Silent Night (Sam Archer 4)

by Barber, Tom

  None of them aware that Ricky would be dead six months later.

  She examined her son’s face, smiling under the mortar-board on his head, a scroll in his hand. She hit Pause and stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. In the dark room, the glare of the television was like a beacon. She examined his face, his smile, his hair, his clothes. Eventually, she tore her gaze from his face and glanced at the digital clock beside the television.

  1:15 am.

  She realised she felt tired.

  I’ll watch it one more time. Then sleep.

  She pushed Rewind again for just the right amount of time and the shot wound back. But as she went to press Play, she suddenly sensed movement to her right.

  ‘Mark?’

  She lifted her head and looked over at the doorway.

  She jolted back. It wasn’t Mark.

  There was a tall man standing there.

  Staring at her.

  And he had a pistol in his hand aimed at her head.

  FORTY FIVEShepherd’s sudden and unexplained departure meant Archer was left alone with the two doctors. As the echoes of the engine of Shepherd’s Ford disappeared into the night, Archer turned and walked back towards the medical pair, shaking his head.

  ‘What was that about?’ Kruger asked.

  ‘I’ve got no idea.’

  He glanced at the time on his watch. 1:16 am. It had been one hell of a day and it sure as hell wasn’t over yet.

  ‘So many of us dead,’ Maddy said, looking up at the burning building. ‘All those people up there. Dad, Will and now Frankie.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What the hell was he doing here?’

  ‘They must have kidnapped him,’ Archer said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Did you get a look at the equipment upstairs?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Much of it was the same as ours,’ Kruger said. ‘Frankie was also a virologist. He worked with me.’

  He paused.

  ‘What?’ Archer asked, seeing the look on his face.

  ‘There was something else up there too,’ Kruger said. ‘I saw it inside the lab just before the big detective was locked inside.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘There was a canister at the back of the room near the explosives. I’ve seen them before in South Africa. I recognised the design and the sticker on the side.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They hold pesticides.’

  ‘Pesticides?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where would you get that from?’

  ‘I guess you’d order it.’

  ‘Or steal it,’ Maddy said.

  Archer thought back to what Shepherd said. Wicks was behind the wheel of the van at the campsite. Not Rourke. Not Sway. Not Drexler.

  So where the hell were they?

  Archer pulled his cell, dialling Rach.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rach, it’s Archer.’

  ‘I heard about Jorgensen. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’ Pause. ‘But listen. I’m still here in New Jersey. We found the last doctor from Dr Flood’s lab here. The virus had killed him. I think Rourke and Sway kidnapped him and him working on something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Dr Kruger saw an empty can of pesticide. I need you to check something out.’

  Five miles away, the CTB Ford Explorer roared down the street, Shepherd with his foot all the way down. He was holding the wheel with one hand and gripping his cell phone with the other.

  ‘Talk to me, buddy,’ he said, turning a hard right.

  ‘I heard someone outside,’ his son Mark whispered. ‘He’s in the house, Dad.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘He was tall, lanky. Weird haircut.’

  Shepherd paled.

  Finn Sway.

  ‘I heard Mum fighting with him. I think he must have knocked her out. It’s all gone quiet. Wait.’

  Shepherd listened in helpless agony, pushing his foot down all the way, the car hurtling towards his neighbourhood.

  ‘I think he’s coming upstairs,’ Mark whispered, even quieter.

  Shepherd listened.

  Then the call went dead.

  ‘I just checked tonight’s reports,’ Rach told Archer. ‘Not much happening in the area. Most of the action is where you are.’

  ‘There must be something.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Pause. ‘Most of its minor charges; alcohol, fighting in the street. Someone got shot in Newark. No surprise there. That’s about it. The biggest is the shooting and a missing persons report.’

  ‘A missing person?’

  ‘Man called Doug Craig. Seventy two years old. Wife said he was out working on their farm, but disappeared some time earlier in the day. She’s looked everywhere but can’t find him. Jersey State PD are looking into it.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘A farm twelve miles from you.’

  ‘A farm?’ Archer repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  Pesticide.

  ‘It might not be anything.’

  ‘But it could be something. Send me the address.’

  He ended the call, then realised they had no car. He looked around for a vehicle. He couldn’t borrow the fire truck.

  Then he saw all the employee cars parked in the lot. One of them was a Mercedes that caught his eye. He moved towards it, trying the handle. It was locked. He pulled his Sig, reversing the weapon and smashed the window. It took three goes, but it went and the alarm started blaring. Some of the fire-crew turned, but Archer raised his badge and they turned back to the fire. The alarm wailing, he released the lock and pulled open the door then used a trick employed by so many people he’d arrested in the past. He hot-wired the vehicle. The alarm died and the engine fired. He finished twisting the two wires under the panel into place as Kruger and Maddy watched.

  He waved them over and they ran towards him, both climbing into the Mercedes to join him.

  A hundred yards from the neo-Nazi campsite, Marquez had pulled up to a halt beside Hendricks teams’ vehicles, parking behind a series of thick trees. She’d grabbed a Mossberg and a box of shells from the trunk, shutting the lid quietly and had moved up through the trees to join Hendricks and his team who were crouched down behind a boulder, peering around at the campsite below.

  Hendricks turned and saw her arrive. He didn’t know her name but recognised her as one of Shep’s people, which meant she was good.

  ‘Evening,’ he whispered.

  She didn’t respond, looking down at the campsite. She saw a ragged circle of gang members surrounding a large bonfire. Many of them had weapons ready to hand. To the right, she saw the white van mentioned in the call, the bleach-haired man called Wicks standing beside it and talking with several other members.

  ‘What’s the situation?’

  ‘They’ve been going all night so far. Drinking, partying. Few of them went off screwing. But that van just turned up. We think the virus could be inside.’

  Hendricks paused, realising the woman was alone.

  ‘Where’s the rest of your team?’

  Marquez didn’t respond.

  She knelt down beside him and loaded her Mossberg, sliding red shells into the magazine chamber quietly. He watched her. Something was wrong, but this wasn’t the time to ask questions. The woman slid a last shell into the weapon, then looked down at the camp.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘We wait on confirmation from ATF that the virus is inside the van. If it is, we move in.’

  He paused.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Marquez.’

  FORTY SIXDown below, Wicks had stepped out of the van and was spreading the word to everyone around the campsite to pack up. It was met with a lot of disapproval and resentment. Most of them had been drinking and were having a good time and none felt like starting the drive back to Texas tonight. Wicks hadn’t bee
n down here since they arrived on Friday but saw they’d set up meth labs beside the camp, not bothering with any safety precautions. He shook his head at the stupidity just as one of the doors of the caravans opened. A big bearded man the size of a doorframe stepped out. He saw the commotion and pulled his mask down off his face.

  'What's going on?' he shouted.

  'Pack your shit,’ Wicks called back. ‘We're leaving.'

  ‘What about the deal?’

  ‘It’s off.’

  'We’re not done yet.’

  ‘Then stay. I don’t give a shit’

  The bearded man looked around. ‘Where're Bob and Finn?'

  'They're following.’

  ‘What happened to Harper, Travis and Stacks? We need their help.’

  ‘They’re staying. They got arrested.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, who gives a shit? Just pack up or stay.’

  Muttering expletives, the man swung round and stepped back into the caravan.

  Wicks turned and saw several of the crew had gathered by the white van. They were all looking over at him.

  'What's in the back?' one of them asked. He was a guy called Peterson, an ex-grunt. Bobby had taken to him and had been in the process of setting up a gun trade with one of Peterson’s old contacts at Fort Hood.

  'None of your business,' he said, walking over.

  'You drag us up here for three days and we don't even get to find out what’s going on?'

  ‘Exactly.’

  Peterson went to argue, but Wicks’ hand moved inside his jacket, resting on his pistol, his temper flaring. It had been a long night and his patience was almost gone.

  ‘Touch the handle. Please. I’m begging you.’

  Peterson saw his hand and the look in his eyes; he took the hint.

  'Shit,' Faison hissed, listening and watching the exchange in the shadows. 'We don't know what's inside.'

  'Do we move?' Hendricks asked over the radio.

  Faison grabbed his own radio. 'All teams, stand by. I repeat, stand by.'

  Wicks glared at Peterson for a moment longer then turned and walked off. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, drew one out with his lips and replacing the pack, pulled a lighter.

  Watching him sparking the smoke, Peterson took his chance. He suddenly grabbed the handle and pulled open the doors.

  Behind him, Wicks heard and swung round.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Stand by,’ Faison's voice said over the radio.

  Peterson looked inside the van as Wicks ran over, pulling his pistol.

  The back was empty.

  Fifty yards to the west a skinhead suddenly appeared from around the boulder, having wandered out of the camp to take a leak. As he unzipped his fly, he looked up.

  And stared at Hendricks, his team and Marquez, five yards in front of him.

  It took just over a second for the thug to register what he was looking at. His hand flashed towards a semi-automatic pistol tucked into the back of his waistband but Hendricks was already raising his shotgun. The pistol appeared in the skinhead’s right, headed in a sweeping arc towards the trio of NYPD detectives.

  And Hendricks fired.

  Seconds earlier, Wicks had joined Peterson. But he hadn’t fired his pistol. He was staring inside the empty van, confused. There was nothing inside.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Then a shotgun blast echoed across the estate. Down by the van, the neo-Nazis all turned.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Faison said. He grabbed his radio. ‘All teams, move in! Move in!’

  FORTY SEVENAs shouts of ‘ATF!’ and ‘NYPD!’ suddenly filled the estate, Hendricks and his squad moved in from the left as the ATF came in from the right. They were approaching fast. Down below, scores of the skinheads were starting to react, pulling weapons from cars or retrieving them from wherever they’d been left around the camp.

  ‘NYPD!’ Hendricks shouted, moving past the skinhead he’d just taken down, closing in on the camp. ‘Drop your weapons!’

  Instead, the neo-Nazis started to fire.

  The night quiet of the estate was instantly shattered by the echoes of automatic and semiautomatic weapons. The ATF agents and NYPD detectives were forced to take cover as bullets and shotgun shells started smashing into rocks and trees around them.

  However, Hendricks didn’t withdraw, firing his Mossberg and racking the pump. He edged forward, keeping low, seemingly unconcerned as bullets whizzed past him as he returned fire. Straight ahead was a big neo-Nazi, one of the meth cookers, a modified Glock 17 in his hands. It seemed most of them had this weapon. The guy was aiming it at Hendricks which gave him no choice. He pulled the trigger and the shotgun boomed, hitting the goon in the chest and blowing him back.

  As Hendricks racked the pump, he realised the Latina detective Marquez was right by his side. Around them, the gunfight was escalating, agents and detectives taking cover, but she seemed completely unfazed. She fired her shotgun at a man running towards them, the blast hitting the guy in the chest and punching him off his feet. She racked the pump and fired again, hitting another man. Hendricks and Marquez’s determined approach was causing the skinheads to take cover. The ATF and other NYPD detectives moved up to join them, firing down at the camp. Although the gunfight was now in full savage swing, momentum was swinging the law enforcement’s way.

  Hendricks and Marquez had worked their way to the edge of the camp but were forced to take cover around the corner of a building on the edge of the estate as they came under sustained attack. Hendricks risked a glance, but bullets from automatic weapons and shotgun shells drilled into the wall beside him, chalk and dust spraying into the air. They were pinned down. None of the neo-Nazis were surrendering. It was a full-on shootout, automatic weapons and pump-action shotguns on each side, the air filled with the sound of gunfire and the stink of cordite. Hendricks and Marquez’s position had been spotted and the two of them were under heavy fire.

  To their right and further back, some of Hendricks’ team saw their boss pinned down and increased the rate of fire, giving him an opportunity to peer round the wall.

  He saw bullets hitting the three meth trucks at the back of the campsite, smashing the windows and drilling the walls as scores of the Chapter members returned fire from behind cars or bikes. The caravans were directly behind the neo-Nazis so hitting the labs was unavoidable but extremely dangerous. They could go up in a second.

  And just then, Hendricks caught sight of the white-haired guy who’d arrived in the van. Wicks. He was firing off rounds with a silenced pistol. When it clicked dry, he ducked behind one of the cars, the wheels either side of him bursting and deflating as rounds took them out.

  Hendricks watched him yank open the trunk and pull something out from the back. It was a case.

  He opened it up, and Hendricks’ blood turned cold.

  It was an RPG.

  Hendricks raised his Mossberg, centred on the man and pulled the trigger.

  The gun jammed.

  ‘Shit!’

  He dropped down, gunfire chipping the wall beside him, spraying chalk all over him. He saw the blond man sliding a rocket-propelled grenade into the launcher, clicking it into place. Hendricks cleared the breech, but it was taking forever.

  ‘C’mon!’

  He watched the blond man turn, using the car as cover and aiming the weapon at the group of ATF agents moving in. He was behind the car. Hendricks couldn’t hit him.

  But ten yards behind the man was one of the eight pound propane tanks used for cooking the meth.

  And there was a lit cigarette five feet from the tank.

  His weapon emptied, the jam cleared, Hendricks racked a shell and aimed at the tank as the blond man centred the RPG on the ATF Task Force.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Across the state, inside the Shepherd family home, Finn Sway had the bitch gagged and tied up. She was on the hall floor, her eyes wide with fear, muffled whimpering coming from
under her gag. He had his gun to the kid’s head, both of them facing the front door.

  ‘What time does your dad come home?’

  ‘In about an hour.’

  ‘Call him.’

  The kid didn’t react. Finn cuffed him with the butt of the pistol, and the woman made a noise under the gag.

  ‘Call him or die.’

  Mark pulled his phone and pushed Redial, his hands shaking.

  ‘Put it on speaker. You send him a signal, I shoot your mother.’

  The call rang twice.

  ‘Mark?’

  The kid didn’t respond. Finn pushed the pistol harder into his temple.

  ‘Hey Dad.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Pause.

  ‘Yeah. Was just wondering when you were coming home?’

  ‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon.’

  Across the hall, the woman was making sounds. Sway turned to her, pointing the gun. ‘Shut your mouth, bitch.’ He looked over at the television and saw a freeze frame of the family at what looked like a high school event.

  He looked at the face of the man who’d killed Reese, smiling on the screen.

  Finn would make sure that he never smiled again.

  Although he’d only just turned nine, Mark Shepherd already knew how to handle himself. Being that Dad and his friend Mr Hendricks were both cops, they’d put all four of their kids through bully-proof classes. Dad had also devoted some time to teaching his sons self-defence. Mark was a typical boy, interested in sports and hanging out with his friends, but he also relished the fact his father taught him things other kids his age didn’t know. With the gun to his head, Mom tied up behind him, his heart was beating so fast he thought it would burst out of his chest. He felt like he was going to throw up. He could smell alcohol and smoke on the man behind him. He felt the cold metal of the pistol against his temple.

  But as the man had turned to Mom, Mark had glanced to his right down the hall, and seen something at the window.

  Dad.

  He was outside. He made eye contact with Mark and then quickly disappeared from view. Mark sensed the man with the gun turn his attention back.