“Get your ass in gear, Frankie,” Mo Kennedy said as he reached across me and opened the door. “Don’t got all fucking day.”

“Day?” I snorted in fake outrage. “This is the middle of the fucking night, jerkwad. I should be home getting my beauty sleep, not riding herd on the deal. Duane owes me one.” I rubbed my belly, and frowned. “The bastard had better not’ve given any of us his bug.”

Duane had succumbed to a judicial amount of laxative in his evening coffee, and the resulting bowel activity had opened the way for me to take his place. I’m Jason Michaels, a detective with the Boston Police Department, currently running my first undercover mission as Frank Ritter, paid muscle in John Beaufort’s crime empire.

My opposite number, Earl Jenkins, was embedded with Boris Komarov’s operation. The deal we were about to disrupt would have been the start of a criminal cooperation that The Powers That Be had decided simply couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Only a few security lights glowed above the vast expanse of cracked tarmac. Empty loading bays and haphazard dumpsters overflowing with discarded building rubble offered some cover if, or rather when, the night developed into a shootout. I eyed a patch of deep shadow between a dumpster and a short flight of concrete steps up onto the platform of the nearest loading bay. I’d hunker down there the first chance I got.

I climbed out, viscerally aware of the three large men who followed on my heels, and the vehicle peeled away to park up across the yard, facing the entrance. Four more heavies left the third SUV, and it drove off to join the first. We all took up our positions in the shadows of the stacked pallets along the northern edge of the yard. The second vehicle remained front and center. Its occupants stayed put. Apart from the driver, they were invisible behind the dark glass.

Sixteen months of undercover work while the two crime bosses negotiated with each other long-distance, and they would soon be together in the same place. Maybe. If Komarov or Beaufort hadn’t changed their minds at the last minute and sent their 2iCs instead. In which case, when the cops issued their challenge, instead of diving behind the pallets, I’d pray that I wouldn’t get caught in the inevitable crossfire, make a break for it, and remain undercover with the Beaufort gang. For added insurance, I wore a Kevlar vest under my over-large sweater and hoodie. The night was cold enough that my bulked-up shape shouldn’t arouse suspicions.

This get-together was the crime-lords’ equivalent of an international presidential meeting. If they formed the planned alliance, the two men would have a monopoly on the drugs, prostitution and money-laundering deals in the northeastern states. As soon as rumors of it had reached the Boston Police, a couple of us had been tasked to infiltrate the gangs. With any luck, Jenkins would be with Komarov’s escort.

Three more vehicles swept into the yard. Two peeled off to park up at the south side, and eight men emerged. The third, a sleek Chrysler, stopped not far from the central SUV. The pause stretched, then Beaufort got out. He was a big man in his fifties, a quarterback gone to seed. Then the unmistakable Russian bear bulk of Boris Komarov left the Chrysler and joined him. Surrounded by their equally large bodyguards, the two men shook hands. I let out a sigh of relief.

Mo shot me a glare, and I shrugged. “Thought for a moment Boris had stood up the Boss-man.”

“Nah, he’s smarter than that.”

“Yeah.” I edged away and leaned against the wall of pallets, ostensibly relaxed. “Don’t see why they couldn’t have done the big handshake somewhere warm, though. What’s wrong with one of their fancy casinos, for fuck’s sake?”

“Neutral ground, dumbass.”

Then the immortal words rang out: “Armed Police! Freeze!” and all hell broke loose.

Things got a little blurred after that. I ran, shouting, my gun out. The bastard wasn’t escaping on my watch. Then—

I roused slowly from a muddled fog to a haze. Sounds still seemed muffled, distant, and I couldn’t immediately work out where I was. Apart from in bed. But not my bed, I knew that much. Something was clamped over my nose and mouth, pushing cool air into me. I attempted to open my eyes, but failed. Fabric, a sheet? covered most of me, I realized, only for it to be lifted away. Fingers touched my right hand, the contact light and fleeting. I tried to move it, and that failed, too. My arms seemed to weigh a ton. So did the rest of me, if it came to that. Pain was somewhere in the mix, but too distant to register properly.

“Wha…?” I croaked.

Someone whispered, “Shit.” Moments later a warm flood of oblivion swept me away.

The next time I became aware, it took me a while to work out that the series of slow-motion images playing behind my eyelids were memories rather than a dream.

Beaufort had dived back into his SUV, and the driver had floored it, heading for the gate near my position. I was off to the side and I knew I should let them go, should fade into the background and make my own escape to remain undercover, but I didn’t.

Instinct and gut-churning memories of things I’d seen done to people at Beaufort’s command spurred me into the vehicle’s path, my gun aimed and already firing.

My first four bullets starred the windshield, the next ones punched through the glass, but the heavy car didn’t swerve. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, his body holding the SUV on its course. It bore down on me at a snail’s pace.

Slow though it seemed in my memory-dream, I could only move at glacial speed. I’d known I wasn’t going to make it, even as I leaped for shelter, firing shot after shot into the darkness behind the shattered windshield. Right then, I hadn’t cared. Stopping Beaufort’s escape took all my focus.

The force of the impacts hadn’t really registered. A sickening crunch resonated from my leg into my gut, a brief sensation of twisting flight, and a split second later my shoulder and ribs joined in the fun as I landed on the concrete steps. That was it, until I opened my eyes to see a white ceiling above me.