Return Fire (Sam Archer ) (3 page)

FIVE

‘Let’s take another look at the present, not her past,’ Shepherd said. He turned to Archer. ‘She moved in with you recently, right?’

‘Yes, sir. Three weeks ago, from Brooklyn.’

‘You seen anyone hanging around outside your apartment lately?’

Archer paused, thinking about it. He’d been so distracted with work and all the shit he and Vargas were dealing with that he realised he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he normally would have.

‘I don’t think so. But it’s New York; there’re always people on the streets.’

‘Any of them catch your attention?’

‘No.’

‘Is Vargas well off? Financially?’

‘Same as the rest of us.’

‘Family connected?’

Archer shook his head. ‘Mother died over a decade ago and she never knew her father.’

Pause.

‘I still think the kidnappers could be people who only saw her in Spain this week,’ Josh said, his argument seeming more plausible by the second. ‘People who never encountered her before.’

Behind his laptop, Ethan frowned. ‘But like Arch said, why would they go to so much trouble? And why Vargas?’

‘Trafficking.’

The word hung in the room as a silence descended.

Josh paused a beat.

‘We have to consider the possibility. Exporting women is a growing problem worldwide, especially in Europe, and Vargas isn’t exactly hard to look at.’

‘It’s possible,’ Shepherd said eventually, glancing over at Archer.

As he went to continue, the phone on the desk suddenly rang. Shepherd picked up the receiver, the other three detectives all watching as he took the call.

‘Shepherd.’

He listened for a moment.

‘OK, put him through,’ he said, pushing the loudspeaker button on the phone and placing the receiver back on its base.

‘Hello?’
a voice said.

‘Travis?’

‘Speaking.’

‘This is Sergeant Matt Shepherd, Counter-Terrorism Bureau. You’re on speakerphone; as well as myself, there are three of my detectives and an analyst in the room. I’m leading the investigation into Detective Vargas’ disappearance. What have you got?’

‘Good news, sir; well, kind of. The blood test results just came back from the lab.’

‘And?’

‘There were four different types. Three have come back with a match.’

‘Go on.’

‘One of them was Detective Vargas.’

Across the table from Shepherd, Archer’s knuckles tightened.

‘The other samples belong to two men called Milo Stanovich and Ibrahim Payan.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘Who are they?’

‘
Slovakian immigrants living in the UK. Both men have extensive criminal records; they’ve each been convicted for prostitution, drug usage and sex trafficking.’

‘Age?’

‘Early thirties.’

‘Where are they based?’

‘Currently in London. The Metropolitan Police have been informed; apparently they sent officers to each man’s last known address but there’s been no sign of either of them. Wherever they are right now, they’re laying low.’

‘Who’s to say they’re even in the UK?’ Archer said. ‘They could be an
ywhere in Europe with her.’

‘We considered that, but both men are back in the city.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Shepherd asked.

‘Stanovich ordered a piz
za from a twenty four hour joint forty minutes ago. Paid over the phone using his bank card and took delivery on a street corner in South London. Police are checking the surrounding area and already have the delivery man in for questioning, but it’s not looking promising. Seeing as the guy had already paid, the delivery man hardly spent any time with him. Just handed over the pizza and left.’

‘Shit.’

‘
It looks like Stanovich didn’t even pick it up though, so he couldn’t have been arrested at the scene. His file says he’s six foot five and has a shaved head, but the delivery guy said the man who collected the pizza was nearer six foot and had blond hair.’

‘And Payan?’

‘He called his girlfriend just over thirty minutes ago saying he’d just got back from a trip and that he’d see her later today. Call was too quick to trace, but Met police are with her and her house is under surveillance. Judging by the timing of the two incidents, it seems likely they arrived back together.’

‘So what’s happening now?’ Shepherd asked.

‘Police in London are searching for Stanovich and Payan. When they find them, we should be able to get them talking and find Detective Vargas. Police here in Spain say abductions similar to this have happened before; most of the time it’s gangs involved in the sex trade. The good news is the girls who are rescued are almost always found alive; they’re not worth any money dead.’

Shepherd nodded.
‘OK. Good work, Travis.’

‘Thank you, sir. In the meantime the lab teams here are working on identifying the fourth blood sample. I’ll call you the moment a result comes through.’

‘Got it.’

Then he hung up.

While Travis had been giving his report, Ethan had located Stanovich’s and Payan’s files via Interpol and he pulled them up onto the screen, replacing Vargas’ police file. Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Josh saw two tough-looking men not dissimilar in type from the two gang members from LA but with different ethnicity and no tattoos on their faces.

On the left, Stanovich looked tall and lean, bags under his eyes and a bent nose no doubt broken in the past but never reset. In the other photo, Payan’s eyebrows were criss-crossed with scar tissue like rough patchwork above dark expressionless eyes staring straight at the camera.

Both looked just what they were.

M
enacing, dangerous thugs.

At the end of table, Archer sat totally still, studying the two men who’d snatched Vargas, searing their image into his brain.

They had no idea who they’d just pissed off.

‘Our suspects,’ Shepherd said, studying the mug-shots. ‘Give me the vitals, Ethan.’

‘Both were born in Bratislava and moved to the UK eight years ago. Stanovich is thirty two, Payan thirty three, and according to this they’re old acquaintances. Like Travis said, they’ve been arrested numerous times for various offences and served time. The most recent on each file is eighteen months for trafficking and running a prostitution network in south London.’

‘But they can still remain in the UK despite jail time?’ Marquez said, frowning.

‘Joys of membership of the EU,’ Archer said. ‘The government’s probably paying their rent.’

‘Do they have a history of going to Spain?’ Shepherd asked.

‘Not that I can see,’ Ethan said. ‘But it’s hard to track movement around Europe these days.’

‘Two known sex traffickers,’ Josh said. ‘I knew it. They were probably searching for targets to abduct; young attractive women who were alone or in pairs. Nerja’s a tourist spot, so it’s probably a good hunting ground for them. Vargas must have caught their eye.’

‘And without her badge and gun, they wouldn’t have any idea who she is and the connections she has,’ Marquez added, now on board with the idea.

‘This is progress, guys,’ Shepherd said, looking at the pair of suspects. ‘Now we’ve got two of our kidnappers.’

‘I’ll contact the Met,’ Ethan said, reaching for the phone and picking up the receiver. ‘Ask them to give us a rolling update as news comes in.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I want to know anything the moment they do.’

As he spoke, there was a knock on the open door behind them; turning, the group saw Lieutenant Franklin standing there, head of the Counter-Terrorism Bureau. He was a grizzled moustached veteran who was as tough as nails and a legend within the Department. They all started to get to their feet but he waved them back down, looking at the screen across the room.

‘These are our suspects?’ he asked, indicating he knew exactly what was going on.

‘Yes, sir,’ Shepherd said. ‘Both are based in the UK.’

Turning to him, Franklin motioned to the walkway outside with his head. ‘One moment, Shep.’

Shepherd rose and walked outside, shutting the door behind him and joining his boss on the walkway, their conversation a murmur on the other side of the door as Shepherd explained the situation and the leads they’d just been given on the two sex traffickers to his boss. In Shepherd’s absence, Archer, Marquez and Josh continued to focus on Stanovich’s and Payan’s photographs and vital statistics.

‘Can you print copies of their files?’ Marquez asked Ethan, who nodded, his
phone still clamped to his ear as he tapped away on his laptop.

Across the table, Josh turned to Archer, noting his partner’s fixed stare as he studied the mug-shots.

‘Thoughts?’ he asked.

‘
I hope they’ve each written a will.’

As Josh went to reply, the door opened again and Shepherd stepped back into the room
alone, Franklin already gone. He looked over at Ethan.

‘Did you get through?’

‘Any second, sir.’

‘Do something else for me first.’

‘What do you need?’

‘F
our seats to Heathrow on the first British Airways flight of the day out of JFK. Book them in Club Class on the Bureau’s budget. Lieutenant Franklin wants us over there on the ground to help find these men and get Vargas back.’

‘Club, sir?’

‘Yes, as I said. He wants us rested and ready to go as soon as we arrive.’

Ethan nodded, ending his current call abruptly and pushing the operator line. Checking his watch and standing by the door, Shepherd turned to his three detectives.

‘It’s just past 3:15am. You three, go home and get a change of clothes, your passports and then get your asses over to JFK immediately. I’ll meet you there.’

As the trio rose, he took a last look at the two sex traffickers on the screen who’d kidnapped Vargas.

‘We’re going to London.’

SIX

Just over an hour and a half later, Shepherd,
Archer, Marquez and Josh were all together again inside JFK’s Terminal 4 as the clocks inside the building ticked past 4:50am. The Terminal was subdued and quiet, none of the long queues so typical later in the day, but the British Airways booths had already been opened, checking in passengers for the 6:20am flight to London.

The four NYPD detectives had already collected their boarding passes, and were now moving through the security points that stood between them an
d the Gates on the other side. Watching Marquez and Josh walk through two rectangular metal detectors, Archer waited his turn in the queue.

He’d changed into light blue jeans, a black t-shirt and a checked grey and white shirt over the top, the first things that had come to hand in his wardrobe. After Josh had made a flash pit-stop at his own place to grab a bag and his passport, he’d driven Archer back to his apartment in Queens and waited as he gathered his own gear. Archer hadn’t concentrated as he’d changed his clothes, working on autopilot, but as he’d pulled the shirt he was wearing from a hanger inside his closet, he’d seen Alice’s clothes lined up neatly beside his and caught the scent of her perfume. Quickly closing the wardrobe door, he’d thrown a spare set of clothes into a holdall, secured his pistol and after grabbing his passport, had walked out of the apartment and re-joined Josh in the car, the two of them heading straight for JFK.

Just ahead, Marquez and Josh were both cleared through security and they joined Shepherd on the other side, the trio waiting for Archer and all dressed similarly to him. An official beckoned Archer forward, and he stepped through the rectangular detector, his bag, shoes and valuables placed on a grey plastic tray and going through the x-ray machine to his left. The scanner didn’t bleep, satisfying the TSA team, and he was allowed to continue forward, the security team shifting their attention to the next person in line.

Despite the hassle, Archer felt reassured by the safety of the whole process as he pocketed his phone, wallet and NYPD badge then pulled on his black and white Converse shoes, tying the laces. However, at that moment he was less comfortable with the absent holster and Sig Sauer pistol that usually resided on his hip.
Seeing as the NYPD quartet were travelling to another country, they’d each had to leave their side-arm behind at home.

G
iven the circumstances and the reason for their trip, Archer didn’t feel especially comfortable about it and he knew the others would feel the same.

With his shoes back on, Archer scooped up his holdall and re-joined Shepherd, Josh and Marquez. The team then headed up a few steps into the inner heart of the Terminal, immediately surrounded by Gates, wandering travellers, Duty Free shops selling alcohol, fragrances and gadgets beside several overpriced news vendors offering refreshments at twice the normal price.

The place was subdued and quiet, just like the four NYPD detectives. Walking forward, Archer checked his watch.
4:57 am.
Their flight wasn’t for another hour and twenty three minutes, which meant all they could do now was sit and wait. He immediately set off towards a row of empty seats up ahead but Shepherd caught his shoulder and pointed to his left.

‘Ethan booked us into Club Class,’ he reminded him. ‘Let’s use the Lounge.’

Turning, Archer followed the others as they cut a direct path through the Terminal towards the entrance to the British Airways Lounge. A perk of their more expensive seats, the Lounge was a private, secluded area which provided privacy, space to work and complimentary food and drink. Arriving at the reception desk, they each showed a woman in a navy blue BA suit their boarding passes and passports. She welcomed them through with a smile that was impressively genuine for this time in the morning, but only Josh managed to match it as they passed her desk and walked into the Lounge.

There were about twenty other people sitting around the room, mostly businessmen and women reading documents or working on laptops, brought together for a brief spell before flying on to their various destinations around the world. A few had dozed off, that light kind of sleep that would be ended in an instant when a flight was called for boarding, whilst others were sipping drinks or eating the light snacks provided.

There were plenty of available seats and the quartet moved towards four armchairs centred around a low-cut polished table towards the back of the lounge, the typical police approach, keeping their backs to the wall and their eyes on the door. Placing their bags down, Josh and Marquez immediately headed over towards a coffee and tea selection across the room beside the complimentary food. As they both left, Shepherd’s phone started ringing and he took the call, walking away and talking quietly to whoever was on the other end.

Momentarily alone, Archer took a seat an
d leaned back in a leather armchair, rubbing tiredness out of his eyes, the warm darkness of his apartment a distant memory now it had been replaced by harsh airport lighting and cold recycled air from the ventilation system. He felt like shit; ever since Josh had told him Vargas had been taken, his stomach had knotted up like an intricate Chinese puzzle and had stayed that way ever since.

What the hell was this about?

Whatever the reason Stanovi
ch and Payan had kidnapped Alice, they’d taken her at 2:30am; she would have been fast asleep, the element of surprise helping to make their task easier, but it sounded as if she’d gone down fighting. Even though these men must have caught her off guard, she’d still managed to draw blood from all three, giving the investigating team plenty to work with.

Sitting there alone for the moment, Archer paused.

All three.

There was someone else involved here.
The owner of the fourth sample that Travis said wasn’t Vargas’ and which hadn’t yet been matched.

A third kidnapper.

As he considered the few facts he had, Archer tried to clarify his thoughts; the owner of the as yet unidentified blood sample was another mystery in a night already full of them. Everything had happened as suddenly as a fast-moving tornado hitting an unsuspecting Midwest town. Three hours ago he’d been fast asleep but was now on his way to the UK to track down two sleazy, ex-con sex traffickers who’d kidnapped his girlfriend.

Another nightmare.

But this time he was awake.

Sitting there alone, his foot tapped quietly with impatience as he checked his watch. He’d seen the Liam Neeson movies but he also knew the facts; every sixty seconds after a woman is kidnapped by men in the sex-trade is another minute closer to never finding her again. Although Stanovich and Payan were both apparently back in London, there was no guarantee at all that they’d brought Vargas to the city with them. They could easily have passed her onto someone else on their way through Europe, injecting her with substances to keep her compliant.

Or done something even worse.

Feeling bile rise in his gut, he forced his mind elsewhere, but despite his best efforts it kept conjuring up an image of Vargas tied up somewhere, bleeding and vulnerable, still dressed in those small grey nightclothes she wore, alone and scared.

Just hold on, Alice,
he thought.

I’m coming for you.

Then his thoughts shifted to Stanovich and Payan. His already dark mood turned as black as pitch.

I’m coming for you too.

Ten feet to the left, Shepherd thanked whoever had called him and hung up, tucking the phone back into his jeans and walking over to take a seat beside Archer.

‘That was Travis,’ he said. ‘Still no match on the fourth sample. Spanish police have been informed that we’re heading to London and have asked that we keep them fully updated on any progress.’

Archer nodded but didn’t reply, the silence filled by the quiet murmur of muted conversations around the room.

‘There’s something else too, Arch,’ Shepherd said, settling back in his chair.

‘What is it?’

‘We’re going to need a Command Post and base when we get to London, and a hotel room isn’t going to cut it. Is there any chance your old colleagues could help?’

As Josh and Marquez walked over, each carrying two cups, Archer realised he’d been so focused on Stanovich and Payan that he hadn’t given any thought to where they were heading.

London; his old stomping ground.

Checking his watch, he saw it was past 10am in the UK, and pulled his cell phone as Josh and Marquez sat down.

‘Any news?’ Josh asked, passing Shepherd a cup of coffee.

Taking the drink, Shepherd didn’t reply, watching Archer who was looking at the screen of his phone. Reading a text message that had come in a few minutes earlier without him noticing, Archer fired back a quick reply then pocketed the phone, taking a cup of tea from Marquez.

‘That was Chalky, one of my old team-mates,’ he said to Shepherd. ‘He’s an officer at the ARU. He said we
’ve got a Command Post ready and waiting for us after we land.’

‘At your old HQ? Already? How did they know?’

‘Apparently Ethan called ahead at Lieutenant Franklin’s request and informed Director Cobb about the situation. He’s very keen to help. He’s offered us space at their base and the use of their resources to help apprehend Stanovich and Payan.’

‘Great,’ Josh said, drinking from his tea.

Shepherd nodded. ‘That’s good of him.’

Archer didn’t reply, glancing at his watch again as he looked at the quiet Lounge around him, feeling impatient.

Just o
ver an hour until flight time.

Now all they could do was wait.

*

Three thousand four hundred miles away, the sun had already come up over London on a bright July Saturday morning, but the light beating through the apartment window was giving the scarred Middle Eastern man with the broken nose a thumping headache.

His mood sour, the man took a mouthful of pizza, the act of chewing causing his face to throb with every bite; he was sitting inside an apartment in the south of the city with Milo Stanovich and a South African man who was standing near the window watching the street below. They had an open Dominos box on the floor beside them, half of the contents already eaten, not a typical choice for breakfast but convenient and providing the ample calories they were possibly going to need today.

Stanovich had paid for the food but the
South African had picked it up. Finishing the crust of his second slice, the Middle Eastern guy squinted against the light coming in through the window.

‘Draw them for me, will you?’ he asked the South African. ‘Feel like I’m being interrogated.’

By the window, the other man nodded and twisted the handle on the blinds; the room suddenly became darker. He then walked forward and took another slice of pizza.

‘Breakfast of champions,’ he said, his accent infused with a Johannesburg lilt, breakfast sounding like
blekfust
. Taking a bite, he bumped Stanovich’s shoulder with his other hand. ‘You not hungry, Stan?’

Stanovich didn’t reply. Chewing and stepping back, the South African shifted his attention to the man with the broken nose.

‘How’s the beak?’

‘Think the bitch broke it,’ he replied, gently feeling the swollen surface.

‘You bled out, right?’

He nodded. ‘
The cops will be all over the samples by now.’

Breathing in through his mouth, he shifted his attention to Stanovich.

‘That means they’re going to be looking for us.’

Stanovich stayed quiet. He’d been that way all morning, keeping his thoughts to himself. The Middle Eastern man took a bite of pizza, leaving a smear of oil across his lip.

‘That means we need to be ready for when they come.’

Stanovich looked at him for a moment but didn’t respond. The guy with the broken nose looked up at the South African, who took another bite of pizza and checked his watch.

It was 10:04am.

Then they both glanced at a holdall full of equipment sitting next to them on
the floor beside the pizza box.

T
he Middle Eastern man took a last bite and tossed the half-eaten crust at the open box, his bad mood overpowering his patience.

‘Enough pizza. Time to prepare
.’