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Heliport. The wind was an icy whip that cut through the stained jumpsuit that Brennan wore. The smell of immanent snow was in the air, though Brennan could barely discern it through the grease and oil odors of the heliport where, disguised as a mechanic, he waited patiently.
    Brennan was good at waiting. He’d spent two days and nights doing just that in a hidden observation post across the road from Covello’s Southampton estate. It was apparent that Covello, choosing discretion over valor, had decided to go to ground for the duration of the Mafia–Shadow Fist war. He was surrounded by a company of heavily armed Mafia goons and protected by walls that were safe to anything but a full-scale assault. The only vehicles allowed inside the grounds brought supplies to feed the don and underlings to consult with him, and even these were stopped and thoroughly checked at the front gate.
    The only other way into the estate was the helipad on the mansion’s roof. Brennan had watched Covello’s helicopter come and go several times each day, on different occasions ferrying in and out expensive-looking women and dark-suited men. The men, when identified by snaps Brennan took of them with a telephoto lens, were mostly high-ranking members of the other Families. The women were apparently call girls.
    His reconnaissance over, Brennan waited patiently at the heliport that was the Manhattan base of Covello’s chopper. Since, he decided, he couldn’t go through Covello’s walls, he’d go over them. In Covello’s own chopper.
    Night had fallen before the chopper pilot showed up with a trio of shivering women dressed in fur coats. There was no one else near the chopper. As Brennan approached them, the pilot let down the ladder to the cabin. The first hooker was trying to climb aboard, but was finding it difficult to mount the metal stairs in her high-heeled boots.
    It was too almost too easy. Brennan slugged the pilot, and he staggered backward, hit hard against the body of the chopper, and slid to the ground. The call girl who’d been clutching his arm teetered precariously, her arms windmilling vigorously, then Brennan steadied her with a hand on her rump.
    â€œHey!” she complained, either at the placement of Brennan’s hand or his treatment of the pilot.
    â€œChange in plan,” Brennan told them. “Go on home.”
    They regarded him suspiciously. The one on the stairs spoke. “We haven’t been paid yet.”
    Brennan smiled his best smile. “You haven’t been killed yet, either.” He reached for his wallet, emptied it of cash. “Cab fare,” he said, handing the bills over.
    The three glanced at each other, at Brennan, then back at each other. The one climbed down the stairs, and hunched over against the cold, walked away muttering. The others followed.
    Brennan hauled the pilot into the chopper cabin. He was out cold, but his pulse was steady and strong. Brennan stared at him for a moment. The man, after all, was nothing to him, not even an enemy. He was just someone who happened to be in the way. Brennan took a ball of strong twine from his jumpsuit pocket, bound him, gagged him, and left him on the floor of the cabin. He stripped off his dirty jumpsuit, wadded it up, and flung it in a corner. He moved through the cabin into the cockpit and slid into the pilot’s seat.
    â€œI’m off,” he said to the empty air, but those listening on the chosen frequency heard him and started on their own way to Southampton.
    Brennan hadn’t piloted a chopper in more than ten years, and this was a commercial rather than a military model, but the old skills returned quickly to his hands. He asked for and received takeoff clearance, and scrupulously following the flight plan he’d found on a clipboard in the cabin, soon left behind the million twinkling jewels that were New York City.
    Flying over Long Island in the cold, clear night gave him a