Silent Night (Sam Archer 4)

by Barber, Tom

‘So that’s good, right? At least one of them succeeded. This is what you wanted.’

  ‘So where the hell is Nate?’

  ‘He didn’t come back?’

  ‘No. And his bomb should’ve gone off by now. It should be all over the news like yours.’

  Donnie didn’t speak. Bleeker swore and checked his watch.

  ‘Anyway, mission accomplished. Pack your shit. We’re out of here, with or without him.’

  ‘What about your deal with the Brit?’

  Bleeker shook his head.

  ‘Screw him. I don’t need his money anymore. After what just happened, you and I are going to be richer than we could have ever dreamed.’

  Stepping out of the containment tent at the Seaport, Archer pulled off the gas mask and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air. He walked over to the CRT truck and passed the mask back to a man inside, thanking him. Josh followed him out. Archer saw him take off his own mask and fumble in his pocket. He pulled out his cell, taking a call and holding it to his ear.

  ‘Sir?’

  He listened for a moment. Archer watched his expression.

  They had something.

  Still listening, Josh moved forward, tossing the gas mask to the CRT guy in the truck and nodding his thanks, then ended the call.

  ‘Shepherd called the cab company. Apparently the Macy’s bomber was dropped off outside a house just off Ditmars in Astoria about twenty minutes ago.’

  Without another word, both men ran for their car, the CRT specialist watching them go.

  EIGHTEENAt the house, Bleeker and Donnie had almost finished packing. Neither of them lived there. It belonged to Bleeker’s brother Hurley who was doing time upstate for armed robbery, and had been an ideal hide-out last night, totally off the grid and no obvious connection to the four men. Bleeker was on the ground floor in one of two side bedrooms beyond the kitchen. He’d already ditched his ID and bankcards, planning to get some forgeries once they left the state. As he quickly stuffed his belongings into a holdall, he glanced over at the last remaining bomb resting on a bed beside the bag. Ray’s bomb. It should have gone off on the platform at Times Square 42nd Street this morning, but Ray stepped out late last night and had never returned.

  His disappearance was confusing and unnerving. Ray was tough, and not the kind of guy to get cold feet. Bleeker had a gut instinct about what had happened to him and who had done it, and that meant he and Donnie had to get the hell out of there right now.

  He reached over to the make-shift viral bomb and carefully unclipped the cylinder. Keeping it in his hand and scooping up the bag with the other, he walked quickly into the kitchen. Placing his bag on a chair he stepped over to the fridge and pulled open the door.

  Inside, beside some milk and a half-drunk six pack of Miller, was the last vial of the virus.

  Bleeker hadn’t anticipated Ray’s no show but despite that, their current situation was still pretty good. He and Donnie now had two vials to sell and this morning’s work was a clear demonstration to any potential buyers of the virus’s power. The price had just gone up exponentially. There would be plenty of people out there willing to pay it. He took the other vial off the shelf in the fridge and studied it. This small, harmless looking glass cylinder was worth far more than the house he was standing in. Maybe more than the entire street.

  He carefully wrapped both vials in cotton padding, then placed them in a box which he sealed and tucked into his bag. Then he moved over to the sink and opened a cupboard by the window, reaching inside and pushing some cereal boxes out of the way. He pulled out a Beretta handgun and a magazine with fifteen 9mm Parabellum shells pushed inside. He slammed the mag into the pistol, pulled the top slide and checked the safety then slid it into the bag too. He checked his watch and glanced at the television showing footage from the Seaport. There were ESU cops and what had to be NYPD detectives in every shot, crowds of onlookers filling South and Water Streets.

  They’d already be hunting for whoever left the device inside the store.

  As would others.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he called to Donnie, urgency in his voice.

  Speeding down 33rd Street in Astoria, the subway line overhead, Josh and Archer saw Shepherd waiting for them around the corner on Ditmars Boulevard, pulled up to the kerb on the left. He’d already strapped a black bulletproof vest over his torso, NYPD clearly visible in white letters on the front and back. He was loading a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun while standing by the trunk of his car. Parking behind him, Archer and Josh jumped out of their own Ford and moved rapidly to the back of their vehicle, just as a third Ford pulled up behind them. Turning as he fastened a bulletproof vest in place, Archer saw it was Marquez and Jorgensen.

  His vest on, Josh pulled out two Mossbergs from their stowed positions in the trunk and started loading them. Designed by OF Mossberg and Sons, a Swedish immigrant’s company based up in Connecticut, the 590A1 was a modification of the 500 model. With an eight shell magazine chamber and metal trigger guard and safety catch, the black aluminium and steel pump-action shotgun was an old favourite of the US Army and a new one of the NYPD. The old Department-issue Ithaca 37 was being slowly phased out and in the next few years every squad car in the five boroughs would have a Mossberg up front by the radio. Mossberg and Sons claimed it was the only weapon of its kind to pass the Army’s military specifications tests for shotguns and it wasn’t an outlandish claim. The 590A1 was sleek, smooth to load, didn’t have too much kick and had the stopping power of a Claymore mine. Well, eight mines technically, considering the ammunition in the magazine.

  Josh finished loading the shotguns. He tossed one to Archer, who caught it and racked the pump and within twenty seconds the entire detail was gathered with Shepherd by his car, NYPD vests on their torsos and Mossbergs in their hands. This extra gear was Department procedure for a house breach of this kind. They had no idea what kind of weaponry they were facing inside and that meant they needed sufficient firepower to counter it.

  ‘What’s the plan, sir?’ Josh asked.

  ‘The taxi company put out a call to their drivers,’ Shepherd said. ‘Apparently two men matching our guys got dropped off around the corner at Number 18. The house is registered to a Hurley Bleeker. Rach is running a check and trying to locate the third man.’

  ‘Do we know the layout?’ Marquez asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We go in through the front door. We don’t have time to waste. One of their team is still out there.’

  ‘It could be a bottleneck,’ Josh said. ‘They’ll be expecting. They could drop us one-by-one.’

  ‘Hold up,’ Archer said.

  The team turned and saw where he was looking.

  A mail van had just pulled up across the street, a woman stepping out of the truck and heading over to one of the properties to deliver a parcel.

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Inside the house, Donnie and Bleeker had finished packing and were standing in the kitchen making sure they had everything they needed. They’d have to leave Hurley’s Remington here. No way they could carry a 12 gauge shotgun covertly on a train, but they still had the Beretta in case things got physical.

  ‘I’ve got the last two vials,’ Bleeker said. ‘We get out to Long Island, then take the train south. When we’re out of the state I’ll put the word out about what we’re selling. We can hook up with Chapters in Pittsburgh or Baltimore.’

  Donnie nodded.

  ‘What about our guest?’ he asked, pointing to the main bedroom.

  Bleeker turned, having momentarily forgotten about the man inside.

  ‘Shit. Good catch. I’ll take care of him.’

  He pulled the Beretta from his holdall, flicking off the safety and walked into the room.

  A man was sitting in a chair, tied up, his mouth gagged. His eyes widened as he saw Bleeker walk in and grab a pillow. Bleeker held it to the man’s face then pushed the barrel of the pistol into the other side.

  ‘Time’s up.’
/>   But before he could pull the trigger, there was a sharp knock at the door down the hall.

  ‘Delivery.’

  Bleeker froze, the gun and pillow held to the gagged captive’s face. The man was squirming and making muffled sounds under the gag.

  There was another knock.

  ‘Delivery. C’mon man, it’s cold,’ the voice called. Female. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  Bleeker looked at Donnie. He took the pillow off the captive’s head then passed Donnie the Beretta, grip first. The younger man took the weapon, then moved down the corridor. He walked towards the door slowly and risked a glance through the spy hole.

  A dark-haired woman was outside on the step, dressed in UPS gear, wrapped up against the cold.

  ‘Who’s it for?’ he asked.

  He watched her look at a package in her hands. ‘Hurley Bleeker.’

  Donnie thought for a moment, then opened up.

  ‘I’ll take-’

  Suddenly, the woman dropped the package and rammed the door back hard, throwing Donnie off balance and sending him reeling down the corridor. She pulled a Sig Sauer pistol from underneath her coat, an NYPD bulletproof vest on her torso.

  ‘NYPD! Don’t move!’

  Bleeker was watching from the kitchen as Donnie fell to the ground. He ducked out of sight as Donnie, flat on his back, quickly raised his pistol and aimed at the woman’s legs.

  NINETEENMarquez saw the guy lifting the gun but she was faster. She shot him twice in the chest and watched him thump back to the floor, dead. She moved inside the house swiftly and kicked the gun away from his hand, his palm open and his fingers loose. She focused her attention down the corridor to where the other guy had been standing as Jorgensen and Shepherd moved in behind her, Mossbergs in their shoulders.

  ‘NYPD!’ she shouted, looking through the sights of her Sig Sauer. ‘Come out with your hands up!’

  There was movement up ahead.

  Something appeared around the corner.

  The barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun.

  Jorgensen and Shepherd were already diving for cover.

  Marquez launched herself into a room to her right as the guy pulled the trigger.

  The blast was deafening, a thousand splinters and dust spraying into the air as the shell hit the main doorframe, forcing Jorgensen and Shepherd to retreat and Marquez to stay in what was a small sitting room.

  Forced back outside the house, with their backs to the wall each side of the door, Jorgensen and Shepherd tried to move in again to back up Marquez, but the guy in the house fired again, pinning them down, pieces of the door frame spraying in the air. He had command of the corridor.

  ‘Back off!’ a voice screamed from the kitchen. ‘I said back off!’

  Standing next to Josh to the right side of the door, Archer thought fast.

  He swung away from the others and headed to the house next door.

  ‘Back off!’ Bleeker screamed again, aiming the Remington down the corridor. He looked at Donnie’s lifeless body on the ground up ahead and roared with rage. He racked the pump and fired the shotgun again, splinters and plaster filling the corridor as the shell annihilated the wall by the door. But even though he appeared to have the upper hand, Bleeker knew he was pinned down. It was just a matter of time. Keeping the barrel of the weapon on the only entrance, he looked around frantically, desperately trying to think of a way out. The bitch cop appeared from the sitting room, trying to get off a shot. Bleeker aimed and fired, just missing her and destroying the door frame.

  ‘Back up!’

  Then he remembered he had the last two vials of the virus in his bag, sitting on the stool behind him. That was a serious bargaining tool. He could threaten them with that.

  Firing again and working the pump, he ran to the bag. But just as he unzipped it and went to grab the box inside, he caught a movement through the kitchen window from the corner of his eye. He swung to his left, raising the shotgun, and caught sight of a figure in the house next door.

  That wasn’t unusual except this one had white letters on his black vest.

  NYPD.

  It was the last thing he ever saw.

  The Mossberg in Archer’s shoulder had a trigger pull of around seven pounds. He squeezed as the man turned towards him and the weapon boomed in his shoulder. The buckshot smashed through both sets of windows and hit the guy full in the chest. He wasn’t wearing a vest and the shot hurled him back into the counter behind him. Watching the man slump to the ground, Archer racked the pump on the Mossberg, his ears ringing from the shot.

  ‘Clear!’

  He turned, and looked at a couple huddled down on the floor behind him, the owners of the house. They had their hands over their ears.

  ‘Sorry about the window,’ he said.

  Inside the house, Marquez and Jorgensen were in the lead, sweeping and clearing each room. As they moved into the kitchen, Marquez dropped down to the man Archer had shot, pulling his shotgun from his grasp and checking his pulse.

  He was dead.

  Jorgensen headed straight to a door ahead, kicking it open and moving forward, all the while looking through the sights of his Mossberg. It was a bedroom, dank, the bed unmade.

  But there was a man inside, tied to a chair. He was sitting on the left of the room, his eyes wide with shock. He’d taken a severe beating, his face cut up and bloodied, a piece of black duct tape pulled across his mouth. Jorgensen stared at the man for a moment, recognising him immediately as Marquez joined him inside the room. Lowering their weapons, the two detectives moved forward and Jorgensen pulled the strip of tape off the man’s mouth.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Reuben,’ the man said, between deep gulps of air. ‘Reuben Kruger. I’m a doctor’.

  *

  Across the water in Manhattan, a long line had formed outside the men’s restroom in the French patisserie at Bryant Park. As she fulfilled a drinks order, a busy waitress noticed the queue and frowned. Irritated, she placed her tray down and quickly stepped past everyone, arriving outside the men’s room door. She knocked on it briskly.

  ‘Sir? Is everything alright?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Sir?’

  Nothing.

  No sound from inside.

  She tried the handle but it was locked. Turning, she caught the attention of a waiter and motioned him over.

  ‘He’s not answering,’ the waitress said, as the man joined her. He put his ear against the wood, listening for a moment, then grabbed the handle and tried to force it open. It wouldn’t budge. He made a decision and stepped back. He dipped his shoulder and hit the frame. The force overpowered the lock and the door flew open. As he stumbled into the restroom, they both saw a man slumped on the ground.

  His body was limp, his head twisted at almost a right angle. Beside him was an empty box. His dead eyes stared across the room.

  The waitress covered her mouth, but didn’t quite manage to stop a scream.

  TWENTYThirty minutes later, the house off Ditmars Boulevard was filled with CSU investigators photographing the crime scene before the bodies and weapons were bagged and tagged. A preliminary search inside an unzipped holdall sitting in the kitchen had revealed the third and fourth vials of the virus. That left one to go, in the possession of the third bomber who Rach was currently working hard to find. Given Dr Flood’s unexpected suicide, the murder of Dr Tibbs and the disappearance of Dr Glover, Health Services were taking the reins on trying to work up an antidote. They had another fifty nine infected dead to work with. A two-man team from their lab had arrived at the house five minutes ago, taken the virus and left as quickly as they had arrived. Everyone inside was relieved to have found the vials, but were even more so when the virus left the house.

  Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Jorgensen were gathered in the bedroom in front of Dr Kruger, who was still sitting in the chair they’d found him in. His binds and gag had been removed and a medic was patching him up. The woman w
as attending to his face, clearing off the blood, using antiseptic to clean the wounds and then applying several butterfly stitches to the cuts on his cheekbones.

  Standing near the door, Archer examined the doctor. He was in his late thirties or early forties and looked in good shape, blond hair and green eyes with overnight stubble on his neck and cheeks. He was wearing a blue shirt and some corduroy trousers with black shoes but the shirt was specked with blood from the injuries to his face. He looked solid; he wasn’t in shock. He wasn’t staring at the dead body visible through the doorway in the kitchen. And he was alive. That was the most important thing considering that two of his colleagues had already died this morning.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘I’ll live,’ Kruger said.

  Only two words, but Archer picked up a strong South African accent.

  ‘So what the hell happened?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘You tell me. Last night someone knocks on my apartment door. I open up and a gun is stuck in my face. They take me downstairs, stuff me in a car and bring me here.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘At first, I had no idea. I thought maybe it was kidnap, but I don’t come from a wealthy family and certainly don’t mix in high circles. No one would pay much for me.’

  He nodded out of the room.

  ‘The fat boy took my key-card for the lab from my pocket, then left. He came back an hour later with five vials of Peter’s virus.’

  He flinched as the doctor dabbed at a cut on his cheekbone.

  ‘When he got back he took off my binds and shoved a gun in my face. He'd brought some equipment from the lab and ordered me to use it to extract a small sample of the virus and place it in another vial, which was pressurised. He made me do it right here. They weren't taking any chances and were all wearing masks. I had to do it without. Then I saw them start soldering together those things.’

  He nodded to the bed.

  The team saw a shoebox containing a timer and rack for the vial. A carbon copy of the other bombs.