The Lion

I wasn't sure what Paresi meant by confidential, and he wasn't going to say in his text, "This is cop-to-cop," but that was the implication. Maybe he was finally getting his head on straight.

I texted him: 20 minutes.

I called down to the parking garage and was happy to get Gomp on the phone. I said, "Gomp, this is Tom Walsh."

"Hey, Tom, how ya doin'?"

"Swell. I need a ride down to Sixty-eighth and Lex again."

"Sure thing."

"I need you to meet me at the freight elevator."

"Freight elevator?"

"Right. Two minutes. And mum's the word." I added, "Fifty bucks."

"Sure thing."

I hung up and strapped on my gun belt and hip holster. On the belt, in a sheath, was Uncle Ernie's K-bar knife that I'd taken with me on all my walks in the park. I put on a blue windbreaker and left my apartment.

As I was speed walking toward the freight elevator, I realized my vest was packed in my luggage. I don't normally wear a vest, so it's not second nature, like my gun, or my shield, or leaving the toilet seat up. I hesitated and looked at my watch. The hell with it. I got in the freight elevator, hit the garage button, and down I went.

The elevator doors opened, and there was Gomp sitting in a nice BMW SUV. I was glad he hadn't stolen my green Jeep.

I came around the car and said to him, "I need help with something in the elevator."

"Sure thing."

He got out of the BMW and moved toward the freight elevator as I jumped in the driver's seat.

Gomp shouted, "Hey! Tom! Where you-?"

I hit the accelerator, drove up the ramp, and turned right onto 72nd Street. I caught the green light at Third Avenue and continued on.

I looked in the rearview mirror. There wasn't much traffic at this hour on a drizzly Sunday night, and I didn't see any headlights trying to keep up with me. That was easy.

Subways are faster than cars in Manhattan, but the closest station to the World Trade Center has been damaged and closed since 9/11, and the other stations in the area were a five- or ten-minute walk to Liberty Street where I had to meet Paresi at the Port Authority trailer. Also, subway service to that devastated part of the city was subject to changes, meaning delays. So I'd drive. It was a nice car.

Crosstown traffic wasn't too bad on this Sunday night, and I drove through Central Park at the 65th Street Transverse Road, then got over to the West Side Highway and headed south along the Hudson River. Traffic was moving and within fifteen minutes I was on West Street driving between the dark, devastated sites of the World Financial Center and World Trade Center.

Pre-9/11, a footbridge spa

I'd expected to see a few unmarked cars or cruisers here, but the only vehicle around was the Port Authority cruiser parked near the fence.

I walked quickly to the gates and saw that the heavy chain and lock were in place, but there was a lot of slack in the chain and I squeezed through and walked quickly to the trailer.

I knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so I took my creds out, opened the door, and called inside, "Federal agent! Hello? Coming in."

I stepped up into the trailer and saw that the front area-an office with two desks, a radio, and maps-was empty. An electric coffee maker was on in the galley kitchen, but the TV on the counter was turned off.

There was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and a bunk room where the PA cops could catch a few winks or whatever, and I called out, "Anybody home?" but no one answered.

My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the text message, which was from Paresi: We're down in the pit. Where are you?

I replied: PA trailer. 1 minute.

I left the trailer and started down the long, wide earthen ramp that went into the deep pit.

The excavation site was huge, covering sixteen acres, and it would have been pitch-dark except for some lights strung along the remains of the deep concrete foundation, and a dozen or so stanchion-mounted stadium lights that illuminated some of the desolate acreage.

There were pieces of equipment scattered around-mostly earthmoving equipment and dump trucks, plus a few cranes. I also saw some construction office trailers, and one big tractor-trailer parked near the center of the site.

About halfway down the ramp, I stopped. I looked into the pit, but I didn't see anyone. The stadium lights didn't cover the entire site, and large areas were in darkness or in shadows cast by the equipment.

I texted Paresi: Where?

He replied: Center, big semi.

I looked at the tractor-trailer I'd seen, about two hundred yards away, and I saw someone pass from light to darkness.

I continued down the hard-packed earth ramp.

Okay, so why did Paresi want to meet here? Something to do with the big tractor-trailer? Who else was here? And where were the Port Authority cops? Down in the pit? And what's with the cell phone silence?

The drizzle had stopped, but at the bottom of the ramp the softer earth had turned muddy, and I wished I'd changed out of my loafers. I also noticed deep, fresh tire marks made by what was probably an eighteen-wheeler that had come through not too long ago. Assuming these were made by the big semi in the center of the site, I followed the tread marks.

I was passing in and out of darkness, and the banks of stadium lights to my front were shining in my eyes.

I saw the tractor-trailer-CARLINO MASONRY SUPPLIES-about fifty yards ahead, but I didn't see Paresi or anyone else.

I took another few steps and stopped. I was getting a weird feeling about this. Something in the back of my mind… the stadium lights… the shadows…

I pulled my Glock and stuck it in my belt, then moved more slowly toward the tractor-trailer.

My cell phone buzzed loudly in the quiet pit. I looked at the text from Paresi: I am to your left.

I stopped beside a big dump truck and looked to my left. About ten yards away, I could see something moving in the half-light. As my eyes adjusted, I could see an object swinging from the cable of a crane… and it took me a few seconds to realize it was a person… and then I realized I was looking at the face of Vince Paresi.

I grabbed my gun out of my belt, and as I was dropping to one knee, I heard a high-pitched scream from the top of the dump truck behind me, and a fast-moving shadow flitted across the light, then something slammed into my back with such force that I was driven face-first into the wet ground. The wind was knocked out of me, and I saw my gun lying in the mud a few feet in front of me. I lunged for it, but something hit me in the back of my head, and then a foot kicked the gun away.

I jumped to my feet and realized I was wobbly, and as I caught my breath and tried to get my bearings, I saw someone in dark clothing standing about ten feet from me. I took a deep breath and stared at The Lion.

Asad Khalil had a gun in his hand, but it was at his side. I could cover the distance in about two seconds, but it would take him one second to aim and fire, and he didn't have much aiming to do at this distance.

Finally, he said, "So, we meet again."

He wanted to talk, of course, so I replied, "Fuck you."

He informed me, "That is the second time tonight someone has said that to me. But the last man said it in Russian."

Well, I knew who that was, and since Khalil was standing here, I knew that Boris was not standing anywhere. And Vince… my God… I felt a rage rising inside me, but I knew I had to keep it under control.

He said to me, "I know you are alone, and I want you to know that I, too, am alone." He said, u