The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (15 page)

106
th
.

104
th
.

100
th
.

95
th
.

90
th
.

They flew all
the way down to the early 80’s.

So f
ar, so good, beating the clock.

But then his luck shifted. He hit his first red on 80
th
and was forced to slow to a halt, just as Farrell called out the time.

‘Fou
r-minutes-thirty. Better move.’

Archer swore, willing the light to flick green, sensing each passing second tick away. When it did, the car leapt forward and turned right, speeding over the crossing and moving along 80
th
, taking another quick turn on the crossing on the next left and headed onto
Columbus Avenue
, which would turn into
9
th
Avenue
in a few blocks.  He hit another series of green
s, and they roared on downtown.

Past the Dako
ta, where John Lennon was shot.

Past the
Juilliard
School
.

Past the
L
incoln
and Time Warner Centres.

‘Three-forty-fiv
e. Better hurry,’ Farrell said.

Archer pushed his foot d
own and the car sped on faster.

They roared down 9
th
, boxing
Columbus Circle
and avoiding the traffic there. But there was a problem, Archer realised, his mind racing as fast as the four wheels on the car. Herald Square was on Sixth, so they needed to be three avenues over. Archer had to keep going down 9
th
though. If he tried to get across now, he’d hit all the traffic around
Times Square
and that would be the end of it.

He was forced to slow as a cop car passed the other way, but once it had passed Archer sped on.

50
th
.

49
th
.

48
th
.

Into Hell’s Kitchen, the streets suitably sunny and hot.

‘Two minutes,’ Farrell said, pushing the gun tighter into Archer’s ribs.

They hit another red on 47
th
. Archer swore. Some school-children moved over the crossing slowly, chewing up his time, laughing and playing together, no idea
that a man’s life was at stake.

The clock ticked on.

‘Ninety seconds,’ Farrell said.

The light hit green and Archer sped down.

45
th
.

43
rd
.

41
st
.

They zoomed towards the Port Authority Bus Terminal and Archer got lucky. They should have been held up there by the buses moving in and out of the station, but they hit a gap in-between them. Eight blocks later, they hit a red at 34
th
,
Madison
Square
Garden
straight ahead and to the left.

‘One minute,’ Farrell said.

Archer willed people across the crossings, but
there seemed be an endless stream of them
.

‘Fifty seconds.’

The light turned
green, and Archer pulled left.

Pedestrians
were starting to cross here, but he roared through a gap, inches from a woman walking over the white-lined tarmac. She started shouting obscenities and flipped them off but Archer ignored her, the car burning down 34
th
.

They were three avenues away.

‘Thirty seconds!’ Farrell said.

Disaster struck.

They hit a red at 7
th
.

Archer could see
Herald Square
one avenue away, the giant building of Macy’s runnin
g the entire block to his left.

He was so close he could see
faces of people
in the
Square ahead.

‘Fifteen seconds,’ Farrell said, pulling back the hammer on the pistol with a click. ‘You’re not going to make it.’

Archer couldn’t move.

It was a red and people were crossing.

But suddenly, a fire engine appeared from b
ehind them, the lights blaring.

It was a gift from heaven. Cars parted, moving out of its way, but
Archer waited, ready to pounce.

He took his shot.

As the truck moved forward, he tucked in behind it, crossing over the lights. There was more honking and shouting behind him
, but he didn’t hear any of it.

He was a hundred yards from his destination.

‘
Seven,’
Farrell said.

Archer floored it.

‘Six!’

‘Five!’

‘Four!’

‘Three!’

‘Two!’

‘One!’

The car skidded to a halt, both men jerked forward in the seat then falling back with the momentum as the car stopped, the pistol
still jammed in Archer’s side.

They paused and looked around the car.

Macy’s was behind them.

Hera
ld Square was in front of them.

They’d made it.

Archer held the wheel tight, panting, then released it slowly. He exhaled, sweat on his brow, taking deep breaths. Farrell looked around them through the windows, then lowered the pistol slowly and tucked it back into his waistband, not saying a word. Outside them on the streets, it was noisy, but the only sound inside the car was Archer catching his breath.

They sat there in silence.

Then Farrell turned to him, and nodded.

‘Congratulations. You’re our new driver,’ he said.

EIGHT

The next morning, Wednesday, Archer stepped out onto
Steinway Street
from the
west entrance to the subway, and started walking north up
34
th
Avenue
.
The sun was beating down, with no cloud cover or protective shade from the tall buildings of
Manhattan
, and Archer felt the intense heat on the back of his neck and arms as he walked up the street. He
wore
his sunglasses to protect his eyes from the white glare of the sun off the pavement, but he saw others passing him squinting as it temporarily blinded them. Looking down, he saw that some tarmac filler that had been packed into cracks in the sidewalk had started to melt, black and sticky. That was the way it went in
New York City
. Freezing cold in the winter, roasting hot in the summer.

He had come from
Times Square
, having slept in the hotel, and had spent
much of
the night letting the break-neck drive through the city fully sink in. Archer and Farrell had sat there in the car
at
Herald Square
for a few further moments, then Farrell had asked him to take them back to
Queens
.

Archer was pissed.

He’d needed to drop his guard in order to let Farrell test him out, but no one put a gun to his head and escaped the consequences. It had taken a hell of a lot of willpower not to retaliate. The journey had taken about twenty minutes and Archer had pulled to a halt on the corner of
30
th
Avenue
, under the subway line. They’d sat there for a moment, Archer trying to stay cool, thinking of the bigger picture, breathing slowly.

‘I own a gym,’ Farrell said, turning to him. ‘It’s on
38
th
Street
, just past
34
th
Avenue
. Meet me there
tomorrow morning.
11
o’clock.’

Archer looked over at h
im. Farrell saw his expression.

‘Sorry about the gun, man. I needed to see how you were under pressure. You were good.’

Arche
r didn’t react. He didn’t move.

‘Eleven am. Trust me, you’ll want to be there. I’ll make all this worth your while.’

Archer had held his gaze, then stepped out. Farrell did the same and moved around the car. He climbed into th
e front seat and shut the door.

‘Eleven am,’ he’d repeated, through the wound-down window. ‘Don’t be late.’

And the car had sped off towards
Ditmars Boulevard
, disappearing out of sight.

The first thing Archer did next was go straight to his father’s apartment and get the 9mm Sig Sauer pistol. He couldn’t be shooting people, seeing as he was an English and not an American cop, but he needed a security measure, a bargaining tool, something to level the odds. He was angry at himself. Farrell had got the drop on him. He’d had to play along in order to
gain
their trust and get inside, but he hated being passive and was furious at himself for dropping his guard. But worst of all, he hated someone putting a gun to his head. That sure as hel
l wasn’t going to happen again.

He’d grabbed the Sig from its home in the
nightstand
and pulled the top-slide back an inch, seeing a bullet there in the chamber, confirming the weapon was loaded. He instantly felt calmer.
Not all men were created equal, but Samuel Colt and his revolvers had made them so.
He’d sat on the bed and breathed a sigh
of relief, the gun in his hand.

Everything was OK. He’d passed the test.

He was in.

But it had been close. Razor-close. Way too close. If they’d hit one more red light or a pedestrian had decided to jaywalk, Archer would be with his father right now. The fire engine passing by had been a lucky break. He couldn’t count on getting that lucky again.

Regaining his composure, he’d grabbed a bag from the closet and tucked the Sig and two spare mags inside. He
whipped
around the apartment, grabbing anything that he figured he or his sister would want to keep, then walked out, locking the apartment and leaving for the last time. He wouldn’t come back here again. Farrell and his team now knew where this place was, and he didn’t fancy any more unexpected visits. He’d walked left and fast for the R train on Steinway and headed to the Marriott Hotel in
Times Square
,
staying
there for the rest of the day and all night, high up in his hotel room, the 9
mm Sig hardly leaving his hand.

But the next day, having cleaned up and calmed down, Archer turned the corner on 34
th
Avenue and walked left down 38
th
Street, the same street as his father’s apartment but three and a bit avenues west. He saw the sign to Farrell’s gym fifty yards up ahead, white lettering over a blue background.
Astoria
Sports Complex
. Simple, and to the point. He approached the entrance and pullin
g open the door, ducked inside.

As he walked in, the air-conditioning blasted
refreshing,
frosty air into his face, cooling him and ruffling his hair. It was a couple of seconds of pure bliss, a brief moment’s escap
e from the baking heat outside;
he moved through the cold air and walked into the gym. From where he was standing in the reception area, Archer could see straight away that the place was well-maintained. Straight ahead, he saw a swimming pool behind the windows of the reception desk. To the right of the pool were a series of separate designated lanes where swimmers were doing laps, and in the left corner some kids were playing in the water together with their parents. Behind them was another smaller pool, or maybe a Jacuzzi. Several people were in there, arms resting on the tiles, relaxing and chatting, taking a brea
k from the merciless city heat.

To the right were two levels. Downstairs was the weight-room, lots of barbells, dumbbells and mirrors. He could see a load of guys in there working out, lifting weights, dance music pounding from speakers mounted on the walls around them. Upstairs, he could just see the tops of some people’s heads as they
pedalled
away on bikes. The machine room, he guessed, the two floors designed to separate the cardio bunnies and the meatheads. The place was clean and industrious, not the glamorous and expensive type of gym one would get in the city, but then again not the gritty and chalky basements you got at the other end of the scale. It was a legit business, a solid cover for Farrell, and Archer guessed it made him look good when he had to fill out his taxes.