Page 129 of Sting
“I don’t know, Marsha. He’s—”
“Of the three.”
“Then Iceman.”
“Okay.”
Before hanging up, he’d asked, “Which am I?”
“Goose. Definitely.”
A slightly disappointing answer.
When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, the two young marshals were there to greet them. One held up a hand. “Hold tight. SUVs are rolling.”
Through the open elevator door, Joe watched the three vehicles whiz past. They looked intimidating and official with darkly tinted windows and flashing lights in their tricked-out grilles. After a few moments, one of the marshals said, “SUVs are clear of the garage. Motorcycle cops are opening up the street.”
“Okay, Hick, we’re good to go,” Joe said into his mike.
Then, one of the marshals said, “Hold it. We’ve got a clown at three o’clock.”
Gwen backed Jordie into the corner of the elevator. Joe whispered for Hick to wait, drew his weapon, and peered around the open door toward the street entrance where the “clown” was strolling in on foot. Undeterred by the automated red-and-white-striped arm at the ticket dispenser, he went around it without breaking stride.
He had on a maroon hoodie, sunglasses with blue lenses, several strands of Mardi Gras beads, and was laughing into the cell phone held against his ear.
“Shit.” One of the marshals relaxed his obvious tension. “It’s Kinnard.”
No sooner had he recognized Kinnard than an undercover policeman and a man in uniform rushed into the garage. “He’s ours,” the marshal called out to them. “We got it covered in here.” They waved and retreated.
“Good to go, Hick,” Joe said into the mike.
Kinnard dropped the pretense and pocketed his cell phone. He pushed back the hood and pulled off the sunglasses as he approached the elevator.
Joe said, “You’re screwing the plan.”
“Bad plan. Where’s Jordie?”
Joe motioned into the elevator. Coming abreast of it, Kinnard looked inside and acknowledged her with a nod, then asked Joe, “Where’s Hickam?”
“On his way. You have an alternate plan?”
“You ride shotgun. Gwen and I will flank Jordie in the backseat.” He looked toward the entrance. “If I waltzed in here, Panella can.”
“The officers were hot on your heels.”
“Yeah, but…” He gave the garage a visual sweep. “It’s dicey.”
“Panella’s too slick to walk into—”
“But he might send another Mickey Bolden, who’s desperate for money and has nothing to lose by trying. Where the fuck is Hickam?”
“He should be here any sec.”
“I agree. He should. How far away did he park?”
“Half a block.”
“Half a block?” Kinnard’s head came around and locked eyes with Joe.
