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Brenda understood Mack's concern. “No hero, stuff, Mack. I'm your shadow and you’re my shadow. That's the deal.”
A blast of icy wind rushed through the open front door and attacked her back. Death is in the wind. When this day is through, this warehouse will be somebody's tomb.
“We’re all marked for death, now, Mack. We won't live to see night arrive if we don't end this now. Joey Curanto has power and sooner or later, his bullets will find us. We have to stand and fight, but you better know I'm standing at your side, okay?”
“Good enough,” Mack replied, feeling a little relief touch his troubled face. “Let's get into the warehouse.”
Brenda agreed. She covered Mack as he eased open the door leading into a large, dark warehouse packed with rows and rows of wooden crates filled with rotted bags of flour, sugar, and spices that rats continually feasted on. Brenda quickly sniffed the air, searching for the scent of cologne or live cigarette smoke. Joey Curanto was known to wear a very heavy, potent cologne. The man also smoked expensive Russian cigarettes. Brenda caught only the whiff of stale air, still tainted with the scent of drugs.
No one has been in this warehouse for a while. Brenda thought.
“We need a good place to hide,” she whispered, easing down a lane between the wooden crates.
Mack held the pen light he was holding down onto a cracked concrete floor stained with oil marks. If anyone was hiding inside the warehouse, he didn't want to make his position obvious.
“We need to search out any other entrances,” he whispered back. “Curanto isn't likely to walk in through the front door.”
“I agree. Let's go.”
Mack checked his watch and then got moving. He and Brenda kept to the walls of the warehouse while walking a full square chalk line. Together they located a backdoor that was directly facing the river, along with a set of wooden doors that open outward for deliveries. Chains covered the double doors from the inside, so Joey Curanto would have to enter through the front door or the back door.
“Okay,” Mack spoke, keeping his voice low, “let's get a feel for this place.”
Brenda didn't ask any questions. Instead, she followed Mack into the middle of the warehouse, navigating past one tall row of wooden crates after another. Mack had a plan and Brenda was confident in her partner.
“Brent Summers never called me back and gave me the information I wanted about Joey Jr.,” she whispered. “Joey Curanto will be here very soon.”
***
Brent Summers informed Curanto about Brenda's position.
“Mr. Curanto, I warned her to back down, but she refused to listen. Now she's threatening to tell you lies.” Brent spoke to Joey in a nervous voice as he paced around his fancy office.
“Where is the woman, Brent?” Joey asked in a slithery voice, hungry to swallow a mouse.
“Agent Lawson said she is going to the east river warehouse district,” Brent confessed.
“I see,” Joey told Brent, standing up from behind an expensive desk that gleamed with dirty blood money. He walked to a large set of double windows, pulled back a heavy red drape, and looked over his snow-covered estate.
He particularly liked the small, frozen lake surrounded by shivering, bare trees. Then he spotted the reflection of a large, fat man in the window—a man wearing the eyes of a vicious killer that didn't mind if his jowls drooped or if his face looked like aged beef jerky. No. Joey Curanto didn't concern himself with appearances, although he did take pride in the fancy suits he wore.
“I have eyes everywhere,” he said.
Brent heard the thick 'Mafia' accent that gave him the creeps.
“Mr. Curanto, I can make a few calls—”
“No, Director, you did your job. I'll do my job. It seems like Agent Lawson wants to lure me into a trap. Don't worry. She'll be dead before the snow stops falling.”
Joey proceeded to call one of his guards. Stan wasn't Italian, but the man was ex-military and knew his stuff. Furthermore, Stan was loyal, and that counted in Joey's book.
“Stan, get Roberto and Smiley to the warehouse. I'll meet you there in one hour. We have two mice to kill. And Stan, stay out of sight until I arrive, huh? Good.”
Joey put his cell phone away, stared out at the falling snow, and then went for a fancy Russian revolver that he kept hidden in the top right drawer of his desk. “Time to die, Ms. Lawson. You're causing me too much trouble.”
A hard hand knocked on a thick, heavy, walnut door. Joey narrowed his eyes and ordered the visitor to enter. A tall man wearing a black suit stepped through the doors.
“Here she is, Mr. Curanto,” the man hissed, slinging Amy forward into the room. Amy tumbled forward and then crashed down onto her knees.
