One Way (Sam Archer 5) (26 page)

FORTY THREE

Down on the street, the Marshals team had finally had enough. Hobbs had been on the phone for most of the past two hours, first explaining to his senior officers what had happened to his team on the roof and the chopper, then trying to figure out a plan for a secondary approach. The police commissioner had arrived, been filled in on the situation and was talking with the senior NYPD men on the ground, also trying to come up with a solution to the stand-off. Two other ESU teams had arrived but they were being ordered to hold back; no more NYPD choppers were going near the building unless ordered, and that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Dalton’s group was a separate issue. They were a Federal team and had jurisdiction here, and he’d decided it was time to get inside the building once and for all. Their two helicopters were back from an operation in Long Island, but after what had happened to the ESU vessel, the pilots were understandably reluctant to fly anywhere near the building carrying a team on what could well turn out to be a suicide mission.

That meant they were going in from the ground.

Dalton was mid-briefing when Hendricks and Shepherd approached him. He sensed their urgency and broke off from what he was saying, motioning to his team to give him one moment. He moved off to one side with the two men, Dalton’s team watching him expectantly.

‘What’s going on?’ Shepherd asked.

‘We’re going in.’

‘That’s not wise. They put down ESU with Claymore mines and a rocket launcher,’ Shepherd said. ‘Who knows what kind of weapons they’ve got in there?’’

‘We have no alternative. It’s time to end this thing.’

‘Listen. These men aren’t after the child,’ Hendricks said. ‘This is something else.’

Dalton looked at him. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

‘I went downtown; grilled Mike Lombardi. He has no idea what this is about.’

‘Are you kidding me? You went down there and told him the whereabouts of our only witness in his trial?’

Hendricks didn’t reply. Dalton’s expression changed, hardening.

‘You know what, from now on we’ll handle this,’ he said. ‘This is a Federal situation; stay the hell out of it.’

‘Listen to him, James,’ Shepherd implored. ‘These men aren’t who we thought they were. They’re here for one of your people.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I don’t know. But I think you do.’

Dalton didn’t reply. Behind him, his team waited expectantly, ready to go.

‘Stand down and stay the hell away,’ he repeated. ‘That’s a Federal order. We’re going in.’

On the 12
th
floor, Archer and Vargas were in the corridor, the two of them standing back to back, covering each other in the now familiar pattern. The hallway was quiet but they both felt vulnerable, as they’d done the entire damn time they’d been here. Being inside one of the apartments gave momentary protection and slight security; out here, there was nowhere to hide.

There were no more people left on this floor; the place was eerily empty.

And in the quiet, the constant beeping over the intercom continued.

They couldn’t waste a second; if the Marshals managed to breach the front door, the Claymores hidden behind the desk would blow them to pieces.

Moving fast, the pair entered the stairwell and started making their way down, ready and fully prepared to encounter the SRT team or the guys from the street and take them out head-on.

Hendricks and Shepherd watched Dalton re-join his team.

‘This isn’t smart,’ Hendricks said. ‘They annihilated the ESU task force. They’ll do the same to them.’

‘What else can we do, Jake? He won’t listen.’

‘Last time they came in from above,’ Hendricks said. ‘This time, they know it’ll be from the ground. It’ll be a massacre.’

Shepherd glanced at his friend and saw him staring up at the top of the building. He realised what he was thinking. Hendricks turned to him.

‘You with me?’

Shepherd nodded. Without another word, the two men ran from the sea of NYPD vehicles and jumped into Shepherd’s car, Hendricks pulling his cell as Shepherd fired the engine.

They needed a chopper ASAP.

Archer and Vargas moved down the stairs quickly. By now they’d become accustomed to each other’s movements and patterns, strangers from mere hours ago who were now relying on each other to stay alive.

5.

4.

3.

The lower apartment block was like a ghost-town. Everyone was either gone, hiding out or had been killed in the gas explosion on 8 when the mob of residents had found them. Pausing on the 3
rd
floor stairwell, they both glanced down the corridor.

It was deserted. There was no-one about.

Including the response team.

FORTY FOUR

Down on the street, Dalton’s task force stepped past the barriers and shot-up cop cars, moving slowly forward. Four men at the front of the group were holding bullet-proof riot shields, the same type that had saved the Hostage Rescue man’s life when he’d tried to get a phone inside earlier. The raids and busts they performed as an agency often weren’t smooth and they were accustomed to this kind of drill. They were approaching in a group like a Roman tortoise, an ancient defensive manoeuvre but still highly effective.

Watching them approach the building, Dalton realised Hobbs was beside him, looking anxious. Any cause for argument they’d had earlier had been blown up with the ESU team and their chopper.

Dalton glanced at Hobbs.

‘Here we go.’

Archer and Vargas arrived onto the 1
st
floor. It was empty, no-one around, like all the others. However, they knew the team of Miami cops were using these floors, so Archer pulled open the door, Vargas going through, wanting to clear it quickly before they continued down. Halfway along the corridor, Archer passed a room with an open door that looked different. It was some kind of maintenance office, no one inside. Expecting an ambush at any moment, he ducked into the room, followed by Vargas. They both saw an intercom panel on the wall, but the button wasn’t pushed down.

There must be another somewhere else in the building,
Archer thought.

Vargas looked at him and pointed down. He nodded. They couldn’t waste any more time. They quickly cleared the rest of the corridor and the north stairwell. As they moved down to the ground floor, ready to fire, they saw a load of dead bodies slumped on top of each other. They’d all been shot, blood on the floor and on the walls behind them. Climbing over them, with no time to spare, Archer and Vargas paused by the door. He looked at her and nodded.

Ripping the door back, they aimed into the lobby, ready to fire.

But none of the gunmen were there.

The man Archer had strangled was still dumped in a heap by the elevator but there was no-one else. The place was deserted. Archer looked over at the mass of Claymores aimed at the door and winced. He approached the jammer by the wall and flicked a switch; it seemed to shut down.

Vargas had already pulled her phone, looking through the shattered window, seeing a task force of Marshals approaching the door.

‘Put your hands up!’
one of them bellowed, seeing Archer through the gap and aiming at him with a shotgun.

Outside, the Marshals were eight yards from the door. Behind the cop car barrier twenty yards away, Dalton watched.

Suddenly, his phone rang. They were two yards from the door.

‘Hello?’

‘Sir, it’s Vargas! Do not enter! I repeat, do not enter! The door is rigged to blow!’

Dalton took off and started running towards the building with no regard for his own safety, people watching from the crowd and wondering what was happening.

The Marshals team were at the door.

‘Stop!’

The other side of the door, Archer saw the Marshals
task force by the blown-out glass. Two of them were training their weapons on him. He saw a dark-haired man suddenly appear from behind, running forward and shouting at his team to lower their weapons. He had a phone to his ear.
Dalton
. Vargas saw him and ended the call, moving forward as close as she could get without touching the Claymores.

‘You can’t get in here, sir,’ Vargas told him. ‘There are enough Claymores here to kill everyone on the street.’

‘Are you OK?’ Dalton asked. ‘Where’s the child?’

‘She’s upstairs. She’s fine. These men are the cops from Miami; they’re here for me.’

Dalton stared at her. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. This door’s trip-wired, sir. You’ll have to come in from the roof!’

Inside the lobby, there was a noise from the north stairwell. Vargas spun and swept up her M4A1, pointing it at the door. She and Archer both eased their way towards it. Pulling the door back, they aimed their weapons up the stairs past the dead bodies, but no one appeared, no other sound except the continuous beeping.

‘Where the hell is that coming from?’ Archer said.

Vargas withdrew to the lobby, checking the detailed building plan on the wall.

‘The basement,’ she said. ‘I’ll check it.’

As she turned, Archer heard what sounded like movement again, from somewhere just up the stairwell. He took a step forward, aiming up the flight, as Vargas moved down the stairwell to the floor below, her M4A1 in her shoulder, easing her way downstairs.

Alone in the office building, Marquez arrived on 13. The layout was the same as the floor below, lots of dark cubicles and desks with computers and keypads, everything switched off. It was strangely quiet for a place so normally infused with noise and activity.

She wasn’t mad at Josh for leaving; neither of them had any idea if Archer was still alive. All the gunfire and explosions from the tenement block over the course of the evening seemed to have eroded his patience and frayed his nerves. She was very fond of Archer but knew Josh viewed him as family.

Suddenly she spotted something and walked forward to take a closer look, heading towards the north side of the building. As she moved closer, the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

A silenced rifle was laid on a table, pointed at an open window.

It had been abandoned, but she caught a hint of aftershave in the air.

Someone had just been here.

Reaching to her pocket, she grabbed her phone and started scrolling for Josh’s number, her Sig Sauer in her other hand.

But the pistol pushed into the back of her neck made her freeze.

Vargas crept down into the basement. There was a hum from the boilers, the air much warmer, the corridor wider to accommodate the machinery. Sweeping either side with her M4A1, she heard the beeping get increasingly louder the further she headed along the corridor.

She stepped forward quietly.

The beeping got even louder.

Up ahead, a large puddle of water had settled on the tiles, water dripping from an old leaky pipe running across the ceiling. The severed cords of the phone lines were dangling in the water, a death trap, beside a fire axe that had been dumped there. Just before the water, to her right, was a metal box with a glass panel that had equipment or wires inside. A maintenance map of the building was beside it, stuck to the wall. Just above the box was the intercom.

It was taped down, the light turned green.

Beside it was something else, beeping monotonously.

The digital receiver for a detonator.

She froze, then glanced up. C4 had been packed all around the joists above her head. She looked to her left and saw it had also been pushed into the corners of the ceiling.

Plastic explosive.

Enough to blow the entire building.

Her blood ran cold when she realised what was going to happen.

It was almost as cold as the steel of the gun that was pressed into the back of her neck.

FORTY FIVE

‘Drop the weapon,’ a familiar voice said.

She didn’t move, staring at the wall in front of her.

‘Drop it.’

She let it fall to the ground, still facing the receiver. She didn’t need to turn to recognise who was holding the weapon. His name was Denton, Calvin’s old partner, a Sergeant in SRT and a creep. He’d made a move once, and after she’d rejected him and kicked his ass that lust had been transformed into pure hostility.

Facing the wall, she sensed him lean in close.

‘I knew you’d come down eventually,’
he whispered into her ear.
‘Inquisitive bitch.’

She felt his other hand touch her lower back.

It slid lower and she tensed.

‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking I might have some fun before I pull the trigger.’

She suddenly coughed, momentarily loosening the gun from the back of her neck as her head jerked down. She deflected his arm, twisted and kicked him as hard as she could in the groin, driving her shin upwards like she was taking a goal kick. He recoiled as he took the blow, dropping the gun and yelping in pain. She swung her M4A1 around but he recovered enough to grab it and wrench the weapon out of her hands, the assault rifle clattering to the floor as he slammed her up against the wall.

He had about eighty pounds on her and he knew what he was doing. He wrestled her to the ground, using his superior strength and size advantage, and started strangling her. She smashed the heel of her palm up into his nose desperately, which loosened his hands. Pinned under him, she frantically scrabbled for anything within reach that she could use as a weapon; she cut her hand on some glass from the smashed phone-line panel.

Ignoring the pain, she grabbed the shard and slashed it across his face. He immediately recoiled and released her, shouting in pain. She hit him again with the heel of her palm, this time breaking his nose, and managed to roll away as he rocked back, clutching his face. She scrambled to her feet and reached for the pistol on her hip. Wiping blood out of his eyes and lurching to his feet, Denton saw the puddle of water behind her with the ruptured cord from the severed phone lines hanging in it.

He lunged forward and kicked her back, the force knocking her into the water.

There was a
whump
. The force of the electric shock threw Vargas back against the wall. She dropped in a limp heap, collapsing to the ground just out of the puddle.

Denton spat blood out of his mouth and wiped it out of his eyes then reached for his M4A1.

Scooping up the rifle, he buried the stock in his shoulder, pulled the slide and aimed at her head.

Suddenly he was thrown forward as a burst of assault rifle fire hit him in the back, the muzzle flash lighting up the dark basement. Seeing the man fall, Archer ran down the corridor past him and dropped down by Vargas, who was lying motionless on the floor. He felt her neck for a pulse.

There was none.

Quickly laying the M4A1 to one side, he started CPR, constantly checking either side of him. Under his hands, Vargas jerked lifelessly with each push on her sternum, her body limp, her weapon dropped to the side.

‘C’mon, Vargas,’ he said.

He pushed harder, willing her to come back.

‘C’mon!’

He breathed into her mouth and continued the CPR.

Suddenly a figure appeared from the north stairwell, one of the original gang members who’d ambushed Foster and his team on the street. He had a gun in his hand.

Archer swept up his M4A1 fast and pulled the trigger.
Click
.

It was empty.

Dropping the rifle, he threw himself to one side as the other man fired, hitting the air where Archer’s head had just been. Archer had already pulled Carson’s USP from his belt and fired from his back, putting two rounds in the guy’s sternum a half inch apart.

Archer pushed himself back to Vargas as the dead man hit the ground, pressing with even more force, continuing the compressions rhythmically and firmly.

‘C’mon, Alice.’

He pushed but she wasn’t responding.

She was limp.

‘Stay with me.’

He pushed hard.

‘Let’s go, Vargas.’

Nothing.

He pushed.

Nothing.

He pushed.

Nothing.

‘Let’s go Vargas!’
he shouted, pushing even harder.

She suddenly took a huge breath, her eyes wide with panic, and started scrabbling, gasping, coughing and whimpering. Archer grabbed her and held her close, giving her time to recover and realise where she was.

Sucking in air, her chest heaving, she hugged him, looking over his shoulder at the darkly lit corridor, her eyes wide in panic, gripping onto him like they were floating out at sea and she couldn’t swim.

‘It’s OK. It’s OK. He’s gone.
I’m here.’

She panted for breath, clutching him close.

Suddenly, another of the gang members appeared from the south stairwell. He had a pistol in his hands. Archer had his back to the man and didn’t see him. Still holding Archer, Vargas desperately whipped her Glock from the holster on her hip and fired a split-second before the gunman. She hit him in the leg then fired again and hit him in the chest. He collapsed to the floor and was still.

She tried to keep the Glock up but it fell from her fingers and she clung onto Archer with both arms, sucking in deep breaths, recovering from the electric shock. As she did so, he turned and checked over his shoulder. The guy she’d shot was dead.

They sat there in the basement, her chest heaving, both of them bloodied, bruised and beaten up.

And above them, the detonator kept flashing, hooked up to the C4 that would demolish the building at any moment.