One Way (Sam Archer 5) (5 page)

FIVE

The grey-haired guy drove like a wheelman. He weaved in and out of traffic, torching his way uptown, streets and landmarks flashing past on both sides. The gunfire had smashed out two windows and put holes in all the others, and wind whistled through the car as they burned up the Upper West Side. The Tahoe was a big vehicle but he handled it expertly, avoiding other cars by a hair’s breadth. West 94
th
, 96
th
, 98
th
. West 100
th
.

Archer checked behind them and could see the pursuing car keeping pace, the four guys visible inside. Their driver was nowhere near as proficient as the man beside Archer and they smashed into vehicles as they forced their way through, unaware and uncaring of anyone in their way. However, they were staying with them.

‘Who the hell are you?’
the grey-haired man shouted at Archer, putting his foot down.

‘NYPD.’

‘Show me a badge!’

‘Watch the road!’
Archer shouted, pointing.

The grey-haired man swerved around a truck emerging from a side street and accelerated forward, pushing the horn and cutting a red light, pedestrians leaping back as the car scorched past just inches from them. They were now in the triple digits; he cut a hard left down Cathedral Parkway and then turned right onto Amsterdam Avenue, the streets ticking past, West 104
th
, West 106
th
, 108
th
, 110
th
.
‘Hang in there, Carson!
’ the grey-haired man shouted, his giant hands wrapped tightly around the wheel as they raced on, approaching Harlem. Archer twisted in his seat and saw the wounded man, Carson, in the back. He was lying across the third man and dark-haired woman, blood all over his hands and staining his white t-shirt. He’d been shot in the stomach and his body was contorted in pain, his eyes as wide as saucers as he stared up at the interior of the roof.

They roared on up the street, the streets flashing by, moving further and further uptown. There was a screech of tyres as the pursuing car kept up behind them, right on their tail. They couldn’t shake them.

Suddenly there was a
Bam
and a wheeze as one of the Tahoe’s tyres blew out, a gunshot echoing in the street. The grey-haired man fought with the wheel but the car starting drifting unresponsively to the left. There was another
Bam
as another tyre was hit and they slammed hard into a fire hydrant, throwing everyone in the car forward, Carson coughing in pain and the little girl yelping in the rear footwell.

The ruptured hydrant started spraying water into the air and onto the front of the vehicle, people around them on the street stopping momentarily, shocked at the sudden crash.

The grey-haired man tried the ignition frantically but the 4x4 wouldn’t start. They were stuck.

‘Shit!’

There was the screech of the pursuing car pulling up.

‘Everybody out!’
the grey-haired man shouted, pushing open his door. Archer climbed over to the driver’s side, diving out after him and crouching down behind the 4x4. He saw the driver pull a second weapon from a pancake holster on his belt, a Glock. As the man and woman in the back started to manoeuvre themselves, the child and Carson out of the wrecked Tahoe, their driver started to fire over the bonnet, the four gunmen diving down behind their own car as passers-by screamed and ran for cover. The uninjured younger man drew his own pistol and joined the grey-haired guy firing from behind the 4x4. The woman pulled the child and then Carson out of the car who was clutching his belly, his face twisted in agony. The four gunmen were gathered behind their vehicle, the Glock fire smashing out the windows, shell casings rattling and bouncing onto the concrete. The street around them started to clear as drivers braked hard and reversed fast, pedestrians flat on the ground or scrabbling for safety behind any form of cover.

The enemy gunmen started to return fire, the pace of it increasing dramatically, bullets ripping into the Tahoe and forcing them all down behind it, spraying them with smashed glass as the remaining pieces of window were destroyed. One of the gunmen had an assault rifle.

As bullets smashed into the car, tearing it to pieces, the group sheltering behind it looked at each other. They were pinned down, one of them was already hit and the Tahoe wasn’t going to last long under that kind of firepower. If they stayed where they were, the enemy assault rifle would shred them apart like a wood-chipper.

Their only option was to retreat.

Turning, Archer saw there was a tall tenement building behind them, just past the corner of West 135
th
. The grey-haired man squeezed off two rounds, then looked over his shoulder and saw the block too.

‘Fall back!
’ he shouted, jerking his head at the entrance of the building.
‘Get inside!’

Staying low behind the vehicle, Archer grabbed Carson under his armpits and pulled him backwards towards the door as the other two men rose and fired at their pursuers, pinning them down behind the other car.

The dark-haired woman scooped up the small girl and followed Archer quickly, who’d made it to the entrance. Pushing the handle down with his elbow, Archer kicked the door back and dragged Carson inside, the gunfight in front of them intensifying as their attackers saw what they were doing and tried to take them out before they had a chance to get inside the building.

The grey-haired man returned rapid fire with the Glock, then snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. Seeing the door behind them was open, he shouted to the uninjured man beside him.

‘Barlow, move!’

The two men edged back, keeping up their fire, and stumbled inside, bullets kicking up brick dust around the entrance as they fell into the large lobby. The grey-haired guy recovered quickly, rolling to his feet, then reached forward and twisted the lock. The moment he did, one of the windows next to the door was blown out, causing him to recoil, the glass spraying into the air and cutting his face.

Behind him, there was an elevator in the middle of the large lobby. Archer was desperately pushing the button but nothing was happening.

‘Shit!’

He knew they didn’t have long. The dark-haired woman saw the elevator wasn’t coming, and without a word she pulled open a door on the left and ran into a stairwell. Archer bent down and hoisted Carson into a fireman’s carry, then moved to the stairs and followed the woman as she took the lead, holding the girl’s hand who was running alongside her. As they headed up the flights, Archer heard thumping at the door in the lobby as the gunmen tried to force their way in. The pounding was matching the speed of his heart rate; although he was just about back to full fitness, he was carrying a grown man on his shoulders up a flight of stairs, having just come from a strenuous workout at the gym and been in the midst of a savage gunfight with no weapon.

Another burst of adrenaline kicked in and he followed the woman and child, the other two men bringing up the rear, Carson’s weight draped across his shoulders.

They’d just made it to 5 when they heard the door downstairs give way and smash open. The dark-haired woman immediately ducked through the open door to the floor and ran down the corridor, still holding the girl’s hand tightly. She came to a halt outside a random apartment and knocked frantically, looking back at the way she’d come.

No-one opened up.

She turned and desperately pounded on another door across the hall. At the same time, a door behind Archer opened, on the south-east corner of the building. A middle-aged, comely-looking woman looked out, having heard the commotion. She looked shocked when she saw Carson lying across Archer’s shoulders, clearly wounded and in bad shape.

The dark-haired woman saw her and immediately ran back to where she was standing, pushing her way inside the apartment past the female resident without waiting for an invitation. The other
woman didn’t try to stop her and stood back, confused but not objecting, still staring at Carson. Hearing feet pounding up the stairwell, Archer glanced quickly back from where they’d just come and saw with relief that they hadn’t left a blood trail. Most of Carson’s blood was on his shirt, or now on him, warm and wet on his front and side.

He and the other two men didn’t waste a second, following the woman and child into the apartment. The moment they were all inside, the grey-haired man quickly pushed the door shut behind him and locked it.

Seconds later, two of the gunmen appeared on the 5
th
floor corridor, panting, each holding a pistol, their eyes and movements jerky and hyped up. They checked up the stairwell and down the corridor but there was no sign of the group. They’d disappeared.

‘Shit!’
one of them said, kicking the wall.

Behind them, Braeten and the man with the AK-47 raced into view. Taking some deep breaths, Braeten stood and stared down the corridor. It had a door at the front, but it had been jammed open with a wedge, revealing the length of hallway all the way to another stairwell on the other side of the building. There was music and noise coming from some of the apartments, the residents unaware of what was happening.

‘Did they go down here?’ Braeten asked.

‘I don’t know. Just missed them. Could be up a level.’

‘I’ll check it,’ the man with the AK47 said, pushing the magazine release catch and reaching into a bag across his shoulders. He pulled out a fresh clip and slapped it into the weapon, pulling the cocking handle.

‘When the hell did you get that?’ Braeten asked, looking at the rifle.

‘This morning.’

‘Good. Go put it to use.’

The other three turned and ran back into the stairwell, heading up to the next floor. Watching them go, Braeten pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialled a number, looking down the 5
th
floor corridor. Two Broadway-side doors had opened, residents peering out after hearing the commotion, but they shut quickly when they saw the man with blond dreadlocks and the pistol in his hand. He saw that none of them were the Marshals. Besides, they’d be hiding, not opening doors and peering out.

Turning, Braeten moved into the stairwell, waiting for the call to connect. This wasn’t good. Hawking and spitting, he cursed, pissed off and thirsty for blood. What just went down was a disaster. He never left contracts unfulfilled; a reliable reputation was essential in his line of work. And considering the clients he had, failure meant he could easily be joining those he’d been assigned to kill.

He headed back down the stairs, deciding to check the 4
th
floor.

Wherever they were hiding, the group would probably be thinking they’d got away and were safe.

But this was only just getting started.

SIX

Inside the apartment to the immediate right of the stairwell, the group were standing back from the door, all of them breathing hard from exertion and anxiety as they stared at the wooden frame, listening, waiting. Three handguns were trained on the wood; if someone tried to get in, it would be the last thing they ever did.

They waited.

No-one came.

Momentarily satisfied the gunmen weren’t about to burst in, Archer tore his gaze from the door and looked behind him. The wounded man, Carson, was flat on his back on the floor and writhing in agony, his head in the dark-haired woman’s lap who had one hand on his brow and the other holding her pistol, aimed at the door. Blood was spread all over the front of Carson’s white t-shirt, his eyes screwed tight, his teeth gritted together as shock wore off and pain kicked in. Standing beside them were the small girl and the unwounded man from the car. The man was watching the door whilst the girl watched Carson, her face pale, tears in her eyes. The owner of the apartment was a middle-aged slightly faded blonde. She was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a grey, long-sleeved t-shirt with the logo of some baseball team on the front. She was standing to one side, staring at the group who’d invaded her space but particularly at the wounded man bleeding out on her floor.

However, she wasn’t making a fuss or more importantly, any noise.

To Archer’s right, the grey-haired man reloaded his .44 with another six shells. Tucking the empty copper casings into his pocket quietly, he flicked the cylinder into place then pulled a black badge from his belt and showed it to the homeowner. Archer instantly recognised the steel star surrounded by a circle.

This man was a US Marshal.

‘Is there a room we can use?’
he asked quietly.

She nodded, staying silent. He turned to the dark-haired woman. ‘Vargas, get the girl.’ He shifted his attention to the uninjured man. ‘Barlow, watch the door.’ Both of them nodded. Easing Carson’s head off her lap and carefully lowering it to the floor, the woman called Vargas rose and took the child’s hand as the grey-haired man holstered his .44 and bent down, gripping Carson’s armpits.

Archer stepped forward and took hold of the man’s legs, not waiting to be asked. Together the two of them heaved him up and following the blonde homeowner, carried him through a door to the right.

They entered a sitting room, which looked drab and dreary. There was a TV on a stand in the corner, a couch, several armchairs and a few lamps dotted around on small tables. There were also some photo frames containing the standard family snaps and a few ornaments on a bookshelf fixed to the wall. The floor was carpeted but the place had definitely seen better days. The homeowner rushed off, retrieving some towels from the bathroom then returning, and threw them over the couch in an attempt to protect it from any blood.

The two men placed Carson down carefully on the cushions. He was whimpering in agony, drawing ragged breaths as the blood continued to seep sluggishly from the wound to his stomach. Across the room, Vargas was sitting with the girl, distracting her and keeping her turned away from the gunshot man bleeding on the couch as they both caught their breath and recovered from what had just happened. Once he’d deposited Carson, the big grey-haired US Marshal ducked back next door. Following him to the doorway, Archer watched as he reached behind a refrigerator, unplugging it, then dragged it in front of the door as quickly and quietly as he could, forming a makeshift barrier. If someone wanted to get in it wouldn’t stop them, but the improvised blockade would buy them all a few valuable extra seconds.

Once the refrigerator was in place, the Marshal stepped back and headed back to the sitting room, passing the other uninjured man, who’d kept his weapon trained on the door the entire time.

‘Barlow, in here.’

He followed and joined the others in the sitting room.

Once Barlow was inside, the grey-haired man shut the door.

In the south stairwell beside the 4
th
floor, Braeten ended the call as the other three gunmen reappeared from above. The sounds of shouts and music coming from apartments in the building echoed around them, the long funnelled flight of stairs carrying the noise from above. Several residents had stuck their heads out of east-side facing apartments on the 4
th
floor moments ago, the same as had happened on 5, having heard the gunshots from out on the street and the noise inside the building. Braeten had ignored them, focusing on the call, giving a complete update on what had just happened to his client the other end of the line and not enjoying it at all.

Pocketing the cell phone, he turned to his guys.

‘Anything?’

They shook their heads. ‘They disappeared,’ one of them said, talking fast. He sniffed and looked up the stairwell.

‘Not for long,’ Braeten said, reloading his pistol with a fresh clip, letting the empty magazine fall to the floor. ‘Back up is on the way.’

‘What? Who?’

He pulled the slide. ‘The clients. They’re sending help.’

One of them went to speak but they heard the sound of sirens from the street outside. The four men paused momentarily, looking at each other.

Then they took off down the stairs back to the ground floor.

The first call to the NYPD’s emergency hotline had occurred less than thirty seconds after the initial shots were fired on West 89
th
. Officers already in the area had either heard the weapons’ reports and were already on their way, or had been ordered to the scene immediately by Dispatch, their phone lines suddenly inundated with crisis calls. By the time any of them made it to the scene, the Tahoe and the pursuit car were already racing away through the streets, heading uptown through the Upper West and on into Harlem. The two cars had carved through three different NYPD areas, which meant there were now scores of blue and white NYPD vehicles converging from all directions on the scene from the 24
th
, 26
th
and 30
th
Precincts. Jurisdiction was collective here; these assholes had opened fire on the street in one of the safest neighbourhoods in the city. Right now, it was open season.

The squad cars were all arriving outside the tenement on West 135
th
around the same time, lights flashing and sirens wailing as they screeched to a halt. The officers immediately saw the two abandoned cars from the chase, both of them shot up with all the doors open. One of the vehicles was a black Tahoe which had slammed into a fire hydrant on the corner, water spraying up high into the air.

Beside it, the front door of a tenement block was hanging open, the lock smashed, bits of chalk and brickwork scattered in front of it.

Some of the arriving officers pulled their side-arms and immediately positioned themselves behind their cars, covering colleagues who were quickly pushing curious members of the public back and securing the area.

Suddenly one of the cops went down with a shout of pain as a gunshot echoed around the street.

He clutched his thigh as two more shots hit the police car behind him.

The cops ducked down behind cover as more gunfire erupted from the entrance of the building, muzzle flashes lighting up the street. One of the officers crawled around the side of his car and
managed to drag his injured partner back, bullets ripping into the vehicle, smashing glass and riddling the blue and white with holes. The rate of fire suddenly went up a hundred notches, the terrifying echo of an assault rifle filling the Avenue as bullets shredded into the cop cars, showering the officers ducked behind with glass and shrapnel.

Pulling open the door of his vehicle, the officer who’d saved his partner reached inside and grabbed both the Mossberg riot gun from its position between the front seats and the radio receiver, jerking as the window above his head was blown out.

Beside him, the wounded cop lay to one side, clutching his leg in agony as other officers started to return fire at whoever was shooting from inside the entrance of the building.