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I’m not letting Trap get away.
27
TRAP
* * *
There’s no good way to get from the Upper West Side to Brooklyn on a Saturday night. If I were driving myself, I’d have to concentrate on the fucking traffic. Instead, I sit in the back of the Mercedes and let Charles fight the good fight. Creeping through a sea of red lights on 11thAvenue, I have nothing to do but go over my plan, such as it is.
My advantages:
Surprise. The Herzogs aren’t expecting me to show up at Kynk.
Layout. Rider sent me floor plans for the club.
Backup: Sawgrass is doing the actual wetwork. And the guys Best has waiting outside the club are motivated as hell, seeking revenge for the fuck-up on Long Island.
My disadvantages:
Knockout drugs: Real life isn’t like the movies. If I jam a needle into someone’s neck, they’re not going to drop in seconds. Chances are, I’ll hit bone or muscle, maybe the esophagus or the windpipe. Even if I manage a direct shot to the carotid it’ll take almost a minute for my victim to pass out, and he’ll be fighting like a motherfucker most of that time.
Flying solo: Sawgrass will be waiting on the outside, but they don’t get past the front door. I’m only one guy, and I’m going after two.
Witnesses: I’m going to a fucking sex club. How many people will be with the Herzogs when I hunt them down?
Because that’s what this is: A hunt. I need to find my prey, neutralize them, and get them out the side door before any civilians know what’s going on.
I have a plan. I’ll work my way through the club methodically, moving right to left. The public spaces will be easy. Private rooms are more of a challenge. Some doors stay open, but I’ll be out on my ass if security catches me where I’m not invited.
But something tells me the Herzog brothers like an audience. I don’t see them closing any doors.
So, I’ll find them. And I’ll wait till they’re done with whoever they’re fucking. When their dicks are limp and shriveled, and bystanders are out of the way,I’llbe the one to lure them into another private room.
After all, they know who I am. They won’t pass up the chance to get revenge for me watching Klaus bleed out on my dining room floor. Or for sending the Sawgrass troops last week. If Best had eleven casualties, I know the Herzogs were hit hard.
Then the real fun starts. One sharp blow to the first neck, to the carotid sinus. Turn fast, and get the other guy’s throat. If the side of my hand is hard enough, fast enough, their blood pressure’ll drop like fucking stones. They’ll be out cold for two minutes, maybe three. I’ll have time to find each carotid. To shoot them up with whatever Best gave me. And once they’re both knocked out for good, I can take my time, helping my first “friend” to a little fresh air, then going back for the second.
It’s a risk. But it’s the best chance I’m going to get. I need to do this so the Diamond Ring can escape the blackmail that threatened Alix and me. I need to save Alix from those animals ever getting to her again. I need to punish the assholes for releasing the video.
For the thousandth time, I check the pair of syringes in my jacket pocket. The casing is plastic—no worries about Kynk’s metal detector. The needles themselves are too small to register on the machine.
We’re finally over water, the lights of Governor’s Island to our right. Then back on shore, in Brooklyn at last. Charles weaves his way past the trendy parts of the borough. Down on the water, the old warehouses are dark. Dangerous, like sleeping wolves.
“Slow down,” I say, as we approach the address Rider gave me. There’s a couple standing outside. He’s dressed in a tuxedo. She’s wearing a handkerchief. They both look scared.
“Drive around the block,” I order.
Charles takes the turn slowly, using his indicator, just like we were all taught in school. The street looks more like an alley, looming buildings on either side. Doorways are shadowed, and trash is piled in the corners. It looks like the world ended a decade ago, but no one let folks know down here.
Another turn. More deserted buildings.
A third turn. We’re heading back toward the water now. A door opens and closes, flashing light onto the dark gray street. A man dressed in the dirty whites of a busboy hefts a trash bag into a dumpster.
Charles keeps his pace steady, not calling attention to our vehicle. I almost miss the black SUV in the shadows, parked facing us, three or four car-lengths from the service door. Its front license plate is splattered with mud, illegible in the dark.
“Flash your high beams,” I tell Charles. “Two short, one long.”
He complies without asking questions. That’s why I’ve trusted him for over a decade.
