“Get down!” The sound of an engine lumbering down 7th Street, startled the four of them.
There was only one organization likely to be out on the streets of Melville at this time, and they weren’t friendly.
“Who is it?” Bjorn whispered, crouched beside Connor peering over the waist-high wall surrounding the rooftop garden.
“Police. Probably. No one else is allowed out.”
“Prisoners in your own homes?” asked Vihaan. “For the last eight years.”
“No trial, no jury. Just verdict and sentence. Life for most,” Connor confirmed.
“Like flies over a corpse.” Bjorn watched as three Toyota Hiluxes slowly approached Smoking Kills, driving down 4th Avenue, flanked on either side by a dozen policemen, scouring every nook, cranny and alleyway with their assault rifles.
“They followed you,” Vihaan snarled.
“No chance,” Connor snapped. “There’s no way they could have known I was coming here. Unless …”
“Unless what?” Vihaan stared at Connor.
Unless that bitch set him up. Tipped off the pigs. She was the sort to do that. But then how did she know the girl would be here?
The convoy made its way over the crossroads of 7th and 4th. Connor, Bjorn and Vihaan drew their weapons. Gertie crept back along the roof for cover.
High ground, cover from the wall. Three against, how many? Connor quickly counted. Twenty-four on foot, two more in each vehicle. Thirty. He liked his chances. What he liked less was the probability of backup being called before they had a chance to finish them all off.
At least it would be a good death. Custer’s last stand. Bonnie and Clyde. Butch and Sundance.
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