Dragonfire: A Gulliver Swift Adventure

Sudden Death on the Gowanus Canal

If there was one thing a street-smart kid knew it was how to take care of himself, didn't matter the circumstance.  It was a high-wire act guys like Brick got off on almost as much as they got off on getting off, a matter of personal pride that there was nothing—or no one—out there that could get the better of them. 

Which was the reason Brick didn't give a crap where Beatrix would tell him to deliver the package, be it in the middle of Macy's or someplace dark and industrial. 

"The old concrete plant just south of the Third Avenue Bridge over the Gowanus Canal."

"Third Avenue, Brooklyn, you're talking."  Macy's out, industrial area in.

"Brooklyn," Bea's voice affirmed, tinny in the phone.  "It's got a couple of big crisscross conveyor belts a hundred feet high, you can't miss it, doesn't matter how dark.  The contact will be waiting for you across from the Fourth Street basin, 11:00 o'clock."

For the first time since the conspiracy began a momentary shadow of doubt flickered across Brick's face.  "Cement plant?" 

"Come on."  Surely a smart guy like him didn't think the CIA would put a black ops safe house next to St. Patrick's Cathedral, did he? 

 His eyes brightened.  "Wouldn't that be a kick in the head," he snickered, checking the Rolex Oyster Perpetual on his wrist—one of the few heirlooms left from a previous life summarily foreclosed by his son of a bitch father.  The old man could go fuck he'd ever give it back.  Ten after ten.  "Tell them I'm catching a cab, they better be there with the ten biggies."

"No taxi," Beatrix preempted.  Neither she nor Felix wanted any cabbie telling the cops about a fare dropped off canalside in the middle of the night.   "You have to be just another face in the crowd, that's your cover."

"'Cover,' yeah, whatever.  But, hey," the hustler added, "going by subway could make me late this time of night, trains don't run so frequent."

Bea knew, and it was okay.  "Long as the agents know you're coming."

"That's what I just did with your buddy Cy, but hey, I'm good, three, four times a night sometimes."  The hustler thought the quip really funny, smirking as he severed the connection and grabbed his hoodie. 

Backpack containing the stolen computer slung over his shoulder, he strode over to Eighth Avenue and caught the A to West 4th, changing for the F.  By the time he ascended the stairs at the Carroll Street station and checked the Rollie again it was actually a few minutes after eleven.  Gonna have to hustle your ass a little faster, he told himself, taking Smith two blocks south to Third and veering east to the bridge. 

"Hustle your ass," he chuckled, pulling the hood over his head against the wind-whipped rain.  "Hilarious."

A lot of people wouldn't go near a run-down industrial area like the Gowanus so late at night—much less the junkyards, one-story factories, six-story red brick warehouses and 19th century lofts at the heart of it.  The stench from the sewer overflow emptying into the canal was by itself odious enough for the curious to keep their distance, the inky shadows amplifying the sense of dread that could unnerve even someone as confident as Brick—except he wasn't about to admit that, not to himself.