One Way (Sam Archer 5) (8 page)

TEN

As Helen said, there were twenty two floors. Archer and Foster encountered eleven stragglers walking down as they headed up, none of them their friends from the street but each giving them an unpleasant moment when they appeared. Despite his age, Foster was in good cardiovascular shape and set a brisk pace. By the time they arrived on 17, both men were breathing hard, their thighs burning. When they made it to 22, they both needed a few moments to catch their breath.

Pulling open the stairwell door to 22, they quickly cleared the corridor and found another door halfway along, the entrance to the roof. Archer pulled it back and Foster took the lead, moving up a short flight of steps and taking a deep breath of night air, Archer following close behind.

It was a flat roof, constructed with reinforced concrete and covered in loose grit with just a brick ledge acting as a perimeter. There was some trash, empty beer cans and cigarette butts scattered on the surface, and it smelt of old tar softened by the daytime sun. The west side of the building overlooked the Hudson River and New Jersey on the other side of the water. Although the sun had gone down, the night was warm with a slight whisper of wind which ruffled both men’s hair, helping Carson’s blood dry on Archer’s flannel shirt.

After a quick check around with their handguns in the aim, they confirmed there was no-one else up here. The north side of the roof had several large air vents humming away side-by-side, providing potential cover or a hiding place, but no-one was lurking behind them. It looked as if the four gunmen were all downstairs in or around the lobby, holding the front door while they cleared the place out.

The roof was clear.

Foster pulled his cell phone again as Archer moved over to the east side of the building, looking down. He saw scores of blue and red flashing lights far below, the streets now cordoned off, cops and detectives crouched behind their vehicles and watching the door to the tenement. Foster’s Tahoe was still rammed up against the fire hydrant, water continuing to spray everywhere. Scores of residents were gathered south of the building in huddles, police officers and detectives beside them, no doubt asking them what happened inside and who they saw.

He suddenly realised in the frenzy of activity and danger that he hadn’t made any calls himself. Keeping one eye on the door to the roof and the USP tight in his hand, he lifted his Nokia from his pocket and scrolled through his
Call History
.

Downtown on 78
th
Street, Josh walked in through the front door with his three kids, having just picked them up from the Loews at Lincoln Square. Just as expected, the cartoon fish movie had gone down a hit and the kids had spent the entire ride home quoting lines and going over the best scenes in detail. They’d been caught in Sunday night traffic, and the journey had taken longer than expected, so needless to say Josh was happy to be back, feeling that he now probably knew the film better than the director himself.

Dropping his gym bag by the door, Josh followed the trio into the kitchen and kissed his wife Michelle. She was standing by the cooker in the midst of preparing dinner, but had paused in her work, watching the television, a big metal spoon in her hand.

‘Have you seen this?’ she said.

‘What’s that?’ Josh said, going to the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water.

‘This. Josh, look.’

He turned and examined the screen. The shots were of a tenement block somewhere in the city, a male reporter giving an update, scores of cops and detectives visible behind him, crouched behind NYPD vehicles. Josh scanned the headline.

Breaking News:
Gunfight and car chase on Upper West Side. Four men occupy Harlem building on West 135
th
and fire at NYPD officers arriving at scene. At least one officer injured.

‘What the hell?’ Josh said, frowning and looking closer.

‘Apparently one of the gunmen got shot in the street. They hit a cop too.’

‘Jesus. What’s it about?’

Before she could reply, the cell phone in his pocket started ringing. Watching the screen, he pulled it from his pocket and answered it, not looking at the display and keeping his eyes on the television.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me,’
Archer said.

‘Hey. You watching the news?’

‘
Not right now.
So you’re not going to believe this…’

ELEVEN

Down in the lobby of the building, the four gunmen had sealed and barricaded the front door. Smashing their way in earlier had annihilated the lock, so they’d improvised. Whilst Braeten and the man with the Kalashnikov held the entrance and continued to herd the stragglers still appearing from the stairwells out through the door, the other two went upstairs and came back with a thick, heavy desk from a maintenance office on the 1
st
floor. Shoving out the remaining residents, they’d shut the door and rammed the desk up against it.

The residents who’d responded to the fire alarm had mostly all been evacuated, the majority completely overwhelmed when they saw the scores of cop cars and weapons trained on the entrance as they were hustled out of the door. However, a few latecomers had only just arrived in the lobby, wanting to get out too. Braeten gave them a simple choice;
go back upstairs and stay in your apartment or I’ll shoot you
. The pistol he’d aimed at them had been persuasive and they hadn’t needed to be told twice.

Now the stragglers had disappeared back up the stairs, the lobby was empty apart from the four gunmen. The fire alarm had done its job and they weren’t going to open up for anyone else; no-one was getting in or out.

Braeten peered around the edge of the broken window beside the door and checked out the scores of NYPD squad cars. Officers were aiming directly at them over the front of their cars or from behind their doors, some with pistols, many with shotguns.

One of his other men joined him, taking a look.

‘Jesus Christ. Every cop in Manhattan is out there,’ he said, echoing Braeten’s thoughts. ‘How the hell are we going to get out of here?’

Braeten didn’t reply, stepping back from the door. The other two guys were leaning against the wall beside the elevator and taking a moment’s respite. The guy with the AK-47 pulled a bag of coke from his pocket, his eyes already wide, his t-shirt ringed with sweat from the muggy night air. Braeten lost his cool.

‘How the hell did you all miss?’ he said. ‘We had clear shots. They had no idea we were coming.’

‘We put one down,’ one of them said.

‘No, dumbass, Hayes put him down. Now he’s dead.’

None of them responded. Braeten swore, frustrated, and shook his head.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘This is bad.’

‘We emptied the building out,’ the guy with the Kalashnikov said. ‘So let’s start looking.’

‘There are four of us,’ Braeten fumed, turning on him. ‘They could be anywhere in this place. And you think the pigs are gonna wait outside all night so we can take a look around?’

‘They can’t hide out forever, and one of them is hit. You said back up is on the way. They’ll take care of it.’

Braeten didn’t respond.
And maybe take care of us
, he thought. They were in deep, deep shit and it was getting worse by the minute. He looked at the idiot with the bag of cocaine, his temper worsening by the second.

‘Don’t do that when they get here,’ he said. ‘Not if you want to survive tonight.’

It took Archer and Foster much less time to head back to the
5
th
floor then it had taken to get up to the roof. Moving down gave them a far greater advantage than coming in from below, standard tactical philosophy, and having confirmed the roof was clear they both wanted to get out of sight and re-join the rest of the group. They used the south stairwell this time to give them a complete picture of the geography of the building, which was very straightforward and just as Helen had described. They moved quickly, and this time didn’t encounter anyone on their way.

Once Vargas let them into the apartment and they’d shifted the refrigerator back into position, they all reassembled in the sitting room.

‘Any trouble?’ Vargas asked Archer, as Foster knelt down to check on Carson.

He shook his head.

‘We passed some residents heading out. Most of them seem to be gone, but a few are still here. The roof’s clear.’

‘The gunmen?’

‘No sign of them. They’ll be downstairs, guarding the lobby.’

On the sofa, Carson coughed and groaned, blood around his lips. He was trying not to make too much noise but he was in excruciating pain. Some towels and Vargas’s shirt had been packed on his stomach to try and staunch the bleeding but he was in agony, grabbing Foster’s arm as he gritted his teeth. Foster looked down at his wounded Marshal and gripped his arm back.

‘Hang on, Jack. Just hang on a bit longer. Dalton will be here any minute. Then we’ll get you to a doctor.’

Carson didn’t reply, nodding weakly, coughing. Foster watched him for a few seconds longer, then rose. Helen motioned with her head and he joined her by the window, Carson’s groans filling the room.

‘Forget
any minute
. He needs a doctor right now,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s losing too much blood.’

‘We can’t go anywhere yet. We need to stay here until help arrives. We try to get him out, there’ll be more than one of us bleeding.’

‘He doesn’t have much time.’

‘He’ll have to hang on.’

‘He needs an IV and surgery to get the bullet out.’

‘He’ll have to wait.’

Helen shook her head, frustrated. ‘
Listen to me.
Have you been shot before?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Was it ever in the gut?’

Foster paused; he shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Try to imagine the most excruciating pain you’ve ever been in. Then double it. Then you’ll have a vague idea of what every second is like for him right now.’

‘We can’t leave yet.’ He pointed at Jennifer. ‘Her safety is my priority. Jack’s tough. He’ll make it.’

She exhaled sharply, exasperated. He wasn’t going to budge.

‘Well if we can’t leave, he needs pain relief,’ she said.

‘Oh, right. You happen to have any morphine handy?’ Barlow asked sarcastically, from across the room.

‘No. I don’t,’ she fired back, turning to him. ‘Excuse me for trying to think of a solution.’

‘Do you have anything we could give him?’ Foster asked.

She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t exactly expecting this. All I have is a first aid kit, some cough syrup and some band aids.’

‘Marvellous,’ Barlow muttered.

‘No, there is something,’ Archer said from the window.

‘What would that be?’ Barlow asked. ‘Aspirin?’

‘Not here. Outside. I saw some gear down the hallway when we were clearing the corridor,’ Archer said, looking at Foster and ignoring Barlow.

‘What do you mean, gear?’

Pause.

‘Heroin.’

‘What?’
Vargas said.

‘Heroin. We could give it to him. It’ll take away the pain.’

‘Are you crazy?’ Vargas said. ‘We can’t dose him up with heroin.’

Archer motioned at Carson.

‘Helen’s right. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t just stand here and watch him go through that without trying to do something. Plus, he’s making a hell of a lot of noise. These guys will be searching for us. We’re near the stairwell; they walk past, they’re going to hear him.’

Vargas stared at him, then shook her head. She looked at Foster, who thought for a moment.

‘Where did you see this?’ he asked Archer.

‘Down the corridor on this floor, alongside the elevator. One of the apartments was open. There was a guy laid out on the couch, a pack on the table beside him. I saw what it was.’

‘You’re sure it was heroin?’

‘I’m a cop. I’m sure.’

‘There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,’ Helen said, seemingly on board. ‘There’re two clean syringes inside.’

Archer nodded, looking at Foster. ‘Decision time. He’s your man.’

There was a pause. Carson’s hacks and grunts of pain filled it.

Foster relented. ‘OK. Let’s do it.’

Down on the street, Josh had just arrived. He was still in his gym clothes, having burnt fifty one blocks uptown as if they were five. The moment Archer had started to explain what had happened, Josh had grabbed his badge and gun and raced out of his apartment, Michelle totally confused and watching him go. He’d fired up the engine to his Ford and sped up here, parking as close as he could get which was on 133
rd
by City College.

Dressed in a pair of black sweats and a white t-shirt, the holster of his pistol clipped to his hip, he approached the barriers, pushing his way through the crowd. An NYPD officer tried to block him but Josh showed him his badge and the man stood back, letting him past with a nod. Tucking the Counter Terrorism badge back into its home beside the holster, he joined a mass of other officers and detectives, staring up at the tall building. There was a ring of blue and white squad cars acting as a makeshift cordon in front of them all, also acting as a front-side barrier.

This neighbourhood, Hamilton Heights, was not considered safe by any means. New Yorker knowledge decreed that 125
th
to 145
th
in Harlem was up there with the roughest spots in Manhattan, and this building was right in the middle of that area. Using a vehicle as cover, Josh examined the run-down tenement block. There looked to be about twenty or so floors. Many of the windows were half-open, shutters or blinds either concealing lights or half-revealing them depending on your point of view. Each apartment had a small concrete balcony, a few with laundry drying on them, most with air-conditioning units. Archer had said he and the group were on the 5
th
floor, south side. He tried to pick out which apartment contained the Marshals, the child and his friend.

In front of him, scores of officers in uniform were leaning over the front of the cop cars hastily pulled up across the street, the first responders. They were armed with handguns and shotguns, all of them aimed at the front of the building. He noticed many of the vehicles had smashed windows and bullet holes punched in the sides, shell casings and empty shotgun shells beside the officers on the road.

He looked over at the main door of the building; the windows beside it had been blown out and there was substantial damage to the brickwork around the entrance. He caught a brief glimpse of a figure inside, but it was gone in an instant. Archer had mentioned there’d been a stand-off and that the men who ambushed the Marshals weren’t giving in. There must have been a hell of a fire-fight.

An ambulance was parked behind him to his left, two medics treating a cop, loading the man up on a gurney and feeding him oxygen through a mask. It appeared he’d been shot in the leg. Behind them, beyond the blue wooden barriers, were scores of what had to be occupants of the building, passing on statements and witness reports of what they’d seen inside. Archer said the four shooters used the fire alarm to try and get all the residents out of the building; there were a significant number here, many half-dressed and being given NYPD coats or jackets to wear. A lot of them looked rough and tough as hell, ranting at cops and detectives, lots of four letter
words being used, furious at being turfed out of their apartment block on a Sunday night. This was a definitely dangerous part of the city; the look of many of the people standing there reinforced that fact.

Watching them, he remembered Archer mentioning there were still some people inside who’d ignored the alarm. Despite the number of residents out here, the building they’d vacated was by no means empty. ESU had arrived in their black and white truck, parked inside the wooden barriers beside the ambulance. They were the NYPD’s SWAT team, trained and equipped for this kind of situation. The officers were already in their gear and standing in a group, looking up at the building and talking in low voices, keeping to themselves.

Stepping his way past people and heading downtown, Josh came to a halt in the middle of the cross street, facing the south side of the building which was thirty five or so yards away. Three cop cars were pulled across the street and would protect him from any sudden gunfire from the lobby. Looking up, he reached for his phone to call Archer but heard someone shout his name somewhere behind him. He turned and saw two familiar faces stepping out of a car pulled up to the kerb beyond the barriers. Matt Shepherd and Lisa Marquez had just arrived.

Shepherd was Sergeant of his and Archer’s Counter-Terrorism detail, a family man who’d been in the Department for almost fifteen years. Beside him was Marquez, a Latina 3
rd
Grade Detective in her early thirties who was as dependable as the sun going down each night. Both of them were in jeans and loose tops, Shepherd a blue shirt, Marquez a cropped t-shirt; they were off duty today, but he saw both had their side-arm and badge with them. Once Archer had filled him in on the situation, Josh had immediately called his boss and then Marquez, asking them to meet him up here, saying Archer was in deep shit but saving the specifics. They were supposed to be a five-man team, but since the departure of Marquez’s old partner Jorgensen a few months ago, they’d managed as a four until Shepherd was satisfied he’d identified a suitable replacement. They worked well together as a team, and Shepherd was determined not to upset the balance.