When Minh learned where Charlie Pellecchia was, he grinned. It was the same address Minh had copied on the street where all the police activity had been the day before.
“Police cruiser park in front,” his man told Minh in broken English. “One cop in car.”
Minh told his man to make sure he was waiting behind the apartment complex and that his gas tank was full. Then he screwed a silencer onto the end of his weapon’s barrel and picked up an order of Chinese food from a local restaurant.
Minh planned to make a delivery to the address where the police cruiser was parked. Then, as soon as Minh was inside the apartment, he would shoot Charlie Pellecchia.
Gold was crouched behind the bushes alongside the narrow gap between buildings where Samantha Cole lived. On the other side of the gap, Iandolli used night vision binoculars to scan the area behind the complex.
“How long before you figure the Feds roll up?” Gold whispered.
“They may already be here. Up the block somewhere we can’t see, or on a roof. Who knows? They’re anxious to get Cuccia after what happened.”
“They’re probably still tripping over their own feet.”
“Maybe,” Iandolli said. He could tell Gold was nervous. Neither detective had ever been in this type of situation before, laying in wait for a killer.
Iandolli scanned the area to his left. He held the binoculars steady as he moved slowly from left to right across the tops of the hedges around the pool. When he reached the last hedge to his right, Iandolli noticed somebody walking alongside it. He whispered to Gold to remain quiet.
The Glock was stuffed inside Cuccia’s pants against his lower back. The agent’s weapon was jammed in the front of his pants. He pulled down the baggy Hard Rock Café sweatshirt he had bought from a souvenir shop to cover both guns.
It was too dark to spot a surveillance team, but the police cruiser parked up the block couldn’t be more obvious. Cuccia had walked the half mile from the gas station without a problem.
Samantha Cole lived at number 6325. Cuccia stopped to read one of the addresses on a building to his right. “Sixty-three thirteen,” he whispered to himself. He walked around the corner to the back of the apartment complex.
As Cuccia passeind tlding on his left now, he counted to himself. He did the same with the next building and the one after that. When he came to a stop again, Cuccia was standing directly behind 6325. He reached for the gun in his waistband when he heard the sound of a motorbike nearby.
Minh Quan parked two spots behind the police cruiser and crossed the front lawn diagonally to the front door. He carried the bag of Chinese food to cover the Beretta tucked in his pants. When he reached the short stairway, the policeman was out of the car and called to him.
“Food delivery,” Minh said, affecting a more pronounced accent.
The policeman eyed him a few seconds until Minh held up the bag of food. Then the cop waved him on and sat back inside the cruiser.
Minh rang the doorbell two times as he grabbed the gun.