The Holdouts (Buddy Lock Thrillers Book 2)

by James Tucker

  Voices, he thought. Outside.

  Returning to the living room window, he gazed down. He could make out one woman in a black overcoat, a hood pulled up over her head. The color of her hair was impossible to discern. He thought it must be Stella Bannon, but he couldn’t be sure. Opposite this woman was another woman in a similar black coat and a dark-colored hat. This second woman had her hair tucked into the hat.

  Unable to see her face, he cocked his head and stared through the glass.

  118

  Buddy wiped away the fogged-up window and stared down at the steps below. A moment ago, a third woman had joined the first two, appearing from across the street. This woman had a long black coat and hood that obscured her face. Now all three stood outside the Nanjing building, on the top step above the sidewalk, their backs to him. They were standing as one, gesturing, talking.

  Anger surged within him, yet he didn’t move from the window, didn’t go down the stairs to confront them. Something held him back. Something told him to remain where he was, out of sight. Because he sensed the show wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  All three women continued to face Hester Street. He could see only their hats or hoods. They’d become interchangeable. He saw the women extend their right arms and shake hands with each other, exposing for a moment the pale skin of their wrists to the faint light of the streetlamps. He saw it then. The flicker of silver bracelets on the wrists of two of the women.

  The flash of metal jogged his memory; he wasn’t sure why.

  Two women descended the steps together, turned right on the sidewalk, and walked east along Hester. His eyes followed them until they’d disappeared from his vision.

  When he again looked down at the steps below him, the third woman was gone.

  He hustled along the third-floor corridor to the top of the stairs. From there, he heard a distinct sound, a metallic clap that could only be the lobby door closing.

  He stopped moving, remained completely still, held his breath.

  Then he heard footsteps—more than one set of them—climbing the stairs toward him. Low voices, men’s voices, rose up through the stairwell.

  Tightening his grip on the Glock, he walked backward along the corridor and farther into the darkness.

  119

  Across Hester Street, in a darkened doorway of a closed shop, a shadow watched the door to the Nanjing building. The dark figure wore a heavy down parka with the hood pulled up over its head and brought low over the forehead. A scarf obscured the face, except for two dark eyes. Black gloves covered the hands. The shadow didn’t move. It wasn’t going anywhere, despite the snowstorm. The shadow’s eyes were trained on the stainless-steel door and had seen much during the past hour.

  Several people had arrived and left since the shadow had been watching.

  Two women the shadow knew had met with a third woman on the steps outside the Nanjing building and left minutes later. The third woman had gone inside the building.

  And then, several minutes ago, two large men had entered the building. Even from the alley, the shadow had seen that these men were armed. They’d made no attempt to hide the handguns at their sides. The shadow had expected these men to meet with the third woman. This was, after all, the plan, the purpose.

  One minute ago, the shadow had turned and seen a handsome, expensively dressed man with brushed-back sandy-colored hair who might have been going to a business meeting, but who instead entered the lobby of the Nanjing building, drew a large handgun, and began climbing the building staircase.

  The shadow waited a moment, then followed.

  120

  Buddy sprinted down the hall and returned to unit 305. He waited inside the door. As the men’s voices neared, he retreated to the master bedroom. The men entered unit 305 and stood in the empty living room, on the other side of the wall and maybe ten feet from him.

  In low voices, they used a language Buddy didn’t recognize. Not Chinese, he thought. Not Spanish or French or German. He listened further and compared it to phrases he’d heard in movies. He tensed when he placed it.

  Russian.

  This formed another note he could hear clearly for the first time, a note that fit within the pattern he’d been trying to see, that completed another section of the musical line. He’d read that Manhattan real estate was a giant washing machine for money. Foreigners with cash bought real estate. They got the money out of countries like China and Russia and parked it here, where it was safe. The money had been stolen from the people and governments of those countries. Or the money had come from the drug trade. Or the girls trade. Or from corruption in government or business. Or all of the above. Wasn’t this the reason so many of the high-end condos in the city were vacant? Those condominiums and town houses weren’t homes, they were washing machines. Buddy thought about the need to make dirty money appear clean. He thought the logic held.

  These buildings paved the way for money laundering on a massive scale in the strongest real estate market in the world. People who got in the way of that gusher of money had to be silenced, removed, and “disappeared.” Billions of dollars depended on the washing machine, and what were the lives of a few people—the Sungs, Sloan Richardson, Mei, and Ben—standing in the way?

  He heard a new set of footsteps on the oak floor of the living room. These steps were lighter, faster, and purposeful, yet not hurried. There was a shuffling sound as the men in the living room moved across the floor. And then Buddy heard a woman’s voice, higher pitched but practically inaudible. He couldn’t place it, not then.

  He took out his phone, muted it, and turned on the audio record function.

  A man’s voice: “Detective Lock is gone.”

  After a pause during which Buddy heard the near whisper of the woman’s voice, a second man said, “Unless he can fly, he’s gone.”

  The woman’s voice. Buddy held his breath and didn’t move, but he couldn’t discern any words.

  The first man said, “His fiancée, and the boy.”

  Buddy leaned forward, something inside of him tightening with anxiety. He held his phone closer to the hallway entrance.

  The second man’s voice: “We’ll find her and the boy, and everything will be tied off.”

  Tied off, Buddy thought. He realized that if he died tonight, Mei and Ben would be killed. He had no illusions about their ability to survive.

  His phone vibrated once, the noise loud in the empty room. He tried to muffle the device, thrusting it into his jacket pocket.

  Shit!

  As the phone grew still, he pulled it from his jacket and checked the screen. The text from Ward read: In the Nanjing building. Where are you?

  Before he could type out a response, he realized the voices in the adjacent room had gone silent. The woman, and the men with her, had heard the vibration of his phone.

  121

  The shadow took shape in the lobby of the Nanjing building. The gloves were removed and placed in the parka’s side pockets. The parka was unzipped by several inches, enough to allow the figure’s hand to reach inside to a shoulder holster and withdraw an NYPD-issued Sig Sauer P226 DAO.

  The gun had no safety. It was ready to fire.

  The figure held the gun with both hands and proceeded slowly, silently, up the stairs.

  122

  Buddy thought furiously. He had the Glock 19. The Russians in the living room almost certainly had superior firepower. And there were at least two of them.

  Somewhere in the building, Ward waited. His brother could be downstairs in the lobby. Or on the staircase. Or on the first or second floors. His brother might even be on the third floor, not thirty feet from him. Buddy decided it didn’t matter. Ward wasn’t with him in the master bedroom of unit 305, and Buddy knew he couldn’t fight two or more Russians at once.

  Why aren’t they storming the bedroom? he wondered.

  And then it came to him: They didn’t know who he was, but they thought he might be armed. They believed if they came throu
gh the door, he could kill them all. But this hesitancy wouldn’t last. The Russians wouldn’t wait forever. If they chose to attack the master bedroom, he’d die. He probably couldn’t shoot both of them before they could shoot him. He’d lose, he’d die, and from what he’d learned from the conversation, Mei and Ben would die.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  He’d have to find a way out, if he could. Scanning through the room lit only by the streetlights’ reflection on the snow outside, he saw the wall-mounted ballet barre. If he tore the barre and brackets off the wall, he’d have something to work with. But what the hell was a ballet barre against a hurricane of bullets?

  He studied the room further. There wasn’t anything else in it except for the radiator over two windows.

  Windows.

  Quietly, he moved toward them. They were double-hung, a single latch securing each. He chose the window to the right, swiveled the metal lock until it was free, and slowly, achingly slowly, began to raise the lower part of the window.

  123

  Sheltering in unit 303, Ward didn’t look at the shadow across the corridor in the doorway to unit 302. He gave no sign he’d seen it. Standing against the wall inside unit 303, he began to count how many people might be in the building, how many guns.

  Too many, he thought. Too many to keep the peace.

  It would, he knew, be war.

  124

  The shadow stood inside the doorway to unit 302, listening carefully, hearing nothing.

  Stomach in knots, teeth clenched.

  Carefully, slowly, the shadow let air from its lungs. Loosened, but only for a moment, the faintest pressure on the trigger of the Sig Sauer held with both hands. The shadow straightened before returning to combat position. Kept a low center of gravity. A steady base for firing or attacking.

  Absent danger to an innocent bystander, protocol required nonlethal force. Required continued stalemate until backup arrived.

  But the shadow knew two facts. Nobody was innocent. And having backup in the Nanjing building would lead only to questions.

  Take players off the board, the shadow thought. Reduce the danger from two to one. Not protocol, except in a war zone. And this is war. This is survival.

  The shadow raised the Sig Sauer and aimed at the doorway of unit 303, at the visible sliver of shoulder of the man with the sandy hair.

  The shadow slowed its heartbeat.

  Counted one, two, three.

  Pulled the trigger.

  125

  Ward felt searing pain before he heard the shot. It doubled in intensity, and tripled. His right arm went limp with pain.

  Fuck, that hurts!

  He threw himself backward, away from the door and farther into unit 303. Midair, he grabbed the Beretta with his left hand from his right and aimed it at the door opening.

  Aghh! He landed clumsily, half standing, and fell onto his shoulders. He lay there, unmoving, not blinking, his eyes on the doorway, the Beretta steady.

  He waited.

  The shadow from the doorway across the hall wasn’t pursuing him. Gritting his teeth, he got up and returned to the doorway. This time, he made sure to keep his shoulder and every other part of him out of sight of the doorway to unit 303.

  He was trapped, but so was everyone else in the Nanjing building. Buddy, he thought. What’s the plan here? What’s the fucking plan?

  126

  Buddy heard the gunshot. He knew it wasn’t from inside the Sungs’ condo. Instinctively, he took advantage of the deafening blast, lifting the window as far as it would go, and put one leg outside so he was straddling the sill.

  Ward! he thought then.

  If someone . . .

  No!

  He couldn’t stop, couldn’t think about it. He had to survive.

  Without taking his eyes from the point where the hallway opened into the bedroom, he moved his right foot down, trying to find the horizontal section of the exterior metal fire escape. He felt only cold air.

  He shifted rightward, moving his torso farther outside. There it was. Solid metal. Carefully, he placed more weight on the fire escape. It held, and it didn’t creak.

  Rapidly now, he worked his way fully onto the fire escape so that he was standing outside, three floors above the alley between the Nanjing building and the one housing Henry Lee’s restaurant. He felt the cool snow land on his head, dampening his hair. Without hesitation, he put his back to the building wall and moved left, forcing himself to go slowly, gradually increasing the weight on his right foot with each step, confirming the metal wouldn’t shift or squeak.

  But the escape remained stable and made no sound. Along the escape’s exterior edge was a narrow snow-covered railing supported every few feet by spindles.

  Like being on a balance beam three floors up, he thought, his throat tightening with anxiety.

  He neared the first of the two living room windows. Crouching down, he leaned against the wall for stability, turned his head, and tried to peer into the living room.

  He saw the window’s reflection of the outdoors. The ambient amber-colored light of the city that formed a phosphorescent dome overhead.

  Lighter outside than in, he thought.

  It was difficult for him to see inside, but maybe not impossible.

  He considered the situation. The optics. His own safety.

  In order to have visibility, he’d have to stand on the escape directly in front of the window. By doing so, he’d block some of the light streaming into the living room. He’d also be able to see the portion of the interior near the window, and anyone in that portion of the living room. If the Russians were far from the window, he’d be a perfect target, highlighted for them by the light behind him.

  Breathing deeply of the ice-cold air, he took his left hand and wiped the melting snow off his face. He thought about the living room on the other side of the glass.

  If I were in that room, where would I stand?

  They’re there, he thought. On the other side of the wall from me. Just two or three feet away. But invisible, at least from here.

  He breathed and looked down over the alley. Soft powder covered the unforgiving concrete. He didn’t like heights and didn’t trust the fire escape.

  How old is this thing? he asked himself. Fifty years? A hundred?

  Turning toward the building, he saw the pale red brick, cracked and spalling in some places, rough everywhere. And the exterior windowsill, painted black and almost shiny even in the dull light. He stared at the area of the fire escape where he’d plant his feet and become a target as he fired.

  Department rules required that he call for backup. But he was dead, and dead people didn’t call anyone. Even if the NYPD arrived, what then? He’d be reprimanded and again put on administrative leave. Ward would be arrested and sent to prison. Everyone else would escape. Meaning Mei and Ben would be killed.

  I’m dead, he thought. And dead people don’t follow rules.

  To save Mei and Ben. To punish. Those were his goals—the goals of a hunter.

  No mercy.

  Visualizing his motion, he began to slow his breathing. He tamped down the rising adrenaline, the almost electrical current surging through his body. He swallowed twice.

  Then he took one large step to the right, crouching slightly.

  His heartbeat spiked. Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom!

  In the dimness of the living room, he could make out only a single figure, a woman with a fair complexion. In that instant, he didn’t recognize her. His eyes scanned what he could see of the room, tried to find the Russians. Were they closer to the hallway, or . . .

  The glass window shattered to the right of his face.

  He stumbled backward, the fire escape’s metal railing catching him just above the knees. For less than a second, he balanced precariously on the railing, but his momentum drove him away from the building.

  Beginning to fall into the alley, he let go of the Glock. He reached forward, grasping
for some kind of handhold on the escape.

  127

  Buddy hung on to the tread of the fire escape. The metal’s cold stung his fingers. At the same time, his warm hands melted the snow on the metal’s surface, making it slippery.

  His primary weapon had fallen into the snow in the alley. But instead of looking down, he looked up toward the living room window.

  The escape blocked his view, meaning the Russians in the living room above couldn’t see him. Yet he knew they’d open one of the windows, step out onto the escape, and shoot him. Or they might step on his hands until he dropped. The fall would take him down three stories to paralysis or death.

  Time, he thought. Ten seconds. No more.

  Now he did look down, not to the sidewalk below but to the fire escape’s connection between the third and second floors. It was just to his right. He could slide his hands sideways and reach the stairway. But the horizontal part of the escape had an opening for the stairs. He’d gain a solid foothold, but he’d have no cover.

  He hesitated, thinking of the Glock 26 in his right ankle holster. Could he reach it? Could he hang on to the wet metal fire escape with one hand?

  He heard it then. Someone raising the living room window. At least one Russian would soon be standing on the fire escape.

  Letting go with his right hand, Buddy hung there, ready to put that hand back on the escape if his left began to slip.

  But his left hand held.

  He bent his right knee, bringing the ankle close, and with his right hand reached for the holster. Then his left hand began to slip.

  Fuck!