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KEVIN DOYLE WAS in a foul mood. Actually “foul” didn’t adequately describe what he was feeling at the moment. Doyle was pissed off because after yesterday’s botched hit-and-run, the order from his employer instructing him to take out Bennett had come through. No more delays. His employer was sending help. If that wasn’t enough to push Doyle over the edge, his so-called help was now sitting next to him atop a four-story building across the street from where Detective Michael Bennett’s specialized homicide unit was located, stuck in a nondescript office building on Broadway.

Even though they’d been sitting together for over an hour, watching the office building, Doyle had yet to get any kind of decent read on the man. Other than he was a walking stereotype. He’d told Doyle to just call him “Joe.” Doyle told Joe to just call him “Buddy.” Joe was around fifty and a little heavy but still in reasonably good shape. His bulbous nose had been broken several times. He had a few streaks of gray in his dark, slicked-back hair.

Joe had the kind of old-school Brooklyn Italian accent Doyle remembered from around the neighborhoods and baseball diamonds of his childhood, so different from how he and his siblings spoke. Those Italian kids even called one another the kinds of names Doyle’s mother had forbidden him to say. It had been exciting as a kid.

Joe had a fancy hunting rifle that screwed together at the receiver and shoulder stock, a Remington that looked like a real pro had modified it. Joe fiddled with the adjustments on the rifle but was careful not to bring the rifle high enough for anyone to notice it. Doyle just hoped he knew how to use it. He usually dismissed those kinds of rifles as gimmicks.

They’d gotten a quick view of Bennett as he parked in the lot across the street from the building earlier, but that only confirmed he was inside now. They didn’t have time to act then, but now they were set up and waiting patiently for whenever the tall detective strolled back out of the building.

Their employer had set up a meeting between Doyle and Joe a few hours ago at a coffee shop. They drank a cup of coffee together and chatted for a few minutes.

Joe had looked at Doyle and said, “You must owe someone a favor, Buddy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s rarely worth it to kill a cop. They’re a funny bunch. Cops will hound you and anyone connected with you after one of them is killed. I’ve seen it a dozen times. I’ve even seen my own business partners take out one of their own employees who killed a cop and tell the cops where the body is. It’s easier than trying to hide someone from a whole army of pissed-off cops.”

Doyle said, “What about you? You owe someone a favor?”

Joe smiled. “I owe a lot of favors. I have to make up for some poor decisions my youngest son made. He worked for the same people I did. But killing this asshole cop, Bennett, will be a pleasure. I’ve owed him something other than a favor for a long time.”

“You know him personally?”

“Let’s just say our paths have crossed. He screwed up a lot of business deals for my organization. He even arrested my cousin and got him convicted of first-degree murder. We’ll all be better off when he’s off the boards.”

“Was your cousin guilty?”

“Yeah, Sal was the triggerman, but that don’t matter. The point is this guy has been a pain in my ass for too long.” He’d nodded without being sure what the hell Joe meant.

Now, on the roof, Doyle looked over as his “help” lovingly handled his rifle. At least he, and not Doyle, would be the one taking the shot from up here. Thank God for small blessings. He noticed Joe pull a spent rifle casing from his pocket.

Doyle said, “What’s that for?”

Joe gave him an evil smile, a bicuspid missing on the upper right side. “This is a little misdirection.”

“How do you figure?”

“Same caliber, same manufacturer, but fired from an NYPD rifle at the Rodman’s Neck range a while back. We’ll leave it here. The cops will process it. They’ll think the shot came from one of their rifles. Provided they have everything documented and tested the way they should.”

“Still won’t matter. They’ll locate the gun and see it hasn’t been fired or has been under lock and key.”

Joe shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’ll delay things. Maybe for a long time. Those knuckleheads will be off on a wild-goose chase, thinking one of their own turned bad. I think it’s brilliant.”

Doyle eyed his accomplice. “Where’d you get a spent NYPD round?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders. “I been around a long time. I know people. I may owe some favors, but there are favors owed to me too.”

Doyle looked over at the building they were watching. “All this seems like a lot of work for a cop who may or may not even be onto something.”

Now Joe had a little edge to his voice. “I told you already. Bennett is a prick. I wanted to do this at his house in front of his kids.” He looked at Doyle and said, “We can still move this party over to his apartment on the Upper West Side.”

The only thing Doyle was thinking about at that moment was How hard would it be to shoot this shithead in the face, then get rid of the body? He got ahold of himself long enough to say, “We’re already set up here. Let’s do it and get on with our lives.”

Doyle bent his head and said a quick prayer, then crossed himself. When he looked up, Joe was staring at him.

Joe said, “You praying that everything is going to work out well and this job is going to go fast?”

“Something like that. I’m also asking for God to forgive my sins.”

“You picked the wrong business to worry about sins.”

Doyle was thinking he’d picked the wrong business no matter what.