The corpse was fresh. Decker studied the face and decided he had never seen it before. But everything about him said cop: the way he dressed, the type of haircut, the furrows in the face, the roughened hands and fingernails, even his gut. He appeared to be in his forties.

“Someone took care of the guard for us.” Decker stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jonathan nodded quickly.

If timing was everything, theirs was exquisitely off. As soon as Decker turned, he saw him. Jonathan saw him, too, judging by the sound of his gasp. The kid had evil in his eyes, and cold steel in his hand. He had probably heard them come in. He smirked, his face radiating glee at the prospect of killing, of snuffing out human life. Decker reached into his empty pocket, realizing too late that Jonathan hadn’t given him back the snub-nose. The seconds became protracted as he watched the teen lift the weapon. Decker felt the horror of his last breath, his own fear mirrored by the terror on Jonathan’s face. Too far away to take down, and not enough time anyway. As Satan aimed, Decker looped his arm around his brother’s neck, taking them headfirst to the floor and into a puddle of newly spilled blood.

Waiting for the hit.

But nothing happened because the boy’s head was suddenly whipped back. Going down in slow motion. The fingers releasing the grip of the weapon, the gun falling from the hand, the knees buckling, and the neat round bullet hole in the forehead. A shadow appeared with outstretched arms, first catching the gun, then the body. Dressed in black, he silently lowered the corpse to the cement floor. He put a finger in front of his lips, then extended a latex-gloved left hand. In a single swoop, Decker was pulled to his feet. The face was covered with black makeup streaked with perspiration. The entire body reeked of sweat. The right hand was still holding the purloined gun.

After Jonathan was on his feet, the shadow beckoned them with an index finger, then turned his back, expecting them to follow. Wearing a black backpack, he walked soundlessly and assuredly until he came to a half flight of stairs. He scaled the steps, then nodded for Decker to come up, which he did, helping his shaking brother up onto a platform. It was no bigger than three feet square with an overhead clearance of about four feet. They were compressed, but Decker quickly understood the usefulness of the spot; it had an unobstructed view of the warehouse. His thighs bunching as he squatted, Decker scoped out the area.

Several silent ticks passed.

Donatti whispered, “You can’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

Decker wiped blood from his face and blinked tears from his eyes. He had the sudden urge to laugh but refrained. Emotions were reeling inside him. He whispered, “You shot out the van.”

“Not me, personally,” Donatti replied. “I thought it would hang you up for a couple of hours, give me enough time to get in and out. You just fucked up everything!”