Hooks Newdell’s new bosses, Matt and Jake, thought big, bigger than anyone Hooks had ever met up with — bigger than the Gophers, bigger than the White Hand Gang, even bigger than the Italians who were taking over the docks. Just looking at the huge government building they were going to break into made him nervous.

Matt and Jake were in the backseat of a Marmon parked on Greenwich Street under the Ninth Avenue El in Greenwich Village two blocks from the piers. Hooks was in front at the wheel. High above the El loomed the government building, a stone-and-brick monster rising ten stories in the night and filling the entire block bordered by Christopher, Greenwich, Barrow, and Washington streets. Hooks had always called it the Customs Building, but it was also known as the Appraisers’ Stores and the Samples Office, a huge storehouse where U.S. Customs took samples of imported goods to appraise how much they could tax the foreign shipments. Built like a fortress, it was also where the government stashed confiscated liquor and smuggled jewels and antiques and anything else valuable they got their paws on, like last week when customs agents intercepted a bunch of submachine guns being shipped to Ireland for the Sinn Féin. It was the kind of place that guys dreamed about busting into.

Matt and Jake were actually going to do it. A liquor deal to end all liquor deals.

Matt had bribed a Prohibition agent. The agent had told him when a big booze raid was planned and where the goods that the Dry agents seized would be stored — ground floor, right inside the Christopher Street entrance. This made things easy, Matt had explained. The building had acres of storerooms. There were ten elevators and three miles of hallways. Seven hundred clerks worked in it during the day. Near the front door made it easy, quick and easy in and out. Late at night even better. So Matt said.

But it made Hooks nervous and he couldn’t stop talking. As they waited for the signal from Matt’s man inside, he tried again to break the silence that they wrapped around themselves like armor.

“The guys in the car were saying that you mighta shot a detective, Matt.”

Matt did not answer.

“Did ya?”

Marat Zolner was assessing whether Hooks Newdell had potential. He needed an American to represent him when he didn’t want his face or accent noticed. But he was beginning to doubt that Hooks was the man. “Did ya what?”

“What the guys say. That you shot a private dick.”

“Hooks, did it ever occur to you that whoever said that stands a good chance of getting shot himself?”

Hooks Newdell backpedaled madly. “They didn’t mean nothin’. They was just guessing. It’s just that we—they—were wondering, are you the guys who shot Joseph Van Dorn?”

Zolner remained silent, and the nervous Hooks sealed his doom. The fool simply did not know when to shut his mouth.

“Did you guys go bonkers?” he blurted. “You shot Joe Van Dorn? Do you know who that is?”

“Only a detective.”

“It’s bad enough shooting any Van Dorn. Even a house dick. But you guys shot their boss.”

“It’s not like a cop.”

“The Van Dorns got a saying: ‘We never give up! Never!’”

“Words.”

“Except you never hear word of ’em giving up… So you did shoot him?”

Yuri moved like lightning, and the tip of his dagger was suddenly pressing up against the soft flesh under Ricky Newdell’s chin. “Stop talking!”

“O.K.! O.K.!”

“Shut! Up!”

Hooks Newdell pressed his lips together and sat motionless.

Antipov glanced at Zolner. Zolner shook his head. Hooks would be useful alive for a couple of more hours. Antipov sheathed his dagger.

Zolner tugged a Waltham railroad watch from his pocket and angled it to the light of a streetlamp. “Start the motor.”

A minute later, a man dressed like a clerk, in a suit, necktie, and a bowler hat, walked up Greenwich Street from the direction of Barrow. He shot an anxious glance at the Marmon, ducked his head, and hurried on.

“Slowly,” said Marat Zolner. “Keep him in sight.”

The man turned left on Christopher.

“Pull over. Come with us.”

Yuri was out of the car before it stopped rolling. Zolner was right behind him, signaling for Hooks to stick close. They rounded the corner. The clerk was knocking at the front door, head down, afraid to look in their direction. Light spilled onto the sidewalk as the door was unlocked and swung inward. The clerk said, “Thank you. I’m working late tonight in the Verifier’s office.”

The guard he spoke to answered, “Yes, sir, Mr. Knowles— Hey!”

Antipov shoved Knowles into the guard. Marat Zolner struck Knowles to the floor, clearing the way for Hooks Newdell to punch the guard to his knees before he could draw his revolver and knock him unconscious with a fist to his jaw.

Zolner closed the door, leaving it open a crack. His five-ton truck careened around the corner of Washington Street, screeched to a stop, and roared backwards across the sidewalk and up to the front door. Dock wallopers leaped out from under the tarpaulin that covered the cargo bed and made a beeline for the room where the confiscated booze was stored. Within sixty seconds they were lugging cases of Canadian rye into the truck.

“Hooks! Come with me and Jake.”

Zolner headed for the central elevator bank at a dead run. All but one of the cars were dark at this late hour, and the operator slouched in it was yawning. It took the man a moment to realize something was wrong. It was too late. At Zolner’s signal, Hooks blackjacked him. They piled in, and Zolner ran the car down a level to the subbasement, where Knowles had reported the telephone switchboard was located. Hooks pummeled the night operator unconscious. Zolner and Antipov switched off the trunk lines. Then they ran back to the elevator. Zolner leaned hard on the control wheel and the car shot up.

“Hey, where you going?” asked Hooks when they passed the first floor.

“Shut up,” said Yuri.

Zolner ran the elevator to the tenth floor, the top. He and Yuri stepped out, guns drawn. Hooks followed with his bloody blackjack. The hall, empty and unguarded, was lined with blank steel doors. Zolner counted four from the elevator bank.

“Hope you have a key,” said Hooks, lumbering close behind.

Antipov shoved him aside and pulled from his pocket a quarter stick of dynamite. He secured it to the doorknob with electrician’s insulating tape and lit a short fuse with a match. Hooks ran down the hall. Antipov and Zolner hurried after him. The charge exploded with the sharp report of a very large firecracker and blew the door into a vault room that was heaped with four-foot-long canvas bags.

Antipov slashed one open with his dagger. He pulled out a weapon that looked like a short rifle or shotgun with two handgrips and a stick magazine, pointing straight down, and no butt stock.

“What’s that?” asked Hooks Newdell.

“An Annihilator,” said Zolner, tucking it tightly against his hip and pointing it straight ahead. He quickly gathered bags of the weapons and bags of extra magazines.

“What’s an Annihilator?”

“A submachine gun.”

“A machine gun you can carry around?” Hooks was amazed. Guys back from the war talked about Lewis machine guns. But Lewis guns were heavy — thirty pounds — and four or five feet long, and you had to mount them on something solid. This thing you could tuck under your coat.

“Fires .45 pistol ammunition. Twenty shots in a stick, reloads in a second.”

“I never seen one before.”

“Neither has anyone else in New York. Pick that up and let’s go.”

“Say, wait a minute. These are the Thompson guns the customs agents found on the ship. These are Sinn Féin’s guns.”

“No,” said Yuri Antipov. “They are ours.”

“Yeah, but—”