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“Hey. How are things over there?” she asked.
“Getting interesting,” he replied.
Sci whistled. “That’s never a good thing.”
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone, but I’ve sent you all a secure message bringing you up to speed,” he responded.
“What do you want us to do when we reach Brooklyn?” Sci asked.
“Surveillance only. Make sure this guy doesn’t leave until the cops arrive.”
“And Rafael?” Justine asked.
“NYPD officers are en route as we speak,” Mo-bot replied. “They’re taking him in for questioning.”
Justine now understood the aura of pain and defeat around their associate. He was facing his reckoning. He’d be in police custody in a matter of minutes.
“They’ll want statements from all of us at some point,” Mo-bot said.
“You’re not to engage this Angel,” Jack cautioned. “Under any circumstances. Let the police do their job.”
“Understood,” Mo-bot replied.
“Keep me posted,” he said before hanging up.
CHAPTER 50
THE WAREHOUSE LOOKED exactly the sort of place a person would plot murder. It was located on a rundown industrial park near Maspeth. The site was full of what Justine referred to as mystery businesses; small firms that traded in specialist goods like air-conditioning parts or vending machine coin-sorters. These were businesses that never seemed to grow or shrink, and it was a mystery to her how they survived. The warehouses that housed them were poorly maintained with flecks of rust on pipes, cracked windows, and crumbling concrete.
The building Mo-bot had identified as Angel’s location was worst of all. Situated at the rear of the industrial park, near the Long Island Expressway, it looked as though it had been deserted for years. A wire fence surrounded the lot but had been cut in places. The main gate was secured by a rusty chain andpadlock, and beyond it was a parking lot that had been cracked and broken by a forest of weeds. The warehouse itself had four loading bays for large trucks and might once have been a food-distribution center, judging by all the wire-mesh cages rusting in a heap to one side of the yard.
Sci had driven them to the location and parked in the lot of the warehouse opposite, which belonged to a flooring adhesive firm. It was just gone 7 a.m. and was still too early for any of the surrounding businesses to be open. Sci and Justine sat in the front of the Nissan Rogue and watched Angel’s warehouse while Mo-bot worked on her laptop.
“He’s still there,” she said, nodding toward her screen.
As if on cue, Justine saw an NYPD SWAT team double-time across the adjacent parking lot. They had come from somewhere behind the neighboring building. Two of the eight men carried bolt cutters and used them to widen a gap in the wire fence.
They moved through, their distinctive black uniforms making them look like shadows as they ran across the overgrown parking lot in the hazy early-morning light. Only the letters “SWAT,” imprinted on the back of their body armor, made them seem real.
The lead officer used his bolt cutters to break a chain that secured a side door. The team entered the warehouse.
The tension was almost too much to bear. Justine could hardly breathe. She caught glimpses of the SWAT team moving through the building, although it was hard to be sure, they were difficult to spot in the dark windows.
“This guy isn’t going down without a fight,” Sci said, echoing her thoughts.
She was expecting fireworks.
Less than a minute after the team entered the building, a convoy of police vehicles, a SWAT truck, and some unmarked sedans rolled into the parking lot of Angel’s warehouse, following a lead vehicle that crashed through the gates, snapping the rusty chain.
“This is it,” Mo-bot said. “Let’s see if we can get a few words with the guy.”
She got out and hurried across the lot, Justine and Sci following.
Justine could tell something was wrong the moment they reached the parking lot in front of Angel’s warehouse. Uniformed cops milled around with the despondency of baseball fans who have just seen their team get thrashed. The SWAT team emerged from the warehouse and started removing their helmets.
Luiz Salazar peeled away from a group of cops and marched over.
He didn’t seem happy.
