, cursing and yelling his fucking head off in French about shooting somebody’s balls off. He reaches the gun, and Bolt remembers the wild look on Lonzu’s face, and what the hell, you want the dude alive, but you don’t want to get blown away bringing him in.
So you kick him in the head. Hard. And you don’t worry about it. You just kick his fucking brains through his ears. Yeah, Bolt remembered that night.
But now it was morning three days later. And the hunt was still on. John Bolt, with two other agents, was hiding in the shadows and darkness of the hospital garage, the three of them spending precious seconds watching Alain Lonzu, forty yards away, talk to three men standing around a dark blue 1973 Ford.
O.K., thought Bolt, no more standing around with our noses pressed against the candy-store window. We move in and grab little brother, before he disappears for good. His friends, too, because anybody hanging around that Corsican bastard ain’t no altarboy.
Bolt’s harsh whisper came from the side of his mouth. His heart jumped, picking up a faster rhythm and holding on to it. Fear? Nerves? A little of both. Believe it, baby.
“Spread out. Vanders, you left. Weaver right, and me straight up the middle. Get ’em in between us. And dig it: we want Lonzu alive and well. Little brother’s got a lot to tell us if we lean on him hard enough. Especially that story we keep running into on the street about a Mr. X the Corsicans are supposed to have in the Justice Department. Some funny things have happened with cases we had locked in, so maybe there’s some truth to this particular tale. Anyway, hot lips Lonzu over there can fill us in. Just like he can tell us about those two hundred keys supposedly heading for New York. But first we get our hands on little brother. On my signal. Nobody do shit till then. O.K., move it. And stay loose.”
Weaver and Vanders nodded once. They were pros and understood. Move in. Stay quiet, keep low, and wait for big John to spring the good news on Lonzu.
In seconds all three agents had slipped deeper into shadows and darkness, crouching and moving low, guns out and held tightly until it seemed the knuckles would burst through the skin. You needed the gun. Because Alain Lonzu was important in the dope world.
And important men in the dope world were hard arrests, goddamn hard. They didn’t want to go to a federal prison
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