“Hands on the table, everybody!” Ryan shouted, and for emphasis, he cocked both hammers of the shotgun.

Al went back to looking at the dealer, and as he placed his hands on the table, the butt of a pistol revealed itself under his jacket. Oh, no, Al thought.

Vinny was methodically emptying the pockets of the players, while Ryan moved the shotgun back and forth, as if spraying the men at the table.

Al saw a flicker of a move of the dealer’s right hand, and he caught the man’s eye and slowly shook his head. That stopped the man long enough for Vinny to discover the pistol. It was a snub-nosed .38, and he thumbed open the cylinder and shook the cartridges out onto the table. Al heard somebody say, “Shit!” but he wasn’t sure who.

Vinny began wrapping the money, the cards, and the cartridges in the blanket, then he nodded at Ryan, who let go a single, deafening round into the ceiling, showering everyone with pieces of acoustic tiles. The two men ran out the rear door, and a moment later, Al heard the car’s tires squeal as it drove down the alley.

People seemed reluctant to move for a moment. “They’re gone,” somebody said.

Al turned to face the dealer. “You,” he said, “you nearly got somebody killed.”

“Fuck you,” the dealer snarled.

—

After a change of cars and a dumping of their clothes, Ryan let them into his apartment and tossed the bundle onto the couch.

“I want to see it,” Vinny said, making a move.

“Not until Al gets here,” Ryan said. “That was the deal.”

“He’s going to be at least an hour,” Vinny said.

Ryan switched on the TV and found an old movie. “Watch and learn,” he said. “It’ll make the time fly.”

Al arrived at the apartment just before two AM. “Sorry,” he said, as Ryan let him in, “I had to drink with them, or they’d have suspected something. A couple of them were looking at me funny, until I pointed out to them that I was the big loser.”

He opened the blanket, and they stared at the pile of money. “I had twenty grand on the table,” Al said. “I get that out first.” He quickly counted the money, while Ryan and Vinny sorted the bills by denomination and kept a running tally on a shirt cardboard.

“I make it two hundred and twenty-two grand,” Ryan said, “give or take.”

“Vinny,” Al said, “you just made yourself forty-four grand.” He counted out the money.

“You guys made more,” Vinny said.

“You set up the jobs and do the planning, and you’ll make more,” Al said.

“Somebody give me a lift to my mom’s house?” Vinny said, getting to his feet.

“Sure,” Al said, getting up. “We’re all beat. Remember, no flashy spending for a while. Give it a month before you buy anything noticeable.” He led Vinny to his car and told him to get into the rear seat. “Stay down,” he said. “I don’t want anybody seeing us together.”

“Right,” Vinny said. “You got something else for us soon, Al?”

“Maybe,” Al said. “You don’t want to pull a rash of jobs. You got cash, take your girl to the city for dinner and a show.”

“Right.”

Al deposited Vinny on his doorstep, after a good look around, then drove away.

—

Ryan still wasn’t ready to sleep. He turned on New York One, the 24/7 cable news channel. He was half asleep when he heard a name that jerked him awake.

“Police Commissioner Dino Bacchetti worked late tonight,” the reporter said, “and got home late to his Park Avenue apartment.” Ryan watched as Bacchetti got out of a black SUV and walked under an awning into his building. He saw the building number on the awning. This was Barrington’s buddy, who rousted him outside the restaurant and made him spend a night in the can. Barrington had been hard to find lately, but now he knew where to look for his friend.

Bacchetti would do.

Ryan came back from his test-drive of a two-year-old Triumph Bonneville Black motorcycle and made the man an offer. After some haggling, he shelled out five grand for the machine, got the paperwork, and got the hell out of there. He was in Manhattan in half an hour.

The TV news show he’d watched during the wee hours had said that Bacchetti attended Mass on Sunday mornings, but not where. Ryan planned to see him either coming or going.

He eased the bike into a spot between two cars on East Sixty-third Street, locked the machine, and took the shotgun from the saddle bag and concealed it under his biker jacket. He didn’t take off the helmet.

—

Dino showered, shaved, and got into a suit. The doorman rang as he was checking his tie, and he told the man to tell his detective that he’d be right down. It was ten-thirty, plenty of time to schmooze on the steps of the church. He’d been advised when he was sworn in that he should be seen in public around town often, and he’d managed to do so.

He left the elevator and walked briskly through the lobby, greeting the doorman and his detective, Bobby Calabrese. He could see his car at the end of the awning.

—

Ryan had seen the black SUV pull up to the building and the plainclothes cop get out of it and go inside. He’d been waiting for less than half an hour, and he’d gotten it right.

—

Dino walked out of the building, and all hell broke loose.

—

Stone and Pat were having a late brunch by the pool when his cell phone rang.

“Oh, turn it off,” Pat said. “Nothing important ever happens on a Sunday morning.”

Stone looked at the phone. “It’s Joan, she wouldn’t call if it weren’t important. Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Joan. Something’s happened to Dino.” She sounded breathless.

“Just slow down and tell me what you know.”

“I had the TV on, and there was a report that Dino was shot on the sidewalk outside his apartment building. They’ve said nothing since.”

“I’m on my way,” Stone said. “Call again if you get more information. We’ll be in the air in half an hour, and you can reach me on the satphone.” He looked at his watch. “Ask Fred to meet us at Teterboro at three PM.”

“Got it.” She hung up.

“Something wrong?” Pat asked.

“It’s Dino—something’s happened. Get packed, we’re leaving in ten minutes.” He got up and ran for their cottage, with Pat right behind.

She filed a flight plan for Teterboro as they drove to the airport, and they each took half the airplane for the preflight inspection.

Stone was frightened of the phone call that might come at any moment. He had tried to reach Viv, and the call had gone directly to voice mail. He got his IFR clearance and taxied to the runway while Pat entered the flight plan into the computer. He was cleared for takeoff, and as he lined up on the runway, he tried to get everything out of his mind but flying the airplane. He pushed the throttles forward, and Pat called the airspeed for him.

“Rotate,” she said, and he did. He got the gear and flaps up, engaged the autopilot at 450 feet, and pressed the flight level button to climb to his first assigned altitude of 16,000 feet. He was halfway there when he got his clearance to cruising altitude of flight level 410. The autopilot did the rest, while he ran through his checklists and tried not to think about what awaited him in New York.

He was over Orlando when the satphone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Joan. There’s more, and it’s not good. He was shot, and the reports say it was a head wound. A detective with him was shot, too, and they were both taken to a hospital. They didn’t say which one.”