THIS SHOULD BE the end of it. From Director Burns’s mouth to God’s ear.
The Century is a famous art deco apartment building on Central Park West, north of Columbus Circle, in New York City. For decades it has been a residence of choice for well-to-do actors, artists, and businesspeople, especially those who are humble enough to share space with working-class families who’ve passed down their apartments for decades.
We arrived at the building around four in the morning. HRT immediately took over the three main entrances on Central Park, Sixty-second, and Sixty-third Streets. This was the largest bust I had been a part of, definitely the most complicated: The New York City Police, FBI, CIA, and Secret Service were all involved in the operation. We were about to take down an important Russian. The head of the trade delegation to New York. A businessman himself, supposedly above suspicion. The repercussions would be severe if we were wrong. But how could we be wrong? Not this time.
I was at the Century, along with my partner for the past week or so. Ned Mahoney was hardworking, honest, and tough in the clutch. The head of HRT had been to my house and even passed Nana’s inspection, mostly because he’d grown up on the streets of D.C.
Ned and I and a dozen others were climbing the stairs to two penthouse floors, since the suspect’s apartment was on twenty-one and twenty-two. He was powerful and wealthy. He had a good reputation with Wall Street and the banks. Was he the Wolf? If so, why hadn’t his name ever come up before? Because the Wolf was so good, so careful?
“Be glad when this is over with,” Mahoney said without a huff or a puff as he mounted the stairs.
“How did it get out of hand like this?” I asked. “There are too many people here.”
“Always too much politics. Better get used to it. World we live in. Too many suits, not enough workers.”
We finally reached twenty-one. Ned and I and four other agents stopped there. The rest of the team continued to twenty-two. We waited for them to get into position. This was it. I hoped this was it. Was the real Wolf on one of these two floors?
I heard an urgent voice in my earpiece. “Suspect coming out of a window! Man in his underwear jumped from the tower! Jesus Christ! He’s down on the landing between the towers. He’s on the roof. Running.”
Mahoney and I understood what had happened. We rushed down to the twentieth floor. The Century had two towers that rose up from twenty. A large expanse of roof connected them.
We burst out onto the roof and immediately saw a barefoot man in his underwear. He was burly, balding, bearded. He turned and fired at us with a pistol. The Wolf? Balding? Burly? Could this be him?
He hit Mahoney!
He hit me!
We went down hard. Chest shots! Hurt like hell! Took my breath away. Fortunately, we were wearing Kevlar vests.
The man in his underwear wasn’t.
Mahoney’s return fire took out a kneecap; my first shot struck his thick stomach. He went down, spurting blood and howling.
We ran to the side of Andrei Prokopev. Mahoney kicked away his gun. “You’re under arrest!” Ned yelled into the face of the wounded Russian. “We know who you are.”
A helicopter appeared between the Century’s towers. A woman was screaming from one of the windows several stories above us. Now the helicopter was landing! What the hell was this?
A man came out of a window in the tower and dropped to the roof.
Then another man. Professional gunmen, it looked like. Bodyguards?
They were quick on the draw and began shooting the instant they hit the roof. HRT returned fire. Several shots were exchanged. Both gunmen were hit and went down. Neither got up again. HRT was that good.
The helicopter was setting down on the roof. It wasn’t media or police. It was there to get the Wolf and whisk him away, wasn’t it? There were shots from the helicopter. Mahoney and I fired into the cockpit. There was another rapid exchange of gunfire. Then the shooting from the helicopter stopped.
For several seconds the only sound on the roof was the loud, eerie whir of the helicopter’s rotor blades. “Clear!” one of our agents finally yelled. “They’re down in the copter!”
“You’re under arrest!” Mahoney screamed at the Russian in his underwear. “You’re the Wolf. You attacked the director’s house, his family!”
I had something else in mind, another kind of message. I leaned in close and said, “Kyle Craig did this to you.” I wanted him to know, and maybe pay Kyle back someday.
Maybe with zamochit.