Chapter 9 - THE INFORMANT'S DANCE
Rain poured in torrents over the West Side Highway, blurring the neon taillights of Manhattan into streaks of crimson and white. Richard pulled his dark SUV into the underground parking garage beneath an abandoned warehouse in DUMBO. The air was damp and smelled of rust and cold concrete.
Vance sat in the passenger seat, gripping a heavy leather duffel bag. "If this is a trap, Richard, we won't walk out of here."
"Julian is terrified," Richard said, checking the mirror. "Terrified men don't set traps. They run."
A shadow emerged from behind a massive concrete pillar. A middle-aged man in a soaked trench coat stepped into the dim light of the overhead lamps. His hands were trembling uncontrollably. It was Julian Vance.
Richard cut the engine and stepped out into the chill air, Vance following closely behind.
"Do you have it?" Richard asked, his voice echoing in the hollow garage.
Julian pulled a small, silver flash drive from his pocket, holding it against his chest like a holy relic. "He’s going to kill me, Richard. You don't know what David is capable of. He has people everywhere—in the NYPD, in the District Attorney's office, inside the private security firms..."
"The money is right here," Vance said, lifting the heavy leather bag. "Five million in untraceable bearer bonds. Give us the drive."
Julian reached out, his hand shaking, when a muffled thud-thud echoed through the garage.
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Two dark holes appeared in Julian’s chest. Blood bloomed like ink on his beige trench coat. His eyes rolled back as he collapsed hard onto the wet concrete.
"Get down!" Richard roared, tackling Vance behind the bumper of the SUV as a volley of suppressed gunfire chewed through the driver’s side windows, shattering glass in a shower of deadly shards.
