Jack buzzed across the Brooklyn Bridge, came up Eighth Avenue until he found the numbers he sought. The street was dead quiet, lined with four-story brick walk-ups that contained a Cantonese herb shop, a Malaysian bookstore, a Maria's Bakery outlet. All closed.
The lock on the door of 444 was loose. No doorbells, no inter- com.Jack jiggled the knob. After a moment, sure no one was on the street, he slipped his bankcard behind the lock and popped it.
Went up to 3A.
He listened for a few moments. No sounds from inside. He had started twisting the doorknob when the door swung in, just a crack. Unlocked.
Jack put his back to the hall wall, posted his badge, drew his Special. He pushed the door open with his foot, letting hallway light spill into the apartment. He reached in, flicked up the switch inside the door.
The apartment was lit by an incandescent yellow glow. Empty. Looked like someone took off in a hurry. Takeout food left behind. Clothing. Unmade bed. A toaster oven, small color TV. Chinese newspapers, racing forms, OTB bet slips.
Jack holstered the revolver.
A dead driver. A missing driver. Another dead body he didn't need. Turn it over to the Seven-Two.
The man appeared suddenly in the doorway, a Chinese man returningJack's surprise with a nod and a quick scan of the room before he turned to leave.
Six-two, maybe, Jack thought, tall fora Chinese. Jack caught him out on the landing, the man turning, his eyes focused on the badge.
"Ah Sook," Jack began, "uncle..
The man's hand shot up off his hip, surprisingJack, shoving him sideways. The man shifted as Jack twisted, spun in a small circle and folded down into a cat stance. Caught his breath. He thought he saw a pistol inside the man's coat. The tall man launched two sharp kicks atJack's head, grunting, forcing him to one side. The hallway closed in on them. Retreating, Jack kept his punches short, Wing Chun style, clipped the taller man under the side of the chin. The man retreated into a crouch then uncoiled in a lashing of Tiger Claw and Iron Fist that drove Jack backward onto the steps.
The man feinted a chop, reached into his coat. Jack reached behind himself for the Special. The man turned to run, a pistol coming out of his coat.
The hallway exploded with gunfire. The tall man ran, fell, rolled down the stairs clutching for the handrail, laying down a barrage of semi-automatic fire that pinned Jack to the stairs, gaining the time he needed for escape.
Before Jack reached the ground floor he heard the squeal of car wheels laying rubber across the avenue. On the street, he could barely make out the taillights fading in the distance. The tall man was gone.
Jack went back to check for bullet casings. There were nine, and also a smear of the tall man's blood on the banister, which he dabbed up with Alexandra's handkerchief. Jack never noticed, until he called in the incident to the Seven-Two, the thin trickle of blood that ran down his left arm and soaked into his shirt cuff.