Nut and Flack met us in the opening of a dark alley which ran behind a low-life bar. They assured us Ricky Martinez was becoming rapidly inebriated, and so far, no one had tipped him off about our presence. It was cold, with the wind blowing through the alley like some maniacal Siberian wind tunnel left on by a typical diligent Soviet worker. The snow under our feet was dirty, black, and littered with cigarette butts. With hunched over shoulders and hands stuck into our pockets, we walked up to the two uniformed police officers and nodded.
“We have six units to help us,” Flannery began as we all huddled close together, “I went ahead and had units block entrances to the alley. McMahon and Andrews, I sent to the rooftop in case someone wanted to go in that direction. The tac-squad and the r
