The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (10 page)

‘We’re down to 34 per cent, Sam. Thirty. Four. A third of our case load. It’s shameful. That’s an all-time low. Every other city across the
United States
looks to us to set an example. The Bureau has to publish a report to the public every quarter. The reports give exact details on all bank robbery crimes and statistics for each city in the country. Ours are the first people look at. And right now, those numbers are dismal. It’s causing a stir within the entire organisation, a black-eye on the face of th
e FBI. My
team
and I
are catching hell for it. Soon people are
going to start getting fired.’

He drained the rest o
f his coffee, shaking his head.

‘And there’s one crew that’s causing me all this grief.’

‘Who?’

Gerrard didn’t reply.

He just slid the yellow f
older across the table instead.

Archer looked down at it.

‘Take a look,’ Gerrard said, lowering his voice. ‘They’re killing me, Sam. Every job they pull knocks us down a rung, in the reports and in the public’s estimation. They’re humiliating me, my team and the entire Bureau. We can’t get close to them. They’re taking
New York City
for millions.’

Archer looked at him for a moment, then lifted open the yellow folder. A series of paper-clipped files were inside, five separate documents, pulled or photocopied from police and Bureau department files. He thumbed through them and saw each separately-stapled stack had a mug-shot stuck to the top right corner of the page. Five separate profiles and rap-sheets.

Returning to the first page, Archer looked down at the first photo.

It was a man. He looked tough and mean, a flattened nose and uncompromising dark eyes over a stubbled
jaw
-
line
and a mouth that showed not even a hint of a smile. He had a closely shaved head and a hard face
that
looked pissed off that he had to stand there and have his mug-shot taken. The black and white height-chart behind him said he was six-two. Archer shifted his gaze, looking at the name on the file prin
ted in a box on the left.

Sean Farrell.

‘You want to talk me through them?’ he a
sked, looking down at the file.

Gerrard nodded.

‘That’s Sean Farrell, the leader of the bunch. Rough piece of work. He did eight years on Riker’s for murder. He was convicted a month before his eighteenth birthday, so he escaped the electric chair.’

‘Who did he kill?’

‘Another kid his age. Walked up behind him on a basketball court and blew his head off with a shotgun, point blank from behind. Sound familiar?’

Archer looked u
p at him sharply.

Now Gerry had his attention.

‘Motive?’

‘The guy slept with his ex-girlfriend. Farrell didn’t like it and decided to let the guy know how he felt.’

Archer dropped his gaze back to the sheet, looking at the man’s li
st of convictions. It was long.

‘He was an up and coming boxer once, hence the nose that looks like a pancake. He wasn’t good enough to turn pro, so he started cornering other fighters. He owns a gym over in
Queens
,’ Gerrard continued.

Archer scanned the other details on the page as Gerrard continued to talk. His D.O.B, place o
f residence, family, rap-sheet.

‘He did another six months last year for GBH, so he’s two strikes down,’ Gerrard said. ‘And let me tell you, it’s just a matter of time before he swings dry for a third. He is walking, talking trouble, that man. Trouble follows him everywhere he goes. He’s got a lot of enemies bo
th Federal
and police-wise, not to mention guys from his own neighbourhood that he’s managed to piss off over the years. He’s one of those guys that never backs down to anyone, no matter the situation, no matter the odds. Legacy of being a fighter. A good thing in the boxing ring, but not so good out on the street. That attitude’s already landed him almost ten years in prison.’

Archer nodded. He took another look at the guy’s photo,
repeating his name in his head.

Sean Farrell.

Then he turned his file to one side,
examining the next in the pile.

To his surprise, this one was a woman, but in her mug-shot she looked just as tough as Farrell. Maybe even meaner. Her dark hair was tightly drawn
back
in corn-rows lining her head, and she had a lean, hard face, rock-solid cheekbones and angry brown eyes. She looked Hispanic or Mexican, and tough as the nails that had been hammered into his father’s coffin.

‘That’s Farrell’s girlfriend. Carmen Ortiz.’

‘
Latina
?’

‘Dominican. As you can tell by the photo, she makes her boyfriend look like a damn teddy bear. She cage fights out in
New Jersey
every few weeks, Farrell as her corner-man. She’s got a perfect record as a pro, fifteen wins, no losses. She finished all but one of those fights, and handed out a string of concussions and three broken arms on her way. She’s a savage, Sam. Difference between her and her boyfriend is that she do
es it legally inside the cage.’

Archer listened, but continued to examine the woman’s photograph.

‘In the bank, she works as muscle,’ Gerrard said. ‘Farrell controls the room whilst she makes sure everyone inside listens to what he says. Her signature is busting up bank managers and armoured truck drivers. Breaks their nose, puts a shotgun to their balls and tells them to open up. Works every time. Gets them compliant real fast. She’s sent nine of them to the emergency room since we began this case.’

Archer looked at her
stats and history on the file.

Father killed in gang-shooting, 2001.

Mother raped and shot dead, 2003
.

‘Jesus. Rough upbringing.’

Gerrard nodded. ‘Product of her environment I guess. Doesn’t give her an excuse to start robbing banks or smacking around truck drivers though. But needless to say, that’s one bad bitch.’

Archer took one last look at her photo,
then turned over the next file.

He saw another hard face and closely-shaved head. This man was like a smaller version of Farrell, the same flattened nose, the same harsh expression but slightly t
hinner. He glanced at the name.

Billy Regan,
the file told him.

‘That’s Regan. Farrell met him in the joint on Riker’s. He was only on a five monther for breaking and entering, but he and Farrell were cell-mates towards the end of Farrell’s bid. They got real tight. Farrell treats him like he’s his little brother. They’re always knocking about together.’

‘His role?’

‘In the bank, he gets the tapes, takes care of any security guards and helps Ortiz with the cash in the vault.’

Archer took a good look at the
guy, then nodded, turning over.

The next man was different. He had brown hair, normal length, but the same angry expression. Like the others, he looked to be in his late-twenties, and looked just as pissed off about life in general.

‘That’s Tate. Muscle. He’s a local kid, grew up in the neighbourhood with Farrell before he went to prison. They’ve used him as a hostage before, seeing as he looks
less threatening than the others
. He goes inside the bank before the job. The crew run in, Farrell picks him out, puts an empty gun to his head, says
don’t move
or I pull the trigger
. Gets everyone obedient and means they can take him with them.’

‘And make a clean getaway,’ Archer finished. ‘Smart moves for a group of fighters.’

Gerrard nodded as the younger man turned the page. He found himself looking at the last member of the crew. This guy looked kind of like Tate, but had black hair instead of brown and more stubble.

‘That’s Brown. The wheelman. Another local kid from the block. He’ll lift a getaway car a couple hours before the job, then after they hit the bank or truck, Brown will get them the hell out of there. We’ve been
trying to work out where they’
re dumping the bent cars, but so far, no luck. It’s like the damn things are vanishing into mid-air. Hard to run forensics over a stolen getaway c
ar when you can’t even find it.
’

Gerrard shook his head and finished his coffee as Archer scanned
each file again, one-by-one.

‘They are eight jobs down with a 100 per cent success rate,’ Gerrard told him. ‘
One hundred per cent
. Five trucks, three banks. Totalled up, they’ve snatched c
lose to three million dollars.’

‘Are they working for anyone higher up?’ Archer asked. ‘Someone who’s setting up the jobs, buying off information, providing truck rotas, blueprints of the banks?’

Gerrard shook his head.

‘For the most part, they seem to be working alone,’ he said. ‘They do their research, and I’m sure they’re paying people off to give them the info you just mentioned. They’re smart and slick as hell. They’re always disguised, and they know our response times and security measures. They take Tate as a pretend hostage so no one moves, and are five miles away before anyone face-down inside the bank so much as coughs. They always leave the bait money and dye packs and always work to the clock.’

Arc
her looked up at him, confused.

‘You said they use Tate as a fake hostage? Witnesses can’t ID him later?’

‘He’s always disguised, shades and baseball cap. Not enough to alert suspicion, but enough to cover his face and head. The crew are never there long enough for the witnesses to get a good look, and that’s not including the fact that everyone inside is shit scared and face-down on the floor. We’ve tried perp walks, but no one we’ve brought in has ever been able to make an I.D.’ He paused. ‘But I thought we made a breakthrough ten days ago.’

‘How so?’

‘I got Brown talking.’

‘How?’

‘He’s got a kid. List of charges against him would take his boy away forever if we wanted to contact child services. I dialled the number in front of him, and pressed
Call
. It opened him up straight away.’

‘What did he tell you?’

Gerrard checked over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being overheard. They were speaking in lowered tones alre
ady, but he spoke even quieter.

He leaned forward over the table.

‘A week today, there’s a world title fight at MSG,’ he said. ‘Welterweight strap. Biggest fight of the year. Brown said Farrell’s planning to hit the place during the fight.’

‘MSG? As in
Madison
Square
Garden
?’

‘The very same.’

Archer turned and looked out of the window over his shoulder. The Garden was a two minute walk from here, on the corner of 33
rd
and 8
th
.

‘Hit it how?’ he asked.

‘Get in the stash room. There’s a big rock concert taking place the night before, this coming Friday night. The money rooms will be packed from the concession stands. There will be millions of dollars in there, easy, and it’s not scheduled to be transported out of there until Sunday. They’ll find a way of getting inside, or will pay someone off at that gate, and will head straight for those rooms.’

Archer thought about it for a moment, then all of a sudden realised they’d drifted off topic. He’d been too swept up in what Gerry was telling him. He turned back to Farrell’s file, and examined the man’s harsh photo again, memorising his features, trying to picture him in his head doing the deed, pulling the trigger of the sho
tgun against his father’s head.

He pointed at the file. ‘So you think he’s t
he one who murdered my father?’

Gerrard nodded.

‘Yes. Or someone in his crew did. Let’s just say they all fit the bill.’

‘But that makes no sense. My father was based in D.C. This is your gig. How the hell would he get dragged into this?’

‘An Assistant Director sent him up here. I didn’t know about it until later, but apparently he was ordered to see what the hell was going on with my team. Observe my five agents and me from a distance and report back what he saw to the offices in
Washington
. Like I told you, the clearance rates are published in national reports every three months.
New York
’s stats are bringing a shitload of shame and blame on the Bureau. Thirty-four per cent isn’t going to cut it.’

‘But why would they kill him? They wouldn’t have any idea who he was.’

Gerrard shook his head.

‘After he died, I learned that he’d been investigating them too, by way of association.’ He paused, looking Archer in the eye. ‘I think he found something, Sam. Something that could close this case, and bring them all down. And I think somebody killed him before he could tell anyone what it was.’