Milo advanced on the crane, spraying gunfire from an assault rifle. A bolt of terror ran through me. Things were going south. Suddenly the parking lot came alive with light and action. SUVs were racing into the driveway.
“Milo!” I heard somebody shout.
But it wasn’t one of Milo’s men.
It was a voice I recognized.
Chapter Sixty-Six
It was George Veria.
I looked at Dom. “It’s George. He’s here for Milo.”
“Good.” Dom turned to the others. “They’re with us.”
“Thank God!” Tig gasped, surprised. “Watch your friendly fire!”
A deafening barrage of gunfire exploded from the far side of the parking lot. I peered around the crane to find George and his men shooting at Milo and his crew, caught between us and them. Milo and his crew turned around, firing back at George and his crew.
Dom, Tig, Skeet, and I kept shooting. Dom hit one of Milo’s men, who went down. George and his crew whipsawed assault rifles back and forth, mowing down Milo’s men. The first one dropped, then the second. One of George’s men fell.
Milo fired back, aiming at George’s stocky shadow, silhouetted by the SUV headlights. I spotted George aiming back at Milo, a lethal standoff.
I held fire, watching.
George got off a single burst. Milo went down, shooting.
George crumpled to the ground a split second later. The firing stopped as abruptly as it had begun, the violence deadly and convulsive.
I turned to Dom, but he was bending over Richardson, who was sitting down, his back against the undercarriage of the crane. He had been shot in the stomach, and Dom was checking the wound, with Tig and Skeet hovering.
Dom looked up. “He’ll be okay if we hurry.”
Tig put a phone to his ear. “I’m calling 911.”
I turned to Dom. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Flesh wound.” Dom rose. “I’m going out.”
“Right behind you,” I said, and we took off.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Dom and I hustled from behind the crane, weapons ready. Nobody was moving around us. Bodies lay still on the asphalt, blood pooling around them. A smoky haze drifted in front of the headlights. The air smelled of cordite.
Dom started checking the men, and I hurried past Milo, who lay on his side, motionless. It was George I wanted to see. I spotted him lying on his back, illuminated by the SUV’s open door.
I shoved my gun in my waistband and hurried to his side. His big chest was moving in a halting manner. Shuddering, not rhythmic breathing. His shirt was blackening with blood. It looked as if he had been hit in the chest three times. His wounds were catastrophic. A tourniquet wouldn’t help.
I felt his wrist for a pulse. It was faint under my fingers. “George, I’m here,” I heard myself say. “It’s Jason.”
His eyes fluttered open. He breathed through his mouth, his lips parted slightly. “Bennett.”
“Hang in. We called 911.”
“I’m gone . . . either way. This way’s . . . better.”
“Don’t say that.” On impulse, I picked up his rough, meaty hand, slick with warm blood.
“Bennett . . . did you see?”
“Yes.” I knew what he meant. That he killed Milo.
“I did it for Junior. For your kid, too.”
I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Gratitude, and guilt. “How did you know we were here?”
“Take a . . . guess.”
I would have laughed, in other circumstances. “George, we don’t have time for guessing games. Please don’t die before you tell me.”
“You crack me . . . up.” George managed a smile. Blood pooled in the left corner of his mouth.
“I’m trying to.”
“Okay . . . I called . . . the agent . . . who worked with Milo. Reilly. I knew he wouldn’t need Milo . . . after Milo got rid of . . . you.”
I understood. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
George smiled again, with bloody satisfaction. “We win.”
Nobody wins, I thought, but didn’t say.
George began to breathe harder, emitting a sucking sound. He winced, frowning in pain. “You remember any . . . prayers?”
“Sure.” I swallowed hard. “How about Hail Mary?”
“Whatever.”
“I got you, pal.” My throat thickened, unaccountably. “You’re a good bad guy.”
So I prayed for him for the next few moments, holding his hand, until his breathing stopped.
* * *
—
The next hour was a blur of police activity, blaring sirens, flashing light bars, uniformed Philly cops, and ambulances. Dom took command, tasking me with putting Richardson in an ambulance, and Tig and Skeet in a cruiser. Dom briefed the cops and medical examiner, then made phone calls. The EMTs insisted he go to the hospital, but he made the ambulance wait, coming over to me.
“Jason, you’re all set. I talked to the U.S. Attorney. He’s sending someone to pick you up and bring you downtown. They want to take your statement. Tell him everything.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “We should tell Lucinda—”
“I texted her you’re okay.”
I smiled. “Did you tell her I love her, too?”
Dom chuckled. “I’m leaving that to you. The Philly cops are sending some uniforms to sit with her and Ethan until you’re done.”
“Did you text Denise?”
“You know I did. I’ll see you at the U.S. Attorney’s as soon as I’m finished at the hospital.”
“Okay, good luck.”
“You, too.” Dom turned to go, then stopped himself. “Hey, where’d you get that gun?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You didn’t follow my plan.”
“I’m a badass court reporter.”
Dom snorted, holding out his hand. “Gimme the gun, so I can give it back to Tig.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Half an hour later, I found myself sitting in a large conference room in a modern concrete monolith at Sixth and Chestnut in Philadelphia. It was harshly bright, lit by recessed fluorescent panels and dominated by a large walnut table. The walls were lined with watercolors of an idealized City Hall, Boathouse Row, and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, and there was a floor-to-ceiling glass wall with a view of the southeast part of the city, where our gunfight had taken place. It looked better from a distance.
I was introduced to Rob Forman, the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, a fortysomething go-getter with quick dark eyes, slick black hair, and a gym-trim build in a dark suit and tie. He introduced me to his best and brightest AUSAs, male and female lawyers in casual clothes. I shook hands all around, and they congratulated me, which felt vaguely surreal. Nobody remarked that I looked like hell, but I’d washed up in the bathroom, so I knew my face was bruised, my bald head scraped, and my clothes spattered with blood.
Once the introductions were over, we all sat down, and the last person to enter the room was a friend of mine, John Colasante, one of the best court reporters in the city. He looked surprised to see me, and I would have been surprised to see me, too. Of course the lawyers didn’t introduce him, because they never bother to introduce the court reporter. We all joke they think we’re part of the steno machine, but it’s not funny. John and I nodded, acknowledging each other as kindred spirits, about to suffer fools.