BRONX, NEW YORK
The brown sedan cruised slowly down the street. It was barely dawn, and the flow of traffic was light. The local shops were still closed. The markets were putting out their first produce. Only the bakery had a fine stream of patrons who’d come out to buy their fresh breads and rolls.
To be on the safe side, the driver of the sedan circled around the block and cruised back down the street. Satisfied by what he saw, he pulled over to the curb and parked beside a small brick residential building. Two stories high, it was old and worn, like the rest of the neighborhood, with a short flight of stairs leading to the front door. A green canopy shadowed the doorway, and the front of the building was partially blocked from view by a broad oak tree and an unusual amount of shrubbery. The house across the street, visibly un-lived in, was undergoing major construction, and there were piles of two-by-fours, cardboard boxes, and plastic garbage bags strewn all over the sidewalk, half covering the house.
The area was shabby. But more important, it was deserted.
The two Red Dragons jumped out of the car, pausing only to grab their duffel bags. Then they made their way around to the back of the brick building.
One of the Black Eagles opened the downstairs door for them instantly. No words were exchanged. And none were necessary. Language barrier or not, all the parties
involved knew why they were here.
The six of them gathered in the basement.
Xiao’s men unzipped their duffel bags and took out the contents. Maps. A series of diagrams. Intricate floor plans. And a staggering amount of cash, neatly packaged in rubber-banded stacks of ten thousand dollars.
They handed everything over to the Albanians and waited while the cash was counted and the other contents were reviewed.
The four recipients wasted no time. Two of them counted the money. The other two, including the team leader, spread out the maps and diagrams and unfurled the floor plans, studying them intently. They muttered a few things to each other, pointing to certain spots on the designs. With a nod of comprehension, they rolled the plans back up and put the maps and diagrams aside. The leader raised his head, gazing at his other two men and waiting for a signal.
He got it.
Speaking to one another in rapid Albanian, they compared totals. Then, one of them looked up and gave the okay. The payment due them was correct. The final installment would come afterward. Everything was in order.
The team leader turned to Xiao’s men and gave them a hard nod, accepting what they’d delivered and dismissing them all at once. He gestured for one of his men to show the Red Dragons out.
The entire transaction took less than half an hour.
Xiao’s men exited quickly and quietly, scanning the street as they headed toward their car.
No one was around except an old man walking an equally old dog, who was currently peeing on one of the cardboard boxes across the street.
No threat there.
They tossed their empty duffel bags into the backseat of the sedan, hopped into the front seats, and drove off.
The old man glanced up, scowling as he watched the brown car disappear around the corner. “This neighborhood is going to hell, Allegro,” he informed his dog in a thick Italian accent. “It’s enough that the Chinese took over Little Italy. But now they’re invading Arthur Avenue. Say good-bye to the good old days when it was just us. Good neighbors. Decent. Honest. Now, the whole street will be corrupt, no better than the garbage you’re peeing on.”
He shook his head, tightening his grip on Allegro’s leash. “Like I said, this neighborhood is going to hell.”
Sloane jerked awake and sat up as Derek sank down beside her on the sofa.
“How’re you doing?” His knuckles caressed her cheek.
She blinked and looked around, realizing that, once again, she’d fallen asleep.
“You’re home,” she noted groggily. “What time is it?”
“Seven-fifteen.”
“Dammit.” Sloane tried to clear the cobwebs from her head as she struggled to sit up. “The poor hounds. They must be starved. And their evening run…”
“Relax.” Derek gripped her shoulders and eased her back onto the cushions. “The hounds are fed, wiped out from a two-mile run, and snoozing by the fire. The only reason I woke you is because I think you should eat something before you take your meds.”
“I’ll take the antibiotic, but I’m not taking that damned Percocet,” Sloane muttered. “I’ve been like a zombie all day.”
“‘That damned Percocet,’ huh?” Derek repeated in a teasing voice. “Would that be the same damned Percocet you were demanding at the hospital?”