One Way (Sam Archer 5) (12 page)

As he and Vargas dragged the refrigerator across as a makeshift barricade, Barlow and Helen carried Carson into the next room and placed him the couch. Breathing hard and backing up from the door, Vargas unslung her M4A1 and aimed it at the wood, Archer already doing the same.

Both of them heard shouting and footsteps sprinting down the stairwell, passing where they’d been seconds ago.

They made it.

Just.

SEVENTEEN

Helen and Jennifer stayed where they were inside the sitting room, scared, disorientated and tense. Helen had her arm around the child protectively, holding her close, both of them staying away from the curtain-covered window. Across the room, Carson was on the couch, totally out of it.

Barlow and Vargas were in the kitchen, standing near the bathroom door, keeping their weapons aimed at the refrigerator covering the entrance. On the opposite side, Archer was crouching in the doorway of the sitting room, his new M4A1 locked in his shoulder, waiting for someone to try and force their way in.

He heard the sound of voices and running feet echoing from the stairwell but no-one seemed to be on this corridor.

Realising he had some blood on his face from when his attacker had taken the sniper round, Archer wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt and glanced behind him. Jennifer was sniffing and crying, Helen doing her best to comfort her and try to keep her quiet. When it became clear no one was about to burst in, Archer, Barlow and Vargas relaxed very slightly, taking some deep breaths, letting the change to their situation fully sink in now Foster was dead.

Suddenly, things were looking a hell of a lot worse.

Vargas lowered her stolen assault rifle then strode across the kitchen and stepped behind Archer into the sitting room. Checking the safety, she placed the M4A1 to one side then dropped down, Jennifer breaking from Helen’s protective grasp and rushing forward to hug her.

‘It’s OK. It’s OK,’ she said, as Jennifer clung to her like a small koala bear. Barlow also moved inside the room, keeping his pistol in his hand and moving over to the couch to check on Carson. Archer rose and leant against the doorjamb, keeping an eye on the entrance to the apartment, his newly-acquired M4A1 in his hands. He watched the door like a sentry, waiting for the lock to be blown off at any moment, wondering just what the hell was going on.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Barlow said, pacing. ‘Foster’s gone. They killed him. How did that just happen?’

No-one responded. Jennifer sniffed and sobbed in the quiet.

‘Jesus. Who the hell are these guys?’

‘Whoever they are, the chopper must have brought them,’ Vargas said, looking up from comforting the girl. ‘And they’ve got a sniper. We underestimated this. Them.’

Archer glanced down at the M4A1 in his hands instead. It was in flawless condition. Black and compact with an adjustable strap, the weapon was high-tech and savage, not the kind of thing a street thug could get his hands on without some serious cash. He thought back to the two intruders, the way they’d moved, their equipment, how quickly they’d followed up the sniper fire.

‘Are they military?’ Helen asked, echoing the thoughts in his mind. No-one replied, because no-one knew.

Not hearing anything from the corridor, Archer laid his M4A1 to one side, ensuring the safety was on and that Vargas had charge of Jennifer. He walked across the room and joined Helen beside Carson. This time they hadn’t bothered to lay any towels or blankets over the furniture. By the looks of the rest of the apartment, the bloodstains would blend right in with the décor.

‘How is he?’ he asked.

‘Better than the rest of us,’ Helen said. Carson’s eyes were open but were seeing something somewhere else, totally oblivious to his surroundings. Thankfully the gunfire and Foster’s sudden death hadn’t turned things sour; since he’d been a cop Archer had encountered more than a couple of heroin users and knew any negative outside stimulus could turn a good trip into a nightmare like the flick of a switch. If he started screaming from hallucinations, they wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

Archer turned his attention to Helen. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’

‘Hey,’ Vargas said. Archer turned. ‘Your arm.’

He glanced down at his bicep and saw a growing bloodstain on the right sleeve of his red and white flannel shirt. He remembered the man cutting him with the knife, just before Vargas had pistol-whipped him and he took the sniper round in the back of the head. Suddenly aware of the wound and as if almost on cue, it started to throb. Giving Jennifer one last reassuring hug, Vargas rose and scooped up her M4A1.

‘Follow me,’ she told him.

Knight and Bishop had arrived on the 5
th
floor. They’d been on 21 when they’d heard shots being fired and the situation being called in over the radio by Joker, their sniper. Queen and Clubs had taken the call, but their radios had gone dead. The piece of shit elevator was busted so they’d been forced to take the stairs, bombing down them, taking the steps two at a time.

However, by the time they’d made it down here the Marshals and the kid had disappeared. They were too late. Arriving on 5, there’d been no question which apartment had been their hideout, even without Joker telling them. The door to the right of the stairwell was ajar and they could smell the gun smoke and oil. The lock had been obliterated by a burst of gunfire.

The two men were now standing inside the apartment, looking at the bodies of their two guys. Both had been stripped of their weapons and magazines and were lying on the floor, their blood mixed with milk from the overturned refrigerator. They’d both been shot, Clubs in the chest, Queen in the back of the head, a red hole in his balaclava and blood all over the wall.

Examining the scene without saying a word, the armed men then checked out the rest of the apartment. To the right, one of the US Marshals was slumped against the sitting room wall, half his head blown onto the plaster behind him. They recognised him as Foster, the leader of the group, a giant of a man. Although the other Marshals had escaped, at least this guy was now out of the picture. When they’d acquired the tip and extensive information on the Marshals team, they’d examined Foster’s jacket and known he was going to be one hell of a challenge. The man was a goddamn terminator, military trained and survivor of numerous gunshot wounds and full-on sieges and conflicts from his time in the army. However, a bullet to the head had solved that problem. Six feet four inches and over two hundred and ten pounds of expert soldier they wouldn’t need to deal with anymore. Their main human obstacle tonight was now out of the way. That was the only bit of good news.

Knight pushed the switch on his uniform, looking at the three dead men. ‘This is Knight. I’m on 5 with Bishop.’

‘Report,’
King said, still in the lobby.
‘Is the girl dead?’

‘No. Clubs and Queen are.’

Pause. Knight could picture how the news was being received.

‘How?’

‘
Shot. Their weapons are gone.’

Silence.

‘Foster bought it too. Joker tagged him.’

‘The girl?’

‘She’s not here. They escaped.’

There was a long pause. Knight noticed some bloodied towels and rags on the couch, some of them dragged to the floor. The injured Marshal must have been there.

‘Find her. Check the rest of the floor. They can’t have gone far.’

‘The bodies?’

‘We’ll deal with them later.’

Knight released the switch, then looked at the two dead men, Markowski and Patterson. When the call signs had been assigned, much laughter had been had at the expense of Markowski being allocated the name Queen. He hadn’t been amused, seeing as he was probably the toughest and surliest member of the group, built like a fridge-freezer and with a sense of humour as cold as the icebox. Knight looked down at his colleague; his head was laid to the side, showing a glimpse of a huge ugly exit wound on his face from the bullet that killed him. Turning, he moved to the window and drew open the curtains. There was a small bullet hole there in the window.

‘Joker, what the hell happened?’ he asked, pushing his pressel.

‘Clubs went down; I didn’t see how. I had a shot at the woman. I took it but she moved at the last second.’

Knight looked out at the other building eighty yards south, trying to gauge where exactly Joker was.

‘I hit Queen instead. I apologise, everyone. It’s on me.’

Pause.

‘Doesn’t matter,’
King’s voice said, overhearing the transmission.
‘We do what it takes tonight. He’d want the rest of us to get this shit done regardless. Stay focused and find her.
’

Knight nodded, and turned to Bishop, who was standing behind him. During this exchange, he’d checked out the bathroom. The wall had been annihilated by gunfire, many of the tiles smashed, half-pieces and fragments left clinging to the plaster.

‘They just took this up a notch. So let’s find them and use this to redecorate,’ he said, patting his M4A1. Bishop nodded without a word.

Taking a last look at their two dead colleagues, the two men moved back to the door.

Down on the street, they’d all heard the sudden automatic gunfire erupt from inside the building. It had ended as quickly as it had started and no-one had any idea what the hell was going on in there.

The sudden and unexpected arrival of the unmarked chopper and the team abseiling onto the roof had delayed the Marshals’ approach and severely complicated things. They had no idea who these newcomers were and what kind of weaponry they had. Despite his team’s willingness to proceed, Dalton needed to fully assess the changed situation before sending them in, so he ordered the task force to hold back for the time being. They knew the lobby would be guarded, controlling the only entrance, so a front-on entry was still a last case resort. Carson had already been hit tonight; no more Marshals were getting dropped on his watch as long as he could help it.

Standing beside Josh near the Marshals team, Shepherd looked up at the building, filled with trepidation. The automatic gunfire was raising all sorts of questions, the potential answers to which were worrying him considerably. His call with Archer had cut out before he could tell him about the arrival of the anonymous men in the chopper.

From the sounds of things, they’d already encountered each other.

‘What the hell is going on in there?’
he muttered in frustration.

To his left, Josh didn’t reply.

As they looked up at the building, Marquez walked over quickly and re-joined them, a brown file in her hand which she passed over to Shepherd.

‘CSU just sent this over, sir. They pulled an ID on the guy who got shot in the street when they ambushed the Marshals.’ Shepherd took the folder, opening it. ‘His name is Marlon Hayes,’ she said, as he read. ‘20 years old, born and raised in Harlem. Mother died HIV, father unknown.’

‘Priors?’

‘Usual shit. Nothing major. Never done time aside from a stint in juvenile hall. But get this; he’s a joint suspect in three unsolved homicides. Detectives from SID have him down as being a gun for hire, part of a five man team. They do wet work for people who don’t want to get their hands dirty. Basically, a street thug and a killer. Shoot first, ask questions later.’

Shepherd examined the man’s file. ‘So he was paid to do this job. It wasn’t personal.’

She nodded. ‘Witnesses say there were four other men shooting down on the Marshals. Must be the rest of that suspect crew. The numbers make sense.’

‘Files?’

‘Already being drawn. We’ll have them any minute.’

Shepherd nodded.

‘OK, but who hired them?’ Josh asked.

Marquez shrugged. ‘Whoever they are, someone sure wants Dalton’s witness dead.’

‘OK, so who the hell is this witness?’

Shepherd turned and looked at Dalton, who was standing with his team, talking with his people.

‘Only one way to find out.’

EIGHTEEN

Inside the bathroom in apartment 8A, Archer was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, which was set against the far wall and on a raised level from the rest of the floor. Helen’s had been the same; it must have been the building design, some half-hearted attempt at style long ago, or maybe just so cockroaches couldn’t climb into the tub without really earning it. He’d swept an old stained shower curtain out of the way, which was gathered to his right. It might have been white once, but now had a depressing brown tinge like everything else inside the place. Glancing around the room, it seemed whoever the homeowner was, they weren’t overly concerned with hygiene. The bathroom had definitely seen better days, like the rest of the building. It needed a good clean, a few layers of paint or just a demo crew to clear it out and start over.

Still wearing his white t-shirt, he’d removed his red and white flannel over-shirt and had it resting on his lap. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, throwing a stark and unforgiving light over everything in the room. In front of him, Vargas was kneeling on the step, examining the knife wound on his arm, the two of them alone, everyone else next door. Beside him, his M4A1 rested against the porcelain bath, the safety on.

His adrenaline had dropped and he felt nauseous. It had happened scores of times before, the inevitable response to a life-threatening situation, his body pumping the hormone into his bloodstream in an effort to keep him alive. That wasn’t the first gunfight he’d been in and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but it had been a relatively long time since someone had tried to kill him and his body had reacted instantly to the stress.

Swallowing and closing his eyes, he waited for the feeling to pass, furious at himself. He’d had the jump on two armed guys but almost got himself and everyone else killed. A creaky floorboard, for Christ’s sake; hell, it all might have ended differently if it wasn’t for a bullet intended for Vargas. The Archer of three months ago would have slotted those two gunmen before they’d even had a chance to turn, no hesitation, no mistakes.

With his eyes still shut, he shook his head. Errors like that were hardly ever forgiven.

He’d been lucky.

Vargas noticed the look on his face. ‘Everything alright?’

He opened his eyes and nodded, looking down at her. She’d lifted the edge of the sleeve of his white t-shirt and was studying the wound, making sure it wasn’t too deep. Archer glanced down. The knife had sliced across his arm, blood leaking out and leaving a rivulet path on the skin below. It was only a superficial cut, no tendon or muscle damage, although it hurt like hell. Knives were scary weapons; Archer couldn’t stand them. They could kill with just one slice or jab and unlike guns they didn’t require reloading and didn’t jam. They were also silent and could
be concealed easily. Archer had some unpleasant memories of knives and the type of people who used them as weapons. He had a jagged scar running along his brow just under his hairline that was a constant reminder of just how dangerous they were.

‘Yeah, he got you,’ she said. ‘An ounce more pressure, you’d be in deep shit.’

He smiled. ‘Story of my life.’

She looked around the bathroom for a bandage. He read her mind and lifted his red and white flannel shirt from his lap. Carson’s, his own and the other man’s blood had stained the upper half, but the lower portion of the garment was relatively clean and a damn sight cleaner than anything else around the place.

‘Use this.’

‘It’ll be ruined,’ she said, taking it. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘Gift from an ex.’

She smiled.

‘Probably not what she had in mind when she gave it to you.’

Taking a pair of scissors she’d found in the kitchen, she made a cut then ripped off a long strip. She then wrapped it around the wound firmly but gently, the fabric soaking up blood the moment it touched the cut. He watched her work; the light was accentuating her cheekbones in a nice way. He suddenly had a flashback to another Latina face under a similarly harsh light; that had been very different. Examining her face, he tried to guess her heritage. Her hair and eyebrows were jet black, her eyes the colour of coffee, her skin the same but with a splash of milk.

‘So what’s your story?’ she asked, tightening the bandage. ‘You said you’re NYPD.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t sound American.’

‘I’m half English. I used to be a cop in London. Grew up over there too.’

‘Why’d you move?’

‘Itchy feet.’

‘You got a family?’

He nodded. ‘A sister. She’s a lawyer. Lives in DC.’

Pause.

‘How about you?’

She smiled. ‘My story’s boring as hell.’

‘I’d like to hear it.’

‘Trust me. You wouldn’t.’ She paused. ‘I’m from LA. I never met my father; apparently he was Brazilian. My mother was American and raised me. She died when I was sixteen.’

‘How?’

‘Wrong place, wrong time. She was in a deli in Reseda when someone held it up. Shot her twice along with the cashier. He forgot to wear a mask and didn’t want any witnesses.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Pause. ‘Wrong place, wrong time. Sounds familiar.’

Finishing winding the bandage, she double tied it, then examined her work. Archer looked down at it, moving his arm around, testing the pressure. It was wrapped tight, yet was loose enough to not cut off circulation. There was no more blood leaking from the wound and staining his arm. Given the circumstances, she’d done a pretty good job.

‘Thanks.’

She watched him for a moment then leaned back, rolling to her feet. They both looked around the bathroom as a silence fell.

‘This must be the President’s suite,’ she said.

He smiled as Helen appeared in the doorway, seeing him sitting on the edge of the tub. ‘All patched up?’

He nodded. ‘How’s Carson?’

‘On Cloud Nine. Barlow’s watching him and the girl.’ Pause. ‘So I hate to ask the obvious but who the hell were those men? Do you have any idea?’

‘I don’t know,’ Archer said honestly, glancing at Vargas. She shook her head. ‘But this is bigger than we thought. The guys on the street were amateurs. They had surprise on their side and that was it. But this group is in a different league, whoever they are and how many they are. They have high-tech weapons; they move in pairs. They arrived by helicopter and they have a sniper. They had no idea we’d end up in this building, yet they were prepared enough to be here within forty minutes and kill Foster. They’re professionals.’

‘And this is about Jennifer?’ Helen said, lowering her voice.

Archer looked at Vargas, who nodded.

‘Let’s just say she’s important.’

‘Enough that they’ll kill each other to get to us and her,’ he said. ‘Mind telling us who she is?’

‘I can’t share that,’ Vargas replied.

‘I can’t share that,’ Dalton replied outside on the street corner, unwittingly echoing Vargas.

‘C’mon James, save it,’ Shepherd said, frustrated. ‘You heard the gunfire and saw that chopper. One of my people is in there too. We’re in this together. Tell us what this is about.’

‘Not going to happen,’ Dalton replied. ‘Save your breath, Sergeant.’

He turned to one of his team, a female Marshal in a bulletproof vest. She had a cell phone to her ear.

‘Any luck?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Still down; can’t get through to any of them. Tried the 5B mainline but its dead too.’

‘How could they disable the cell phones?’

The woman shrugged. ‘They must have a jammer of some sort.’

As Dalton considered what she’d said, Marquez returned, carrying another folder. ‘Got the four files on the other boys from the street,’ she said, passing it to Shepherd. ‘Check ‘em out.’

He opened them, examining the files one by one. The last one caught his eye; the man in question had long blond dreadlocks with brown skin and angry eyes, holding up a placard as he was snapped for a mug shot. Apparently he was half-Colombian; his name was Zachary Braeten. In and out of juvenile facilities and prison for most of his twenty six years; Marquez was right. A detective up in Harlem had been trying to build a case against him and his friends for a series of unexplained murders, with him down as the leader. Shepherd had seen similar files before; these kind of people were killers but not trained killers, men who would take life for money without a second thought. Amateurs.

But dangerous.

‘You seen this?’ Shepherd asked, passing it to Dalton. He took it and scanned the sheets, thumbing through them quickly. ‘Someone hired them to take out your witness. But there’s still a missing piece of the puzzle.’

‘Let it go, Sergeant. I’m not telling you who she is.’

‘But whoever she is, she’s been placed in protective custody, right? Witness protection.’

Dalton nodded. ‘Correct.’

‘Then how the hell would they know where your Marshals were?’ Josh finished, reading Shepherd’s mind. ‘Is your crew sloppy?’

Dalton shot him a look that could have melted ice.

‘Foster and his team are the best we have.’

‘Someone tipped these guys off,’ Shepherd said, waving the file. ‘Someone in your department?’

‘No way.’

‘You can be that sure?’

‘Yes. Positive. No-one in my office aside from myself and Foster’s team knew about this operation. It was highly confidential.’

‘What about leverage, or coercion?’ Marquez said. ‘Doesn’t matter who you are, if a man puts a gun to someone you love you have to make a choice.’

‘Personal files on all Marshals are restricted. Neither Barlow or Carson have any immediate family.’

‘What about Foster?’

‘He’s got four boys. Two are in the army overseas, the other two working defence contracts in the Middle East for a security firm. He’s clean. Anyway, all three of my guys are tough as hell. They know the way this job goes. They wouldn’t slip.’

‘What about the woman?’ Marquez asked. ‘What’s her name?’

Dalton paused. ‘Vargas.’

‘Can she be trusted?’

‘With your life,’ Dalton said, fixing her gaze. ‘Trust me on that, Detective.’

Closing the folder, Shepherd exhaled, frustrated. Dalton wouldn’t budge. Turning, he looked over at the ESU team twenty yards behind them. There were twelve or so of them, huddled together in a tight group, examining floor plans and schematics over by their truck. Hobbs was in the middle, issuing orders to the group quietly.

It looked as if a briefing was coming to an end. Dalton saw it too and walked towards them.

‘Oh shit,’ Josh muttered to Shepherd and Marquez, watching him go. ‘Here comes Round Three.’

‘Hobbs,’
Dalton called.

Hobbs looked at him but didn’t respond. Neither did any of his men.

‘Don’t even think about it, Hobbs. This is our operation.’

‘Take a hike.’

‘Stand down. That’s an order.’

‘And do what, sit here and wait?’ Hobbs pointed at Dalton’s team, who were standing just behind him, looking up at the building. ‘Try growing a set of balls. You heard the shots fired inside. We need to get in there now, not hang around and wait for an invitation.’

‘Our choppers are on the way. They’ll be here soon.’

‘We’re going in.’

‘We don’t know who those people are or what kind of weaponry they have,’ Dalton emphasised. ‘You have no idea what you’re sending your men into.’

Ignoring him, Hobbs turned to his task force.

‘Clear?’
he called.

‘Don’t do it,’ Dalton said. ‘That’s a Federal order.’

Ignoring him, the ESU team nodded. Gathering their gear, they climbed into their van without a word and pulled the rear doors shut behind them. A guy in the front seat fired the engine and they headed off down the street, away from the crowd. Dalton watched them go, as Shepherd, Josh and Marquez joined him.

‘What’s happening?’ Marquez asked.

‘It’s show time,’ Josh said quietly, watching the truck head downtown.