Gun Work

During off hours, Rainer’s limo enjoyed a special curbside yellow zone on West 58th Street near Eighth Avenue, probably with the sanction of bribed cops. While on duty it circulated around the business district; Rainer’s office was spitting distance from the World Trade Center site. If it parked, it had itself a hide and Barney never spotted it. The driver never seemed to take a meal or bathroom break, and he only left the vehicle to watchdog Rainer in person. The afternoon of the second day was spent tracking the limo’s ups and downs in the city, so Barney had found the car connection provided by Sirius to be useful, although he hated driving in Manhattan traffic as much as any sane person would.

Barney never stopped to ask himself if he was crazy. Any more than Rainer and lunch, he didn’t have the time.

This was going to have to go fast.

Within fifteen seconds of the limousine curbing in front of the skyscraper housing the Bleecker Street Group, at precisely 7:35 in the evening, Barney strolled up to the driver’s side door with his free hand grasping a shield wallet designating him as a New York City detective. He made the familiar hand-rolling motion and the driver, an enormous bodybuilder in livery, buzzed the window down and regarded him impatiently.

Barney stuck the SIG right into his ear canal. The chauffeur’s movements were restricted by the door, his seat belt, and the general fact that he tended to fill the entire driver’s space.

“Scoot over,” said Barney.

“Awww... shit,” said the driver, resigned.

Barney took note of the obvious bulge of gun saddle on the man’s right hip. He was a southpaw. Once they were safe and cozy behind tinted windows, Barney said, “Gun. Take it out, right hand, two fingers on the butt. Go on, belt yourself in. Good. Now sit on your hands, palms down. Good.”

The driver rolled his eyes, torqued at being blind-sided, knowing this would reflect badly on his rating. “What the fuck you want, man?”

“I want you to keep doing what I tell you.”

The driver’s gun was a simple Browning Hi-Power in nine millimeter, no jazz. Barney quickly found a backup piece in a drop door under the dashboard — a polymer-framed Cobra Patriot, also in nine. He hooked them through the open privacy divider into the cabin of the limo.

The driver did not have an ankle gun. He was not packing cuffs, a stun gun or a telescoping baton. Too much gear for the fit of his suit. About all he carried besides a wallet was his personal cellphone, which was in a slot on the dash. Barney popped the battery and chip and tossed that, too.

Barney quickly located the driver’s side “panic button” transmitter and disabled it. Then he neutralized the car phone.

“Fuck, dude, you gonna cost me my job, you know that.”

“No I’m not,” said Barney, scanning the perimeter. “Question One: Is he armed?”

The driver knew the advantages of all-business when facing down a gun. “No sir. He never carries a weapon. He voted for that asshole Schumer—”

“Pay attention,” said Barney, keeping him on track. “Question Two: How long?”

“Five minutes tops, from when he beeps me, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir. That leaves us about a minute and a half. What’s your name?”

The guy looked around as though he’d just taken a bite of pizza and lost a pepperoni in his clothes. “Uh, Malcolm, sir... I mean, Malcolm.”

“Okay, Malcolm. The man who pays your salary is a piece of shit, a Wall Street player who damned near got me perished. Play this wrong and you perish, my friend. You perish first. The slugs in this gun will go through anything you can get behind, and if you fuck me, you won’t be able to take cover fast enough, because I’m pissed off, and you don’t want me pissed off at you instead of your boss. You copy?”

Malcolm nodded, a single up-down head bob. “I have to get out of the car to—”

“No you don’t,” said Barney. “Let him be irritated. He’s always in a hurry, am I right?”

“Generally.” A massive sigh escaped the big man. “Shit... he gets in half the time by himself, anyway, unless there’s, y’know, somebody with him.”

“Somebody with him today?”

“No, sir. Dinner at Le Cercle Rouge at eight-thirty. He’s meeting people there.”

“Well, he’s going to be a tot late, I think.”

Felix Rainer, positive match on the photo, exited the revolving doors across a tiled promenade and beelined for the limousine.

“Okay, Malcolm, it’s shit-or-git time. You run and your boss is dead for sure, and so are you — I’ll make sure you’re first. You drive and do as you’re told and we all walk away. You try anything fancy — erratic driving, speeding, anything out of the ordinary trip back up to Capitol Towers — and I’ll put two in your back and one in your brain pan, right through the divider. You are to keep both hands on the wheel. Pretend they’re glued there. You move them off the wheel, and you catch three. You wink funny at the next car at a stoplight, and you catch three. You got all that?”

Malcolm nodded.