“My team will take Banger HQ and this primary target. Marcus Jones, aka Slice. He leads the gang. He’s charged with conspiracy to kidnap, enforced imprisonment of a minor, witness intimidation. Also charged with destruction of property, attempted murder in ordering said property—with an individual inside—firebombed. There are numerous federal charges in addition. We’re also looking for a male, indeterminate age and race. He snaps his fingers.”
“‘He snaps his fingers’?” Reineke repeated.
Eve demonstrated, holding her arms at her sides. “It’s all we’ve got. He’s a suspect in three murders. These five.” She gestured to the lieutenants—four males, one female. “We bring them in. But this one.” She pinned a finger to Jorgenson. “Kenneth Jorgenson, aka Bolt. He leads my parade on suspicion of ordering those three murders. Jones, Jorgenson, all of them are dangerous, violent. Assume they’re armed. My team will be assisted by EDD and Tactical.”
She nodded to Peabody, who brought Banger HQ on-screen.
“Here’s how it’s going to go.”
It fascinated Roarke how she, like a general with a map, placed her troops, laid out the tactics, the steps, the timing.
She may not have the focus to run accessories on her own command center, but she knew how to plan and plot an operation.
He studied those troops as well, the attention paid, the slight nodding of Feeney’s head as if saying: Yeah, that’s how to bring it in.
Then he turned his attention to her board. She wanted Jones for a multitude of reasons, but not, he thought, for the murders that had brought them all to this point.
As a businessman, he agreed. Wars could be profitable, true enough, but a war in this case risked exposing the more lucrative business Jones had with Cohen.
He wouldn’t want that, Roarke concluded. What Jones wanted was the status quo. Murders and swipes at a rival gang shook the status quo.
But an ambitious lieutenant, perhaps a bloodthirsty one, wanted nothing more than to upend that status quo.
He placed her pick easily enough as the one giving Duff a bed in exchange for sex, the one who’d said she’d gone to work on the night of her murder.
Which, in turn, linked him with the woman who’d set Pickering up for murder before her own brutal death.
And simple equations, he thou
ght, often proved simple truths.
“Lieutenant Lowenbaum?”
He rose, took up a laser pointer to indicate on the map where he’d place his special weapons teams at both locations.
“Captain Feeney,” Eve said, “I’ll need you to split into two teams.”
“Got that covered. I’ll take Callendar and Stipper into Chinatown. That gives you Roarke, McNab, and Marley in the Bowery. We’ll get you numbers and locations inside both buildings before you move in.”
“That works. If anybody’s got questions, now’s the time. Then suit up,” she said. “Full riot gear. Teams coordinate in the garage, level five, section one. Let’s go kick some gangster ass.”
As teams filed out, Peabody moved to her. “The magic coat counts, right, instead of a vest?”
“Button it, and keep it buttoned. And check out a clutch piece and an ankle holster.”
“Okay. Prepare for the worst?”
“We’re going to corner them. All of them are violent. Some of them are stupid. A lot of them are both. They’ve likely got some sort of protocol to handle a raid, and I don’t think it’s putting their hands in the air and saying we give up.”
“So, worst.”
“Get a clutch piece and a helmet,” Eve repeated.
“For you, too.”
“The helmet.” Man, she hated them. “I’ve got a clutch piece. And a third helmet for the civilian consultant, and a sidearm. We’ll take my ride, meet up with McNab and the van.”
Eve walked to Roarke. “You’re on e’s, but you still gear up. Peabody’s checking you out a helmet and a sidearm.”