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KEVIN DOYLE SAT in the dark. He could hear all kinds of sounds in the empty apartment. People talking in the hallway. Kids running in the apartment upstairs. A rat or something in the wall. He thought of it as a tiny little universe of its own. That was just one of the games he played to keep his mind alert and stay engaged.

He had slipped into Oscar Tass’s apartment just after dark. He knew the drug dealer was out, a few blocks away with his gang. They were probably discussing what had happened to Carlos Rios the night before. Doyle had decided to come deal with Tass in his apartment. He tried to clear his head as he waited for Tass to return.

Doyle carried his Beretta as well as a garrote with strong nylon rope and a folding knife with a half-serrated four-inch blade. He was prepared for hiccups in his plan. That’s why he even carried an extra magazine of 9mm bullets. But his preference was to do this silently.

Doyle had never dreamed he’d be waiting so long. It had been hours and was now full-on evening. The hallway noises had calmed down and he figured most of the residents were eating dinner. Something he missed from his childhood: Sunday dinners with the whole family. Sometimes even his cousins would come over to their house in Brooklyn. His sisters would try to be included in the older boys’ games. Good times. At least a lot better than sitting in a dark apartment that stunk of marijuana.

He leaned forward in the chair he was lounging on when he heard a noise. A heavy footstep on the stairwell two doors down. Then he heard a man’s voice. This was it. Doyle quietly stood up from the chair and retrieved his garrote from his jacket pocket. He went over his plan in his head. As soon as Oscar Tass stepped into the apartment and shut the door, Doyle would step from the shadows and loop the garrote over his head, then pull him to the floor as he choked him.

Doyle had loosened the light bulb that came on with the switch next to the door. They’d be in complete darkness. It would take under two minutes. No one would notice anything for a day or two. Then Tass would start to stink. Someone would call the cops. By then it’d be a stale homicide.

Doyle flexed his hands and gripped the handles of his garrote. A key slipped into the door. Then there was a pause. Doyle heard Tass say something.

Then a woman’s voice answered with a laugh.

Shit.

The target was not alone.