Cross

called Ristorante Piccolo. A lot of the hot spots on M Street, which ran parallel to the alley, had their service entrances back here.
    He passed the back entrance of a steakhouse, then a French bistro, and some kind of greasy burger joint spewing smoke.
    He noticed another guy entering the alley—then two guys—coming his way, too.
    What the hell was this?
    What was going down here now?
    But he thought he knew what it was, didn’t he. This was the end of the road. Somebody had finally gotten a step ahead of him instead of the other way around. Leather car coats. Squared-off, bulky types. Definitely not Georgetown students taking a shortcut to get a bite of cow at the Steak & Brew.
    He turned back toward Thirty-first—and saw two more guys.
    Mistake.
    Big one.
    His.
    He had underestimated John Maggione.

Chapter 86
    “MR. MAGGIONE SENT US,” called one of the toughs who was headed Michael Sullivan’s way, walking with plenty of strut and attitude from the entrance into the alley on Wisconsin. The hoods were moving fast now, and they had him penned in. So much for mystery and intrigue, not to mention that a couple of the goons had their guns out already, hanging loosely at their sides, and the Butcher wasn’t armed except for the surgeon’s scalpel in his boot.
    No way in hell he could take out four of them, not with a blade. Probably not even if he had a gun on him. So what could he do? Take their picture with his camera?
    “He misspoke, Butcherman. Mr. Maggione doesn’t want to
see
you,” said an older guy. “He just wants you to disappear. The sooner the better. Like today. Think you could do that for Mr. Maggione? I’ll bet you can. Then we’ll find your wife and three kids and make them disappear too.”
    Michael Sullivan’s brain was reeling through all the permutations and possibilities now.
    Maybe he could take the one guy out, the loudmouth; then it wouldn’t be a total loss anyway. Shut his ugly hole once and for all. Cut him bad, too.
    But what about the other three?
    Maybe he could get two of them, if he was good and lucky. If he could get them close enough to use his blade, which wouldn’t happen. They were probably stupid, but not that stupid. So how could he make something happen? He didn’t want to go down without a fight.
    “You man enough to take me out yourself?” he called to the bigmouth. “Ay,
babbo?
” He used the mob term for idiot, for some useless underling. He was trying to get under his skin if he could. Hell, he’d try anything right now. He was going to die in the next minute or so, and he just wasn’t ready to go yet.
    The killer’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “No doubt about it. I could take you out myself. But guess what, guess who’s the babbo today? Give you a hint. You probably wiped his ass this morning.”
    The Butcher reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt, and he kept his hand there.
    The bigmouthed hood immediately had second thoughts and put his free hand up. The others stopped walking. They all had their guns out, but they weren’t coming any closer to the legendary Butcher.
    The big talker gestured for the men behind Sullivan to move to the right, while he and the fourth man moved left. That gave everybody a clear line of fire. Smart thinking.
    “You stupid Mick. Messed up this time, didn’t you? Question for you: You ever think it’d end like this?”
    Sullivan had to laugh at that one. “You know what? I never thought it would end. Never occurred to me. Still hasn’t actually.”
    “Oh, it’s gonna end all right. Right here, right now. Just keep watching the movie until the houselights go out for you!”
    Which was obviously the truth, no doubt about it—but then the Butcher heard something that was hard for him to believe.
    It came from behind, so he had to turn around to check it out, to see if it was real or some cruel joke being played on him.
    Somebody was shouting at the far end of the alley—this had to be some kind of seriously messed-up
miracle.
    Or it was the luckiest day of his life.
    Maybe both.
    The cavalry had arrived!
    Look who was here to save the day.

Chapter 87
    “DC POLICE! EVERYBODY PUT THE GUNS DOWN. Do it now! We’re police officers. Guns down on the ground.”
    Sullivan saw the cops, and they looked like detectives, two buff-looking black guys in street clothes.
    They were coming up behind the Mafia hoods who were standing near Thirty-first Street and trying to figure out what the hell to do next,