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37
Lyon waited as Alek parked next to the curb down the street from Musa’s apartment. He looked around the West Town neighborhood, filled with small homes and a handful of apartment buildings. It was neat and humble, but it was also rife with bratva.
They needed to move quickly.
Lyon looked at the third floor window facing the street. Blue light from a TV flickered against the curtains, but they needed to be sure.
“Check with Michael.” Lyon said to Alek. “Make sure he’s in there.”
“You got it.”
Alek got out of the car and walked toward an older Buick parked farther down the street. He stopped at the driver’s side window, said a few words, then headed back to the Rover.
“Came in a couple of hours ago,” Alek said. “Kid said he hasn’t left since, and no one’s come in either.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Lyon got out of the car and grabbed the weapons he’d loaded and prepared. “Tell the men in back to wait,” he said to Alek. “Make sure Musa doesn’t make a run for it.” Lyon hoped to kill him quick and quiet, rendering the possibility of an escape impossible, but one never knew with these things.
Alek jogged to the Rover in the back while Lyon walked to the second one. The passenger side opened with an electronic hum.
“You come with me,” he said to the three men inside. “I’m going to leave the others on the street, just in case.”
They nodded their understanding and got out of the car. He was grateful for the extra firepower — grateful to Roman — even though he hoped he wouldn’t need it. He’d gotten to know the six New York men in the days they’d been preparing at the Brighton Park house, had gotten to like and trust them.
Alek returned. “All set.”
Lyon grabbed the battering ram out of the trunk of the Rover and handed it to Alek. “Let’s go.”
They moved quickly toward the apartment building’s entrance and stepped into a small, low-ceilinged foyer. A row of metal mailboxes lined one wall, a bicycle chained to a rusting radiator. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and mold.
Lyon took the lead with Alek at his back. The other men fell in behind them.
They climbed the three flights of stairs slowly and quietly. The building was old, and the stairs had seen better days. The extra time was well spent in making sure a nosy neighbor didn’t decide to investigate a clatter on the stairs at two a.m.
Lyon reached the third-floor landing and moved quietly toward the door at the end of the short hall: apartment 314.
He waited while Alek and the others caught up, then moved back so Alek had access to the door. The plan was simple, one they’d gone over many times: break down the door, fan out to keep Musa from running, allow Lyon the kill shot.
It was overkill really. The apartment only had two bedrooms and a bathroom. There was nowhere for Musa to run.
Lyon held up one hand and counted down on his fingers from 3…
2… 1…
Alek swung the battering ram back and let it swing forward. The momentum took it all the way, and it hammered into the cheap wooden door with a thundering crash. Wood splintered every which way, and Lyon stepped forward to give the door a kick that took it the rest of the way.
The door flew open on its hinges, smacking back against the wall inside the apartment.
Lyon registered everything quickly as he moved into the living room: the TV’s flickering light, the volume overly loud, the other lights off in the room.
And then, the room itself. Empty.
“Where is he?” one of Roman’s men said.
Lyon hurried down the carpeted hall and checked the other rooms: the bathroom, a nondescript bedroom with a bed and a dresser, and the room most likely occupied by Musa, neat, but lived-in.
“What the fuck…?” Alek said behind him.
