One Way (Sam Archer 5) (20 page)

THIRTY ONE

Josh and Marquez had just entered the south building on West 133
rd
. It was an office building, not an apartment block. They were intending to talk to the night security or whoever was behind the front desk, but there was no-one there. The pair of detectives looked around.

The place was empty.

‘Where the hell is the guard?’ Marquez said.

‘Maybe he’s off tonight. It’s a Sunday.’

‘Then why is the building still open?’

‘Perhaps he’s outside or upstairs watching the show.’

Marquez frowned and didn’t reply. Josh walked around the desk and looked down at several monitors. He glanced up and made eye contact with her.

‘Security cameras are down.’

Stepping around the desk and re-joining her, the two of them walked forward, heading for the stairwell at the end of the lobby. Using the stairs was slower but the noise of the elevator could alert someone in the building that they had company. If there actually was someone here.

As Josh pushed back the door to the stairwell, Marquez drew her Sig Sauer, pulling back the slide and glancing over at the abandoned front desk.

Something was wrong.

Someone was here.

She knew it.

Inside a bar called
Lombardis
on Walker Street in Little Italy, a group of men were watching a hockey game on a television mounted above the long liquor shelf behind the bar. They each had a drink going and had been for some time, relaxed, secure on their own territory but each carrying a pistol on his person nevertheless.

On the screen, the Rangers were taking on the Penguins at the Garden and the game was squared at 2-2, the players skating fast around the ice, the puck flying back and forth, a quick flash of black on the white ice. There were several screens behind the bar; the one on the far right was flicked onto NY ONE, which was covering some kind of situation at a tenement block uptown in Harlem. No-one aside from one man paid any attention to it. Put a hockey game on alongside the news in here and there was only ever going to be one winner.

Sitting at the bar, Mike Lombardi drained his whiskey, watching the news report. Twenty five years old, tough and compact with swarthy looks passed down to him from his Milanese great-grandparents, he was still getting used to the fact that he was now head of his own New York crime family.

He’d always been an outsider. His mother had been a waitress who used to work in this bar; one night she caught his father Gino’s eye. Gino had been married at the time and once his wife had found out the girl was pregnant and that it was his, she’d come down here and given her one hell of a beating, to within an inch of her life. Apparently there’d been plenty of people around that night, but none of them had intervened, not when it was Gino’s wife dishing out the punishment. His mother had been hospitalised but despite Gino’s wife’s best efforts, Mike had been born six months later. In the space between the beating and his birth, Gino’s wife never let up. Although she never assaulted his mother again, she spent every spare moment making her life a misery, to the point that his mother soon quit working at the bar, frightened that the woman would assault her again or possibly order some kind of move against her.

Once Mike had been born, things still didn’t improve. Although his father was a feared man, the word
bastard
had echoed in Mike’s ears as a kid, both he and his mother ostracised, no-one wanting to get on the wrong side of Gino’s wife. Mike lived with his mother whilst he was growing up, but had started to come down here when he was old enough, working tirelessly to impress his father and trying to gain his attention and respect. Gino had always acknowledged Mike as his son, but as Mike grew older, ironically out of all of Gino’s kids he began to most resemble his father in looks and temperament. He was the second youngest of six and although he was clearly the least favoured, that had started to change with time. When others saw Gino’s acceptance and growing fondness for his youngest son, they’d followed suit and life had started to become a little easier during Mike’s teenage years.

Gino had encouraged the boy’s interest in the family business, despite his wife’s intense dislike of him. To her, he was a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity. As Mike approached manhood, his dogged persistence had paid off. Unlike his half-siblings who grew up spoilt and lazy, Mike was a worker. In the last few years, he’d seen in the older man’s eyes that he’d more than gained his respect. Gino was increasingly and pleasantly surprised by his bastard son; Mike had started out working the racketeering in the area and had risen to where he was in charge of controlling shipments coming in through the East Side Docks, paying off guys who worked there and the Union, and ensuring the cops, Coastguard or US Customs never got wise to anything in the freight containers.

However, it had all been part of a plan, years in the making. All the insults and abuse Mike had received as a kid had left some deep scars; a boiling hatred had grown inside him, like a steaming pressure cooker always on the verge of exploding. Mike was only half related to every member of this family. The only person in the world he truly cared for, his mother, had already passed on. He’d never shaken the hatred that had festered within him since he was a child, or forgotten the insults and the way his mother was treated, his father never going out of his way to put a stop to it which he could have done in an instant. Looking at the world through a man’s eyes, Mike realised his position as Gino’s son gave him a major advantage.

It meant he could work his way up much more easily. Gain trust. Observe how the inner-workings of the operation functioned. Get a feel for the family; see who was happy and who was feeling misused. Blood was blood, and the one thing he’d inherited from his father was his ruthlessness. He’d shown hints of it already, kneecapping a guy who’d fallen asleep behind the wheel on a late-night job and consequently getting two of their guys busted. He’d also whacked three enforcers from the Devaney crew, chopping up the pieces and scattering them in the bay. Despite this violent streak, Mike was much more intelligent than he let on, and all this time had been planning his father’s downfall.

And at the beginning of the month, he’d executed his plan.

Motioning at the bartender to refill his glass, Mike glanced up at the screen. Reading the teletext, he made out that there’d been some kind of gunfight in the Upper West Side and that a team of armed men were holding off a tenement block, some people trapped inside. The bartender topped up Mike’s Jack as he watched the screen.

Suddenly, there was a screech outside the bar as a car pulled up, followed shortly afterwards by the sound of a door being slammed.

The men inside the joint glanced over at the noise.

Moments later, a big dark-haired guy dressed in jeans and a sweater strode in. He looked pissed. Two of Mike’s men, Paul and Luca, put down their drinks and stepped off their stools, walking towards him with total self-confidence, knowing they were on their turf. Even if this guy was lost, he was still going to catch a beating. No one walked in here without an invitation or Mike’s blessing.

However, the dark-haired guy didn’t slow his stride or hesitate for a moment. He laid Paul out with a fierce right hook, a savage punch that almost put him into next week, then slammed Luca up against the bar as he went for his pistol, twisting his arm behind him and pushing his head down to the wood. The others instantly reached for their weapons but the new guy pulled a gun from a holster on his hip, putting it to Luca’s head.

‘Throw them on the ground. Now!’

There was a pause, but the men complied, an assortment of handguns clattering to the floor, the men staring at him with vicious intent. Once the guns were on the floor, the guy slammed Luca’s head into the bar, breaking his nose. He collapsed to the polished floor in a heap at the newcomer’s feet.

‘You have any idea where you are?’ Mike said. ‘You’re a dead man.’

‘Is that right?’ the guy said, pulling something off his hip and sliding it across the bar. It was an NYPD badge. Mike looked at it.

‘Is that supposed to scare me?’

Moving forward, the newcomer grabbed the badge and slid it back into his pocket, then wrenched Mike off his stool, walking away and dragging him to the entrance, his gun buried in the mobster’s side. Mike hid his surprise. He knew some members of the Department were ball-breakers, but this guy was acting like a mob enforcer, almost like he was on the wrong side.

‘I don’t forget a face,’ Mike hissed. ‘I’ll find you.’

‘Oh I don’t think so,’ the man replied, pushing him through the front door and outside towards his car.

Inside their new hideout on the 12
th
floor, Carson had been placed on the couch in the sitting room, safe from the sniper given that the apartment was on the east side. He was starting to double over and groan again, the cheap heroin all but worn off. The sounds were passing through the thin wall, even with the door shut, and brought mounting concern, not just about the noise but over his condition. They’d been trapped inside the block for almost three hours now, with no medical aid.

If they didn’t get him out of here soon, he’d be joining Foster, Barlow and Helen.

In the kitchen, Isabel was sitting on a chair as Vargas inspected some minor cuts on the little girl’s face and arms, Archer watching her. Fortunately, Isabel hadn’t been badly hurt from the blasts, Archer and Vargas protecting her and covering her from any shrapnel or debris. All three of them were blackened by soot and smoke, nicks and cuts peppering their arms and cheeks. The path of blood from Vargas’ ear had dried. Archer now had the wound to his lower torso to contend with as well as a fresh cut across his eyebrow. The blood was trickling down his temple, just missing his left eye, and his ears were still ringing from the grenades.

Satisfied that Isabel was OK, Vargas looked over at Archer and saw him holding his palm to the lower left of his torso.

‘You’re hurt?’

‘It’s OK,’ he lied. ‘It’s not deep.’

Pause. Vargas swallowed.

‘I saw Helen.’

Archer nodded. ‘Yeah. Me too.’

He turned and watched the door, listening closely. With his back to the other two, he lifted his hand from the wound. The injury burned like hell. It felt as if he’d spilt hot liquid over his skin. He rose and moved to the kitchen counter. Grabbing a towel from the table-top, he held it tight against the wound, staunching the blood as best he could. For the first time since they’d escaped, he thought back in detail to what had happened downstairs in the laundry room, replaying the entire sequence in his mind from the moment that grenade had clanged down the chute.

He suddenly went very still.

‘What? What is it?’ Vargas asked, watching him. ‘Archer?’

He didn’t move.

‘Archer? Are you OK?’

Pause. He turned slowly.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, seeing the look on his face.

‘Downstairs. They had a clear shot at her,’ he said, indicating to Isabel. ‘They didn’t take it.

He looked at Vargas for a long moment.

Then he leant back, sliding slowly down the counter and sitting on the floor.

Suddenly everything fell into place.

‘What?’ Vargas asked, pressing him. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve been such a fool,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This whole time, I never saw what this is really about.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Upstairs, earlier, when we took out those two guys on 22. You were staring at that man.’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘Not because you’d killed him. Because you recognised him.’

She blinked.

‘They’re not here for her, Vargas,’ he said, nodding at Isabel.

He paused.

‘They’re here for you.’

THIRTY TWO

The room was silent. Archer’s statement had drawn no denial from her.

Instead, Vargas rose without a word and took Isabel through to the sitting room; Archer heard her tell the girl to lie down and promised she’d be just next door. Then she re-joined him in the kitchen, closing the door to the sitting room so they were alone.

She sat down on the floor across from him, leaning against the wall, her M4A1 beside her. He saw the expression on her face.

The game was up.

‘That story you told me earlier about Isabel,’ he said. ‘Was that bullshit?’

‘No. That’s all true. Every word.’

‘But this isn’t about her. They let her go. So who are you?’

Silence.

‘Is Vargas your real name?’

‘Yes.’ Pause. ‘I wasn’t a United States Marshal until very recently.’

‘How recently?’

‘Been qualified for three weeks.’ She paused. ‘Before that, I was training in Glynco, Georgia.’

‘And before that?’

‘I was a cop.’

‘Where?’

‘Miami.’

‘What division?’

‘SRT. Special Response Team. Their SWAT unit.’

She paused.

‘I finished my Academy training in LA just over two years ago. I did well, finishing at the top of the class, and spent the first twenty five months in a squad car working a beat in Inglewood. At the beginning of last year, I arrived at the Department one morning and was ordered by my Sergeant to meet with a police Commander. He started asking me about my background, what I wanted to achieve as a member of law enforcement, sounding me out. As the conversation progressed, it turned out that he wasn’t from LA. He was Miami-Dade PD.’

‘Why was he scouting you?’

‘He had two SRT teams under his command, First and Second. Twelve people in each, male and female officers, units that performed the same tasks as LAPD SWAT. His Second Team were all good, no problem. But he had suspicions about First. And these weren’t just concerns about some detective who wasn’t undercover anymore but still doing blow on the weekends. This was some high-level scamming; we’re talking seven or eight figures worth of dirty cash and stolen product from legitimate raids and busts.’

He nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘He had a feeling that they were making more illegal money on the side than the guys they were busting. Drugs have been flowing through Florida like a river for the past forty years. You should see the amount of seized money, dope and cocaine that these officers have access to. It’s staggering, and their superiors are well aware of the temptation. They’d come up through the ranks themselves.’

She paused.

‘The Commander had been working on finding out if these guys really were corrupt, but he hadn’t succeeded. They were smart and covered their tracks effectively. Although they were under his official command, they worked together on a daily basis as a close unit, a tight-knit group. He’d tried sliding officers into the team who were working undercover for him, but none of them found any evidence of corruption. It even started making him think and look like he was just paranoid. However, he was a good man, and very experienced. Despite the lack of proof, he knew deep in his gut something was very wrong.’

Pause.

‘He said his last two options were to bring in Internal Affairs, which would open a real can of worms and make his concerns public, or try one last undercover cop. The problem was, every applicant to SRT was assessed by a review board of current SRT team members and himself. The Master Sergeant of the First Team, Seth Calvin, had access to all their files, their history, their performance in training at the Academy. He knew weeks in advance before anyone applied to join his team what they were about. The Commander even tried sullying up a few applicants’ records, but Calvin and his team smelt a rat, the officers joining their team unable to get close to any illegal activity.’

She paused.

‘They were constantly on their guard, looking into Miami PD at anyone who could be set up as a mark to get inside their crew.’

She looked over at him.

‘But they weren’t watching the LAPD.’

His back against the wall, Archer listened closely, holding the towel close to the wound on his lower torso. Vargas was ex-SRT, trained Special Response. That explained the way she’d handled everything tonight. But he waited for her to explain the rest.

‘I thought about the Commander’s offer to go undercover and accepted,’ she continued. ‘It sure as hell was better than the alternative, working the beat in LA for five or six years hoping for a promotion and trying not to get killed. I packed my stuff and flew down there. But then it came to my cover story, which brought up a problem.’

‘What was that?’

‘Any applicant to SRT has to be a sworn Miami PD officer. We set it up so according to the file I’d been working Vice in Orlando but had requested a transfer to the Miami-Dade Department due to personal reasons. I was one of the best they had in Orlando, but for some reason I wasn’t gelling with the team around me and needed a change of scene.’

She nodded.

‘The story was solid. It held. They would have run some checks, but my dummy file was on the computer and I seemed legit. I then applied for SRT and went under the review board. I passed all the tests, mental and physical, and was at the top of my class in the training programme. But right then, we started to lay seeds. I was pretty abrupt and hostile to the other recruits. Didn’t socialise. Deliberately caused some friction. When I was confronted about it in interview by the Commander, I said I didn’t care what others thought of me, I just wanted to do my job to the best of my abilities. If they wanted a delicate chick, they should go to the beach. Then less than a week later, I was assigned to Calvin’s team.’

She paused.

‘At first, everything seemed kosher. I began to think the Commander was imagining things. But after I smacked around a few suspects on some drug raids and bit back when the guys on the team started giving me shit, they began to relax. They included me more and more. And then I saw that the Commander wasn’t just paranoid.’

She shook her head.

‘Turned out this wasn’t just a couple officers skimming a few notes off the stack. This was scamming that had been going on for years. Not including myself, there were eleven men in the First Team and every single one of them was in on it. A handful of others had retired on what they’d stolen, their replacements appointed by Calvin over the years, men who they knew they could trust and were secretly on the take. I relayed what I was seeing to the Commander and we began to build a case. On scores of busts, I saw them keep aside large portions of money and dope for themselves, tossing me a cut to keep me quiet. I hung out with a few of them at bars on the Keys, shooting the shit and learning what they’d been up to all this time.’

‘They weren’t suspicious?’

‘Take this from a woman. You wear a tight-fitting dress and act half-interested, a guy won’t be thinking with his brain.’

‘So what happened?’

‘A separate task force from the Anti-Corruption Unit was set up to build a complete case on these guys. Surveillance, wire taps. I was wearing a fibre-optic on a couple of raids. Gathering weight on the older guys who’d retired was easy; they’d become complacent. They’d figured they’d already ridden off into the sunset and had gotten away with their crimes. None of these idiots understood the meaning of subtlety; they had five bedroom homes, speedboats. One of them even had a 230 thousand dollar Ferrari, fresh off the line. Nailing them was easy.’

‘The others?’

‘Not so much. The current officers were smart and had connections. Although they were screwing up, they were pretty slick and warier than the old guys. ACU couldn’t find their stolen funds, and they only spoke about their dealings in person, never over the phone. However, at the end of November last year we figured we had enough with my first-hand accounts; the case was green lit and out in the open. The entire team was arrested, suspended and have been ever since, each of them still being brought in for questioning and grilled like tenderloin. So far they’ve admitted nothing, standing their ground, challenging us to provide any clear-cut unquestionable evidence. Which is where I come in.’

‘And it didn’t take a genius to realise you were the one who gave them up,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘No. It didn’t.’

‘Once the Commander and his task force moved in, I was immediately pulled from SRT for my own safety,’ she explained, as Archer listened closely. ‘I was a jewel in the prosecution’s crown. I’d been involved in some of this scamming and had seen first-hand the accused officers engaged in all sorts of illegal activity. Suddenly, I became extremely valuable but also a major target. The evidence against them was strong but not titanium. My testimony would carry considerable weight. If anything happened to me, there was a strong possibility the case could disintegrate. They’ve got powerful friends. If they got charged they’d get a few months, maybe a couple of years, maybe nothing at all if their lawyer played her hand right. If I didn’t make the stand, they could get off pretty easy. They could even beat the charges.’

‘The same as Isabel,’ Archer said.

Vargas nodded. ‘The Commander wanted me out of Florida. As I said, these cops had some powerful connections, including guys still on the force. The Commander had some himself, including Dalton, who was a former Miami PD Master Sergeant and an old friend of his. Given what I’d done, they asked me where I wanted to go, and the Commander suggested the US Marshals. He’d spoken to Dalton about the situation and provided I passed the training, Dalton said I could join his office here in New York.’

‘So they accepted.’

She nodded.

‘Two days later, I was at the training academy in Glynco for seventeen weeks, laying low, living in camp, far from Florida and blending in with all the other recruits,’ she said. ‘Then I was assigned to Foster’s team under Dalton’s orders.’

‘They didn’t tell John who you really were?’

She shook her head.

‘It was almost like witness protection for me; teams like Foster’s live off the grid and always expect trouble. Although they thought they were protecting someone else, I’d have a three-man security escort wherever I went and no-one would know my story. For the past eight days, we’ve been laying low with Isabel, staying at DOJ safe-houses all over the State. It was killing two birds with one stone. I’d be part of Foster’s crew protecting Isabel, yet they had no idea that they were also protecting me.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘So these men are all cops?’

She nodded. ‘Miami-Dade PD. Special Response Team. Including the sniper, that makes eleven men.’

‘That explains their moves and obvious training. These guys know what they’re doing.’

‘Right now, they’re all suspended as the investigation continues. The trial is set to start in eleven days. And guess who’s due to testify against them.’

Archer considered the situation, mapping it out from the start to that very moment.

‘They hired the street team to put you away. They’re also in the area, but not on the trigger, wanting to lay low and away from suspicion but there in case anything went wrong. When the ambush didn’t work, they came in themselves to take you out. Make sure you die so they walk.’

‘Yes. These guys are cops; they know the drill. Their alibis will already be bought and paid for. They’ll be able to prove they were nowhere near New York this weekend.’

She thought back in the evening.

‘I don’t know how the hell they found me. But however they did, they must have figured Barlow would be the weakest link on our team. Made him an offer. He must have told them everything; me, Foster, Carson. Who Isabel was. Our moves and location today. They set up an ambush to get me.’

Archer nodded.

‘They knew any attack would appear to come from Mike Lombardi,’ he said. ‘And it would look like you got caught in the crossfire trying to protect her. The perfect plan.’

He paused.

‘Jesus. These guys are supposed to be on our side.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Taking it all in, Archer thought back to the gunfight on the 22
nd
floor. He remembered Vargas removing the man’s balaclava and staring down at him when he grabbed her and said they had to go.

‘Who was the guy you killed upstairs?’

‘His name was Taylor. First Team’s point man when they went in through the door. Real asshole.’

‘You knew right then what this is really about.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘So why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy and I was shocked. Besides, it wouldn’t make any difference if they were after me or Isabel; we’d all still be in this situation. And I thought back up would get to us before I’d have to explain.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘Try to understand, Archer. I’ve spent the last thirteen months keeping a huge part of my life a secret; it’s hard to shake that habit. Especially when there are a group of highly trained men searching for you and wanting to kill you.’