The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (22 page)

‘Why?’

‘They got greedy. Wanted a bigger cut. So I told them to go screw themselves and that was the end of it. We always met in secure locations and checked for any wires or recording equipment so they didn’t have anything they could put on me. If anything, it was the other way round. I said I’d go to the other feds and tell them there was a rat in the Task Force.’

‘When was this?’

‘Six weeks ago, give or take.’

‘You haven’t been in touch since?’

Farrell shook his head.

‘No. They’ve got no idea what we’ve got planned this weekend. If they did, they’d probably try to screw us for the cash. But they can’t arrest me. If I go down, I’ll start talking and it’ll take them down with me.’

‘What’s his name?’

Farrell grinned, drinking from his beer. ‘Now I can’t tell you that. And I didn’t say
he
.’

He paused.

‘Anyway, apparently the fed who got shot was some asshole sent down here to see what was going on in their team. He found something but the rat took him out before he had a chance to squeal. They called and told me last week. Said they did me a favour and that I owed them to continue our partnership. But I told them where to get off. I don’t need them anymore.’

Archer kept looking straight ahead, seemingly impassive. Farrell drained his beer, the
n looked over at the other man.

‘Another one?’ he asked, nodding at the beer. Archer shook his head, keeping his eyes on the door ah
ead.

‘No. Think I’ll head out. Big day tomorrow, right?’

Farrell nodded.

‘OK. I’ll be in touch. Stay near your phone.’

Arc
her nodded, finishing his beer.

Then he rose and walked to the exit and left.

Outside on the street and out of sight of Farrell, Archer walked fast up 7
th
, headed uptown.

We had some inside help
.

Oh shit, shit, shit.

Someone in Gerrard’s team had flipped. That’s why Farrell and his crew had been so successful. That’s why Gerry was bashing his head against a brick wall trying to build a case a
gainst them. It all made sense.

And whoever they were, they were the ones who killed his father. Farrell had just confirmed it. A
Federal
agent murdered by another
Federal
agent. That’s why he’d left his service weapon at his apartment. He hadn’t been expecting any trouble.

Archer kicked an empty box as he walked up the street, cursing, worried. This whole thing had just been flipped upside down. Gerry had mentioned there were five agents plus himself in his team. Archer didn’t know any of their names, or anything about them. He couldn’t just walk down to
Federal
Plaza
and claim that one of them was on the take or file a complaint. He needed Ger
ry’s help and he needed it now.

He swore. The only good thing Farrell had said in there was that he had severed communications with the
Federal
rat. Otherwise the moment Gerrard finished briefing his squad, whoever was dirty would most likely call Farrell and tell him the game was up. He’d said whoever the rat was needed to protect their own identity, so maybe they’d warn them off, tell them where the feds would be, or just
tell them to bail on this job.

And depending on what Gerrard told his team, Farrell would know that Archer was the one who passed on the information.

He suddenly ducked into a Cosi coffee shop on
7
th
Avenue
, just before 37
th
, and headed straight through the café for the bathroom. He moved into the toilet and locked the door, and pulled his phone from his pocket, trying to stay calm. He dialled Gerrard’s number and lifted it to his ear.

Waited.

But it rang out.

No one picked up.

He tried twice more.

C’mon Gerry, pick up.

Pick up.

Nothing.

Shit.

Archer looked at his reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breat
h and trying to think straight.

Maybe it was a bad connection.

Maybe Gerry was still in a meeting.

Or maybe it was something else.

He tried Gerrard again.

But no one picked up.

TWELVE

Saturday night on
33
rd
Street
was always busy, but fight night always gave those evenings an extra buzz. The Garden wasn’t called the
Mecca
of boxing for nothing. All the greats and world champions had fought there, from Ali to Frazier, Sugar Ray Leonard to Roy Jones Jr, Joe Calzaghe to Sugar Shane Mosley. The list went on and on.
Las Vegas
was the fight capital of the world, but tonight the sporting eyes of the world would be focused solely on a square 20x20 roped-off ring inside the Garden. As much a social occasion for the rich and famous as it was a sporting event for others, from the moment the opening bell rang till the moment the winner got his hand raised,
Madison
Square
Garden
was the place to be in the city tonight.

The streets outside were busy. Spectators and those lucky enough to have tickets made their way inside, excited, looking forward to the evening, whilst scalpers worked those wandering around on the hunt for last-minute tickets, desperate to get inside and watch the fight. Amongst the fight crowd was the usual mix of people out on a Saturday night, headed both ways down 33
rd
and
8
th
Avenue
. People making their way to bars with friends. Couples headed to an AMC cinema complex, just the other side of 8
th
on 33
rd
. Or simply those just walking past, headed somewhere else, but adding to the constant thoroughfare of activity.

Inside a police car parked on 33
rd
, facing east and dressed in an NYPD officer’s uniform, Archer checked the clock on the dashboard and wondered what the hell he
was doing here.

9:47 pm. The fight w
ould start in thirteen minutes.

Which meant that Farrell, Ortiz
and Regan had just gone inside.

He scanned the streets, looking for any sign of extra law enforcement. There were cops behind and to his right, near the stadium. Archer counted eight scattered outside, not including the security that would be stationed at the gates and turnstiles inside, which meant twenty five others were somewhere else in the area. Although he was parked on the kerb next to the stadium, none of the cops on the street approached the car, and rightly so. It was giving no cause for suspicion. He had pulled up less than a minute ago, and had left the engine running, like he was waiting for his partner or had just stopped momentarily on the kerb. The car had been stolen earlier in the day, the plates changed, and Farrell had left it in a parking lot in
Queens
for Archer to pick up
,
with a uniform co
ncealed inside.

To his left, traffic moved past, headed down 33
rd
towards 7
th
, Broadway, 6
th
and the
Empire
State
Building
. He peered through the front windshield and looked at its tall, unmistakeable outline up ahead on the left. There were some LED lights set up on the upper levels, illuminating them with three different colours, and tonight it was red, white and blue. Patriotic and proud. Speaking of which, he peered through the windshield, looking for any possible FBI agents lurking, tooled up, ready to pounce. People wearing earpieces, or hanging aroun
d near the vicinity of the car.

No
one he saw gave him suspicion.

Hopefully they were all inside, ready and waiting for the three thieves.

Nevertheless
, Archer felt extremely uneasy.

He couldn’t back o
ut now.

He’d been trying Gerrard all night on the cell phone but he still wasn’t picking up. Archer had spent the last twenty four hours high up in his hotel room deciding whether to go through with this, his phone in one hand, the 9mm Sig in the other. He’d been up most of the night thinking about it. Anyone thinking clearly and sensibly would jump ship in a heartbeat.

But he’d decided yes.

Farr
ell knew who killed his father.

Archer needed to stay close
to him to find out who did it.

And he owed it to Gerry to take down the thieves. They’d come too far. He couldn’t pull the rug from under him now.

If he’s even still alive.

Looking down the street ahead, he took a deep br
eath and reasoned with himself.

It’s fine. Gerry’s just being debriefed. He can’t have his phone on because he’s in meetings all day. He’ll be in touch soon.

If Gerry had managed to brief his team, Archer realised that the agent who’d flipped might expose
him or herself
. He could kill two birds with one stone, and take the agent down as well as Farrell and his team. If he hadn’t managed to brief them, Archer would get the three thieves and the cash out of here then take matters into his own hands. Somehow get the drop and subdue the three of them, then call the FBI or NYPD straight away, returning every stolen dollar.

So, against all his instincts telling him to bail and against his instincts as a cop, he
decided to go through with it.

Stay cool, stay in control.

If he played his hand correctly, he could bring down the whole team in one night, and get Farrell to tell him who the rat was.

He ch
ecked the clock again. 9:48 pm.

They would be inside the concessions stores now, the door closed, subduing the guys
inside and packing up the cash.

Archer hadn’t driven here with the other three. They’d all arrived separately to avoid any NYPD suspicion, legitimate officers wondering who the hell these four strangers in uniform were. He glanced either side of the car again, but he still couldn’t see any sign of an FBI ambush. When to approach the thieves was possibly a logistical problem. On this job, none of the robbers had shotguns or heavy weaponry on them, but each had a pistol and bad intentions to go with it. He checked the time again and realised the trio might never even make it back from the stash room. An FBI team would be waiting in there with shotguns and assault rifles to make sure they didn’t, surprising them and trapping them down there.

But just as the thought came into his mind, the trunk to th
e car was suddenly pulled open.

He turned and saw two cops standing there, each carrying a large black holdall swung over the shoulder.

It wa
s Ortiz and Regan.

They dumped them inside and pushed down the trunk quickly, shutting it, then turned and headed back towards the stadium for the second port
ion of the haul.

Shit.

So far so good.

No intervention.

He started planning ahead, working out a strategy to take the crew down himself and return the stolen cash.
But now might be when they get snatched
, his mind reasoned.
Maybe Gerry’s team already had Farrell in handcuffs and were waiting for Bonnie and
Clyde
to return. They were greedy. He guessed there was close to a million dollars already in the trunk. A fortune for anyone, a career heist for most thieves. Now they were just toying with fate, riding their success, figuring they could cheat the securit
y and the odds again and again.

He checked the clock.

9:49 pm.

Shit.

This was bad.

All of a sudden, t
he front passenger door opened.

Archer turned, expecting to see Farrell.

But it wasn’t him. It w
asn’t Regan or Ortiz.

It wasn’t Gerrard.

It was a dark-haired woman.

He instantly recognised her.

He’d seen her a week ago at his father’s funeral. She had been staring at him the other side of the coffin.

‘W
ho the hell are you?’ he asked.

She pulled the door shut, and jammed something into his ribs quickly. He looked down and saw a Sig Sauer P226 pistol, FBI issue, same as his father’s, fourteen rounds in the magazine, one in the pipe.

‘Drive,’ she order
ed, glancing over her shoulder.

He looked at he
r.

Didn’t move.