Sammy had meant exactly what he'd said: "To hell with the feds."
He was getting real tired of following every little instruction that Gary and Kurt had given him. He was tired of pussyfooting around, getting approval for every move he made.
Sure, they had promised to take Bud out of the picture once the Isaacson case was said and done. They had even guaranteed a nice little deal for himself and Martin if they helped; but it was like Bud said, 'You have to decide for yourself what you want most.' It hadn't taken Sammy long to realize what he wanted most.
He wanted to attend Paulie's funeral in peace; and not have it end up being a joint funeral for Martin and Charlotte as well. He wanted to ensure the safety of his family, even if it meant jeopardizing the goddam Isaacson case as well as his own future.
With this idea firmly rooted in his mind, he walked out of Bud's office and went back to his apartment. He quickly packed a few clothes, exactly the way Char had done just days before. He darted around the small apartment with his phone stuck to his ear, booking a flight, while he gathered up his assortment of guns that might come in handy in the very near future.
He tried to walk himself through what little of a plan he had. First he would need to find out what they wanted from Char. Maybe he could give it to them and work out a trade. If that didn't work, he would find a more creative way of getting what he wanted; namely, Martin.
The flight wasn't too bad. Sammy didn't think much the whole way. He just sat there; staring at the seat in front of him, knowing what he had to do.
He didn't waste any time when he landed with booking a hotel room or anything like that. He knew exactly where to go. Agent Carlson had shared vital information with him about the Isaacsons on numerous occasions, such as the location of their headquarters, which the feds, Carlson said, were pretty confident about. Good ol' Gary, Sammy thought. Can always be relied upon to divulge too much information. Sammy hailed a cab and was on his way as soon as he hit the ground.
He had the driver drop him off about a block from the old office building that the Isaacson's used as their home base. With cat-like ease, he navigated himself around the property, over fences, checking for camera's all the while. In just a few minutes, he had the place secured; there weren't any guards or other major security measures as far as he could see.
He checked himself before he proceeded; he had a shoulder holster on underneath his jacket, a gun on each side. He had one in the waistband of his jeans, one strapped to his calf and one pointing towards the pavement (for now), ready to go, in his hands.
He slowly approached one of the back doors. It was so rusted and dented, Sammy was afraid it might make a racket when he tried to open it, assuming of course, it was unlocked. He gave it a little tug; it was open. He pulled a little more, slowly and carefully. The door came away from the wall with little more than a whistle.
He ducked around the corner and braced himself against the wall, peering around the corner, and down the hall.
He could hear voices.