Predator Concrete Jungle 11

Schaefer and Rasche had met with Eschevera in the rooftop garden of a fancy Manhattan brownstone, surrounded by tropical plants that were dying of the New York cold. It had been just the three of them; the bodyguards had stayed out of sight, as a sign of trust and respect. Rasche had let Schaefer do the talking. There'd been some preliminaries, each man demonstrating how tough he thought he was, and then Eschevera had spilled a million dollars in small bills across the bark dust and told Schaefer that he and Rasche could have it, that very day, if they'd just back off and leave him alone.

And he'd had a switchblade in the other hand as a warning of what might happen if they didn't take the money. A million dollars, he'd said, and Schaefer had believed him-the pile of bills hadn't been small. Schaefer had thought it over for a couple of seconds, just to be fair to Rasche. Half a million could have kept Shari and the boys comfortable for a long time; Rasche wouldn't have had to worry about his pension. But Schaefer had seen the look on Rasche's face, and he knew that Shari would just have to put up with New York a few years more. He'd expected that. That settled, Schaefer had grabbed Eschevera and thrown the son of a bitch off the roof. Only three stories. Eschevera lived.

And Schaefer'd walked out untouched while the bodyguards were running in circles. Schaefer'd reported it as an accident, said Eschevera tripped.-pg.165 chpt.22