Chapter 11

A night sky the color of an angry purple bruise rumbled overhead, its swiftly moving clouds blocking the stars' indifferent view.

From a van amongst the jumble of cars in the darkness of the garage's back lot, Pete Riordan watched as a gangster cliché, a black Lincoln Town Car, approached.

The car paused as if sniffing for danger, while a bad alternator bearing whined like a faintly heard scream. The car angled to block the drive-in gate at the side of the building, and the screaming stopped.

Slouching low to peer over the dashboard, Pete was glad they hadn't driven in to block his view of Barbara's clueless husband sitting in his office at the rear. He made his final preparations.

He reached over to turn off the police issued recorder that was to have captured the listening devices output and tactical radio traffic between him and Harris.

From the backpack at his feet, he pulled a pair of surgical gloves. After putting them on, he dug out the long-barreled .22 he'd taken off a drug dealer in a bust over a year ago. He pulled the slide back and let it move forward to chamber a round, leaving the safety on.

All four doors of the Town Car opened and disgorged four large dark-suited men. Three of the men kept their heads swiveling constantly as the group walked to the shop's back door and filed through. One must have stayed by the door - the other three coming into his view through the office windows.

To avoid the overhead light coming on, he scrambled out the van's side cargo door and crept closer, settling behind a car in the front row set parallel to the garage.

There was a click in his ear. "Pete, call for backup," Harris called softly from his hiding place in the supply cabinet. "Four of these guys for a get acquainted meeting isn't right. Something smells wrong."

"You got it, Boss," said Riordan. 'Clueless boyfriend, ' he thought derisively.

His cell phone remained in his pocket. He smiled, thinking Harris would have called for backup himself if he'd known that Pete had already told Frank he was hiding in the garage.

He could see the three men take positions around Raul, two in front and one to the side by the door.

Incongruously, erotic images flooded his mind. "Soon," he murmured, thinking of Barbara and Sandy. "Soon we'll be together again."

Raul immediately suspected something was wrong. The men in his office were clearly intending to intimidate him with a show of strength, the bulges under their arms ill concealed. This wasn't what Harris and Riordan had led him to expect. He began measuring distances to each man and watching where their hands were.

"So ... this is your shop?" Frank asked skeptically, taking a seat in front of Raul. The vest of his suit rode up over his belly, endangering the buttons as he insolently propped his feet up on the desk.

"That's right; I'm Raul Ramirez, I understand we have a mutual friend?"

"Maybe. MY friend, the one that set this up, didn't mention the owner was a Mexican."

"I've had this place for fifteen years. It must have slipped his mind."

Harris was fiercely concentrating on what Frank had just said. They'd discussed the advisability of giving them Raul's name up front, and had decided to do so in case they wanted to do a background check before the meeting.

When Pete gave them the name 'Ramirez' they should have gotten a clue, even if he didn't tell them explicitly. So why didn't the hoods expect the garage owner to be Hispanic? And why would they care?

It didn't occur to him that Riordan hadn't passed the name on.

Frank's eyes were ice cold. "Is there anyone else here?"

"My crew's gone home for the day," Raul replied. "You're here to talk about some cars, right?"

Frank reached into his jacket and pulled out a nine millimeter pistol, pointing it straight up. He sighed dramatically and rubbed his eyes, as if exercising great patience.

"That wasn't what I asked, smart ass. I said, is there anyone else here NOW?"

Raul maintained his poker face, thinking furiously. He suspected they already knew Harris was in the building. Perhaps they'd been watching the shop all day, and seen him go in and not come out.

If he said no and they knew Harris was there, they might just start shooting. If he said yes, they would demand that Harris reveal himself.

"Maybe." He smiled apologetically. "After all, we hardly know each other. If the four of you aren't comfortable, you can always leave."

Frank abruptly dropped his feet to floor and glared. "I once sent a guy to meet with you people. He was met by four guys, and came away missing part of a finger. Four of us being here shouldn't be a fucking surprise to you."

Raul's eyebrows rose. "'You people?' What're you talking about?"

They all paused at the sound of a car approaching, coming to a stop outside the garage doors on the front side of the building.

Bobby was puzzled to find the Lincoln blocking the entrance to the back lot. Exiting the BMW he walked around the side of the building, carefully sliding past the huge car.

Riordan saw the teenager come around the corner. He would be passing the office windows in mere seconds. He only had a moment to decide whether to intervene, to call 'out a warning.

He flicked the safety off instead and rested his arms on the hood of the car, sighting in on one of the men surrounding Raul inside, his finger just off the trigger.

The mobsters, already wary, were on heightened alert at the sound of Bobby's car. The other three men pulled their pistols out as well, their eyes darting in every direction.

Raul worked on cars for a living and recognized the sound of a BMW. "Now everybody just relax; that could be my son stopping in to work on a car," he said, as calmly as he could. "Could you put the guns away, please?"

"Fuck you," Frank growled.

When Bobby reached the windows, he stopped in shock at the scene inside. One of the hoods motioned with his pistol for him to come in. Seeing his step-dad surrounded, he had no thought not to comply.