by Tom Barber
But all of it was the result of a supposedly straightforward assignment that was meant to have ended two days ago, involving a man who should already have been locked up in a different federal prison. Archer’s hearing had been slightly affected once again from repeatedly firing the Colt M4A1 rifle on Station Road at the two Loughlins and Lupinetti, his eyes still dry and sore from the gun-smoke. He remembered the way Frank had lit off during the fight, ever the opportunist, and Archer was sure that wherever he was, even though he was on the run, he’d be feeling pretty pleased with himself at how he’d played them off against each other; his pursuer from New York and his liberators from the prison bus, too busy battling each other to keep him contained. Enjoy your freedom while you can, Frank, he thought. It’s not going to last.
As the sun started to set, Archer thought again of the two extradition agents who’d been shot on the bus the other night, the various roadblocks that had been blasted to pieces and the pregnant woman raped, murdered and left dumped in the SUV with graffiti sprayed on the side. No-one was going to rest until the Gatlin fugitives were back in custody, but he knew his and Marquez’s participation would either be minimized or sidelined completely soon, the US Marshals and FBI having wider and higher jurisdictional authority than two NYPD detectives; with Shepherd’s approval he’d stay on it to assist as long as he was permitted, though. He hated to leave a job unfinished and was determined to get Frank back in a set of bracelets, but then there was the fact that Marquez had been forced to take a header out of a hotel window. Lupinetti aside, Shep would want Archer to find out who’d come after her and forced her to take such drastic action. And why.
The diminishing light was casting long shadows around the lot but when Archer moved back towards the garage he stopped just before he reached the open rear doors, his outline visible on the ground through the back entrance of the auto-shop.
Along with the noise of the radio, when he’d walked away there’d been the sound of the three mechanics bantering and laughing, not every day they had to change tires on a car damaged from gunfire.
But he’d just picked up on something.
Aside from the music, all was now quiet in there.
That tended to happen when people concentrated, but Archer couldn’t hear the sound of any movement whatsoever inside. He turned his head slightly so his good ear was angled towards the garage. He’d heard the phone in the shop ringing as he’d walked back towards the open rear gate and now it was going again, but no-one was answering.
As he stood there, he became aware of slight movement. He dropped his gaze and saw something edging very slowly towards him from inside the auto-shop.
He remained very still, his shadow a solid black shape as he looked at the widening pool of dark red expanding from just inside the premises; but because of where he was standing, he couldn’t get a better view.
He thought of Marquez again, being attacked in her hotel room, as the blood continued to spread towards him.
It glinted dully as it reached the dying rays of the Sunday sun.
Archer suddenly sprinted to his right, heading for some cars in various stages of repair in the lot. There was a rustle of movement from deeper inside the dark auto-shop, and the plastic chair the NYPD detective had been sitting on outside a minute earlier was knocked over and quickly reduced to a husk of twisted, shredded plastic as it got caught in a burst of suppressed gunfire.
Archer dove between the vehicles as more bullets riddled their sides, breaking glass, the reports of the weapon chillingly quiet. Traffic continued to move along the highway near the lot fifty yards away, no-one seeming to have heard or seen what was happening. Shaking himself free of fragments of broken glass, Archer pulled his Sig Sauer and checked under the cars, but whoever was doing the shooting was keeping out of sight.
As he looked back towards the highway, he caught sight of another armed figure moving out from the other side of the auto-shop.
His problems had just doubled.
The pair were keeping to the shadows inside the shop and not moving to anywhere the NYPD detective could get a shot off at them. Archer edged silently backwards down the aisle between the cars, remembering the ambush on the Kanawha Falls Bridge on Friday night. Craig had got the drop on him then, moving up from Archer’s six, and would have killed him if he hadn’t reacted so fast.
He did a quick check behind him, but then heard running footsteps from his left.
He rose slightly to take aim, but ducked back down immediately as two three-round bursts shattered windows and wing mirrors of the cars he was sandwiched between, one person firing as the figure from the left changed position to flank the NYPD detective. Again, the noise of the gunfire was suppressed and Archer still hadn’t seen either shooter clearly, just shadows and the sound of running footsteps.
Noise, he thought. Something they don’t want. He turned and remaining low, took aim and fired his gun three times, the unsilenced shots echoing around the auto-shop’s garage and parking lot, but instead of trying to hit his attackers, he shot out some billboard lights that had just come on above the highway. Pieces of them showered down onto the cars and trucks passing below which he hoped would attract attention, enough at least to get a curious motorist to stop and then maybe see and hear what was going on here in the lot.
Then he heard running footsteps on his right. They were flanking him and closing in.
With a jolt, Archer realized the shooter who’d just got closer was most likely positioning himself to fire under the vehicles. The lone NYPD detective pulled open the door in front of him and just made it into the front seat of a Chevy, staying below the window level, before suppressed gunfire ripped under the rows of cars, hitting the undersides and popping tires. While taking cover, Archer checked inside the vehicle for keys, finding none, so tried to sneak a look outside but more glass from the passenger side shattered above his head, the two shooters now moving in for the kill.
Archer didn’t scare easily, but he knew whoever was doing this had him covered; he couldn’t get a shot off, he was outnumbered and they were advancing on his position. Local cops wouldn’t make it in time either, even if any of the drivers on the highway had reacted to the shot-out lights or heard his pistol firing and had called them.
But aside from luck, one of the reasons he was still alive was the more intense the pressure, the clearer his thought processes became. Although his heart was drumming, instead of panicking he looked around inside the car for inspiration or a way out. The plastic protective casing below the steering wheel was exposed, showing the key chamber and five wires below. He didn’t know if the car even still had an engine, if it worked, or which ones were the battery and ignition wires, but he rapidly started twisting pairs of them together, touching them with another which he needed to be the starter wire.
One combo didn’t work, so he tried another, then another. A shred of suppressed fire destroyed the headrest above his head. They were almost on him. Out of time, he twisted a fourth pairing together, then touched them with another.
The engine roared into life. Keeping low, he jammed his hand on the footbrake, pulled the lever into Drive and then quickly pushed his hand down on the accelerator; the Chevy leapt out of the line of vehicles. It was cut up by fire from both sides, the rear windows disintegrating and three of the headrests left with bullet-holes in the fabric, but the car kept going. Archer remembered there’d been a fence ahead in the lot; he braced one hand against the wheel just as the Chevy hit it and smashed through, saving him from breaking his nose.
However, the vehicle had been in the garage to be repaired for a reason and the engine died on him. The car continued to roll and then slammed to a halt into a wall beyond the fence, no airbag fitted to hit Archer. He didn’t open the door to present himself as a target, instead lifting his head slightly to check the wingmirror on the right.
It was cracked, but he could still see behind him.
The lot was empty. He waited to see if either of the sho
oters reemerged, but they didn’t. Not yet. Most likely working out how to kill him without putting themselves in the line of fire now he’d put more space between them. He looked in the back and saw one of the headrests had been detached and was resting on the back seat. He reached for it then held it up by one of the two metal prongs below and raised it slowly.
It was immediately knocked out of his hands as the fabric took rounds from a three shot burst, one of the shooters hitting it clean.
They were still here and their aim was extremely accurate.
But then Archer got lucky again, as he was to find out later. A truck driver who’d pulled off the highway to answer a phone call had seen the lights shatter right in front of him followed by the echo of Archer’s unsuppressed handgun. He’d promptly ended his call to dial 911 instead, and now the wail of sirens could be heard approaching; when the first police cruiser arrived at the auto-shop, their department on high alert after the Loughlins had killed the pregnant woman in the area earlier, the two officers found three mechanics shot dead on the floor of the shop, shell casings littering the site and a man who’d quickly identified himself as a NYPD detective, emerging from a bullet-marked Chevy that had crashed into a wall at the far end of the lot.
Once police had taken over the scene and Archer’s status had been checked out, the place was locked down as he and the other cops carried out a thorough search of the site, finding nothing but a load of spent shell cartridges scattered on the ground. The men who’d murdered the three mechanics had successfully melted away into the growing darkness; but they’d made a big mistake.
They hadn’t managed to kill Archer.
FORTY ONE
Several hours later, attendants at the gate for the New York State Fair were inspecting bags and the contents of emptied pockets before scanning tickets. Certainly, none of them were checking faces for the Gatlin Four, the idea that any of the fugitives would show up at an event like this so far off-center that it hadn’t occurred to anyone in law enforcement as a possibility. Thankfully for him, it meant one of most wanted men in every State from here to Kentucky was having no difficulty blending in with the crowd.
Holding a ticket he’d just bought from a booth to gain him access, Nicky had given himself a quick haircut earlier with Kat’s help and was also wearing glasses in an effort to change his appearance, purchased when they’d stopped at a couple of stores outside Syracuse to stock up on certain supplies, which would be necessary if what he had planned for later tonight stood a chance of going his way. He’d swapped Barry’s suit for a pair of jeans, sneakers and a gray hoodie he’d also bought, knowing if the salesman had been found in the barn, APBs and BOLOs would be out there describing the clothing Nicky had last been seen wearing.
Lights from the fairground projected through the fence and unknown to him, created lines on his face almost like prison bars, his eyes half in the shade, half in the light. He slowly exhaled and took a steadying breath as the people in front of him were checked.
Then it was his turn. The gate guard asked him to empty his pockets and watched as Nicky placed some cash and his fake ID down onto a folding table along with a pen and small pad of paper. He was wanded. ‘No cell phone?’ the man asked.
‘No.’ The guard stepped back and nodded at him to go through. Nicky tucked his belongings back into his pockets and walked into the fair, breathing out again slowly. He’d made it inside, but he was also now caged in and surrounded by a lot of people who would have seen his face on the news over the past few days, some of whom could prove to be more observant than the guards. There were plenty of distractions, various stalls, rides and a music stage which was attracting a sizeable crowd, but all it would take would be someone with an eye for faces. Prez had been right; this place was busy on its last night and meant the two farmboys he was here to meet would need to be on their best behavior too. No opening fire with weapons as they’d been doing so frequently since their escape. For a while, they’d be stuck in this giant cage as well.
But Nicky knew Brooks had chosen this meeting point for a reason. He started walking deeper into the fairground, keeping his senses wired; he’d picked up the skill in the prison yard of sensing when someone was shaping to make a move on him but wasn’t catching those vibes just yet. However, he knew this area was where the Loughlins had grown up and also that there was a very good chance they’d got some old friends or family involved tonight who he wouldn’t be able to recognize.
He moved further into the crowds of people milling around, doing his best to become just another anonymous face while making his way towards the fences on the eastside.
Nicky might have been able to blend into a mass of people pretty easily, but when you were six foot six, weighed almost three hundred pounds and there were two of you, it presented a problem. He was also right in that Brooks had chosen this meeting point for a very good reason; three of the Loughlins’ cousins were licensed vendors at the fair, and because they didn’t share the family name, Brooks knew the cops would be unlikely to make the connection or have eyes on them just yet. The set-up would restrict Reyes’ movements, just like at Gatlin, making it difficult for him to get away from them easily and would keep him contained for the trade. Both before, and after.
A van rolled into the fairground, Cusick up front with his permit for a hot sauce and moonshine stall, and after passing through a different gate from Nicky, he backed the Econoline up and parked inside the grounds in the inner lot, the two Loughlin brother fugitives hidden in the back. As the van came to a stop, Billy was eyeing the titanium box in the holdall from the Cleveland robbery in frustration, still pissed they hadn’t been able to get it open; their lack of success and just wanting to know what the box contained was becoming an obsession with him. Brooks had taken the shotgun his brother had been using for most of their time on the run and was now loading it with shells from their bag while Billy made a last futile attempt to get the box open with a pair of bolt cutters left in the back in the van. Like Nicky, they’d had time to prepare for this, and Brooks had sawn off most of the shotgun’s barrel to make it easier for his brother to hide.
‘Forget it,’ he said, after the bolt cutters made no impression on the Granit lock, listening to his brother cursing. ‘We need quick cash, not whatever’s in there. I don’t want you getting doubts letting it go at the exchange.’
‘What if he don’t show up?’ Billy replied, throwing the broken cutters aside in disgust. ‘Calls in a tip to get us pinched instead?’
‘The girl was part of the heist to get that,’ Brooks said, pointing the shotgun at the titanium case. ‘It’s got her goddamn initials on it. That’s what Reyes wants. He’ll be here.’
‘You sure about that?’ Cusick said from up front. ‘Guy was dumb enough to break out of the joint a week before release to get involved.’
‘Reyes is a lot of things but he ain’t dumb. If he broke out for this bitch, he’ll make the trade for her too.’
‘How’s he gonna get the money past the gate?’ Cusick asked, stepping into the back now he’d switched off the engine to join them.
‘Both of you do me favor, let me and Reyes handle this,’ Brooks said tersely. He passed his brother the reloaded shotgun, before taking the titanium lockbox and sliding it back into the holdall from the robbery in Cleveland yesterday. ‘Billy, carry the bag. Cuse, you’re coming too.’
‘What brought your family to the US?’ Richie asked the O’Mara family’s former maid, who’d introduced herself as Marija, as he sat with her inside her small home in Akron, a city forty miles south of Cleveland. She was a short, plump woman now pushing sixty, the home decorated with a mixture of American and European trinkets. A lot of Ohioans had Croatian ancestry or were first or second generation immigrants, and judging from the flag hanging outside on the porch, she was a proud member of that club. Richie had also just met her husband; he’d been protective and somewhat uncooperative at first, concerned with what the police detective wanted with her, but Marij
a had reassured him and he’d gone out back to finish off some work on the deck to give them some privacy.
‘My sister. She lived here and I qualified to apply for my green card through her. Arrived in Cleveland when I was twenty, met my husband, both of us worked and lived in Ohio ever since.’
‘You were a maid and housekeeper for the O’Mara family, I heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know Katherine?’
Marija nodded slowly. Richie had already noticed she didn’t have the news on the TV, despite her past connection with the still-at-large fugitives. ‘I can’t listen or watch anything about it,’ she said, seeing him glancing at the black screen in the room. ‘I’m too scared. I’m so worried for them.’
‘You know Nicky too?’
She nodded. ‘I love them both. They were great kids.’
‘He’s putting himself on the line for her, considering the only connection I can see is that his father used to work for Kat’s.’
‘Goes much deeper than that. The two men went back to when they were children. They grew up together; were close friends. When he was sixteen, Nicky’s father joined the army. Mr Tommy went a different way and ended up serving some time in prison. They lost touch.’ Marija paused.
‘Tell me more.’
‘You’re from the Cleveland area?’
‘No, Indiana. Moved here almost twenty years ago now.’
‘The city’s industries started suffering in the 1970s and 80s. Meant there was a load of abandoned empty properties, vacant lots, no revenue. City council bought up those kinds of places and put them in a landbank. Got offered to non-profits who teamed up with developers to rebuild affordable housing.’
Richie nodded.
‘Mr Tommy told me his story once,’ she continued. ‘Said he couldn’t get hired for a job anywhere after he got out of prison. But during the landbank program, to attract developers, the city would sell a company the land for a hundred bucks. He ended up working on the teams at one of these sites over at Fairfax and found he was real good at it. He worked his way up, saved everything he made, then bought a couple of empty lots outside the program and built two houses there. Ohio’s got no State taxes on small businesses up to $250k. That helped him get his feet on the ground. He hired guys to help him out and started turning a profit.