by Tom Barber
‘And Archer?’
‘He was passing by when it went down. You know what his luck’s like.’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, did he do something in a past life? He only just got fit again.’
Pause.
‘Is he armed?’
‘No, sir. He came straight from the gym.’
‘The enemy?’
‘There are four left. Three handguns and an AK-47. I called CSU; the man who Foster killed is already at the lab being dusted for prints and background checked. But there’s another problem.’
‘What’s that?’ Shepherd asked.
‘As I said, one of the Marshals was shot in the gut. Archer said it’s bad. The gunmen are controlling the lobby and there’s no other exit. He’s running out of time.’
‘Shit.’
‘So who’s running the show down here?’ Marquez asked, casting her eyes down to the street. ‘Let’s figure out an entry and get in there.’
Josh went to reply but something interrupted him. Behind the trio, a loud argument had broken out between two men by the ESU truck. One of them was in a dark suit and blue tie, the other an ESU Lieutenant in navy-blue fatigues. Josh had seen the ESU man before on an operation around Christmas; his name was Hobbs. He’d also seen him a lot calmer.
They were face to face, their argument causing people to turn and stare.
‘Don’t forget where you are!’ Hobbs said to the other man, jabbing his finger at him.
‘Don’t forget who the hell is in there!’ the other man fired back.
‘This is our turf, asshole! Your team caused a daylight gun fight in one of our safest neighbourhoods.’
‘I’m sorry, did they start this?’
‘We’re calling the shots here.’
‘Like hell you are! This is a Federal situation. So make yourself useful; go get me a donut.’
That lit the keg. Hobbs stepped forward but one of his officers held him back, people from both sides intervening as the two men glared at each other. Cursing, Hobbs turned and stalked away as Shepherd, Josh and Marquez watched it all unfold.
The man in the suit pulled his cell phone, shaking his head, then dialled a number as he walked away.
‘Well that was cute,’ Marquez said.
Behind the detectives, emergency services and assembled police cars crowded together thirty yards from the tenement block, officers were containing the public and gathered news teams behind a series of hastily-erected wooden barriers. The stand-off was still volatile, and more gunfire could erupt at any moment.
Amongst the throng of people, a man in a black shirt and blue jeans stood still, looking up at the building. He was light-haired and tanned with a nondescript face, blending in with the crowd. Like everyone else down there, he was watching the situation unfold with interest, listening to the conversations and rumours being passed around.
Turning, he pushed his way through the gathered mass of people and headed south, a briefcase in his hand. Crossing the street, he walked downtown on the sidewalk for several minutes, police and detective cars racing past the other way, people passing him in the opposite direction as they walked towards the scene, curious, wanting to see what was happening.
He arrived at an office building about eighty yards from the apartment building, on West 133. The man glanced over his shoulder, then pushed his way through the revolving doors and walked inside.
TWELVE
Inside the tenement block, Archer eased the apartment door shut behind him then moved down the 5 floor corridor quickly, his back to the wall, checking left and right constantly, with Carson’s USP in his hand.
All of a sudden the stretch of corridor seemed a hell of a lot longer than it had with Foster watching his back.
John had been coming with him but had just received a call from his superior, Dalton, and been forced to hold up. Vargas and Barlow weren’t going anywhere, staying with Jennifer who was the priority and guarding Carson as Helen did her best to comfort him and keep him quiet. He needed pain relief and he needed it now. This couldn’t wait.
It meant Archer was momentarily on his own.
Keeping the USP trained on the end of the corridor, he worked his way along the hall, passing the closed apartment doors either side. Moving past the elevator, he finally arrived by the room with the unconscious guy on the couch and ducked inside, relieved to be out of the hallway. He stood motionless for a second, listening, then stepped further into the room.
The man slumped on the cushions was still out cold, his head lolled to one side, his eyes shut. He was a black guy, wearing a string vest, and was painfully thin. A needle was jutting out of his arm, a tourniquet wrapped around his lower bicep. Given that the door had been left open, Archer figured a buddy of his had heard the alarm and left, probably unable to wake the guy on the couch and then just leaving him behind. He’d encountered heavy drug users before on raids, but most of the time the doors in front of such activity were closed. Helen’s voice echoed in his mind. What do you think this is, the Waldorf?
Archer stared at the unconscious man for a moment then switched his attention to the table. There was an open leather pack, a junkie kit. He saw several packets of foil tucked inside. He reached forward and picked one up, opening it and finding crumbly dark brown powder inside. It was heroin; this guy had just scored. Unlike the movies, he didn’t need to taste it to know. No way was he putting that horrible shit in his mouth. He closed the foil ball, tucking it back into the leather case. He picked the pack up and headed to the door to get the hell out of here.
Then he heard footsteps and voices coming from the north stairwell.
‘They must have ducked down one of these floors,’ Braeten said, arriving on the 5 floor and walking down the corridor. The man armed with the AK-47 was beside him.
‘Why so sure?’
‘I heard them going up the stairs. One of them is shot and they’ve got the kid. They couldn’t have gone too far up, but they’d have gone as high as they could.’
‘How can you know?’
‘Common sense. If they were on 1 or 2, they’d know we’d find them quickly.’
They stopped outside an apartment beside the elevator. 5H. Unlike the rest of the corridor, the door was open. Looking inside, they noticed the legs of someone laid out on the couch. Frowning, Braeten moved inside, training his pistol on the body as he approached. His companion followed him in, doing the same but with the Kalashnikov. When they got closer, they saw it was just a junkie, passed out on the couch, his head lolled to the side, his mouth open. Braeten nudged him with his sneaker but the guy didn’t react. The other man looked around the rest of the place, and saw there was no one else here.
‘Want to search the next one?’ he asked.
‘We do that, we’ll be here till next week,’ Braeten said, looking around the room. He glanced at a clock on the wall, considering his next move. He shook his head. ‘We need to stay on the front door for the moment. This was just a hunch. We’re expecting company any minute.’
The other man nodded and went to walk out of the room.
But as they moved to the door, there was a noise from the bathroom. Both men swung round.
To their right, the bathroom door was closed.
Stepping back, they aimed their weapons at the wood, easing their way forward. The man with the AK-47 settled into the weapon as Braeten took the lead, creeping towards the frame.
He kicked the door back as hard as he could.
The room was empty.
Braeten stepped forward and swept the shower curtain to one side, but there was no-one in the bathtub. They heard the sound again, a rattling and humming. It was the old pipes, water flowing through them and the metal jangling and clanging in protest as it did so, an old system on its last legs.
Seeing there was no-one there, Braeten lowered his weapon and exhaled.
‘Screw this. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The two men turned and walked back
out through the room into the corridor and towards the north stairwell, heading down the stairs.
The apartment was still for a few moments.
Then the front door eased forward and Archer exhaled as he stepped out from his hiding place behind it. It had been close, razor-thin; he’d only just made it behind the door before the two men entered the room. When they’d stopped on their way out and come back, he’d been on the verge of kicking back the door and firing, trying to drop them both before they had a chance to react, his heart thumping so loud he was convinced they might hear it.
Now alone, he looked down at the pack in his left hand.
They were in business.
He glanced over at the comatose man on the couch, the guy completely unaware of what had just happened, completely out of it. Thanks buddy. When he woke up he was going to be pissed off when he found his stash was gone but at least he wouldn’t be in handcuffs and a jail cell, which is exactly where he would be if Archer didn’t have other priorities. Edging round the open door, Archer checked either side of the corridor cautiously, making sure the two guys had gone, his finger on the trigger of the USP.
It was empty.
Satisfied, he slipped out of the room and quickly moved along the hallway, heading back to Helen’s apartment and Carson, the leather pack of dope clutched in his left hand.
THIRTEEN
A few moments later, there was a quick knock on the door of 5B and a murmured name. Foster pulled it open, and Archer slid back into the room, relaxing slightly as the door closed behind him.
‘Success?’ Foster asked.
Archer nodded, holding up the pack. As the big Deputy Marshal pushed the refrigerator back into position, Archer walked into the sitting room and handed the pack to Helen, as Vargas and Barlow watched with grim curiosity.
She unzipped it and looked at the equipment inside. There was a rusty spoon, several foil packets and some spare tubing.
She shuddered.
‘I’ll get the first aid kit,’ she said. ‘Just do him a favour and get a clean spoon from the kitchen.’
Down on the street, Shepherd approached the man in the suit who’d been arguing with Hobbs, as Josh finished filling Marquez in on the situation. He had black hair, smartly cut, and looked in his late thirties, standing beside a colleague as the two of them examined a tablet screen resting on the back of his car. Without knowing anything about him, Shepherd was ninety nine per cent sure the man was a Federal agent; his spat with Hobbs had all but confirmed it, as did the current activity behind him. A series of other 4x4 Tahoes had just drawn up, the barriers and crowd moved out of the way so they could pass and get inside the cordon. A group of tough-looking men and women had piled out of the vehicles immediately, moving to the back of the 4x4s and pulling on bulletproof vests then loading Remington shotguns and AR-15 assault rifles. The vests had lettering printed on them.
United States Marshals.
Now this man’s argument with Hobbs made total sense.
‘Not now,’ the guy in the suit said without looking up, as he sensed Shepherd approach.
‘One of my men is in the building. He’s with your group.’
The man paused; he glanced up at him. ‘The cop?’
‘Archer. He’s one of my detectives.’
‘Foster told me what he did on the street. We owe him one.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s a good man.’
The suited man examined Shepherd for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and offered his hand.
‘I’m James Dalton. Chief Deputy Marshal. The team inside are one of mine.’
‘Sergeant Matt Shepherd,’ he said, shaking Dalton’s hand. Shepherd indicated to the pair who’d just joined him. ‘These are two of my detectives, Blake and Marquez. We’re with the Counter Terrorism Bureau.’
Dalton nodded a greeting to them.
‘Sorry about the drama,’ he said, motioning with his head to Hobbs, who noticed the gesture and glared at him. He and several of his ESU men were gathered by their truck, huddled around a screen and talking quietly, mirroring Dalton and his squad.
‘What’s the problem?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Our two
helicopters are tied up on the outskirts of Long Island on an operation and won’t be here for another hour. He found out and figured he’s taking over. He seems to think this is his fight.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘He doesn’t know who we have inside there,’ Dalton said, jabbing a forefinger at the tenement block. ‘And we have jurisdiction. This is a Federal situation. He can sit and watch. That’s it.’
‘You New York-based?’ Josh asked.
Dalton nodded. ‘Pearl Street.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Marquez asked.
Dalton pointed at the tablet in his hand, tilting it so the trio could see. They all peered closer and saw blue and white schematics for the building.
It was a layout of the 5 floor, pulled from city files. Dalton expanded it with his thumb and forefinger, pointing at a rectangular south-side room.
It was separated into three portions; a bathroom to the left of the door, a kitchen in the middle and a sitting room to the right.
‘Our team are in here,’ he said, pointing at the sitting room. ‘5B, near the south stairwell. Four Marshals, a child, your detective and the woman who rents the apartment. They’ve barricaded themselves in as best they can but the situation is pretty fragile. The door isn’t substantial. It’s thin wood and the only thing they could use to block it is an old refrigerator. Someone finds out they’re in there, it won’t take them long to get in.’
‘Archer said one of your Marshals was shot in the stomach,’ Josh said.
Dalton nodded. ‘Carson. The slug was from a .45. We’ll get him out of there ASAP.’
‘Do we have any idea how many residents are still inside?’ Marquez asked.
Dalton shrugged. ‘Can’t say for sure. I think most of them got out.’
‘They could be an issue. Potential casualties.’
‘My task force is clinical,’ Dalton said, indicating to the group of Marshals assembling behind him. ‘And this time, we’re not going to be taken by surprise.’
‘OK, so let’s get in there right now,’ Shepherd said.
Dalton nodded. ‘You read my mind.’
Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he whistled and beckoned the team to join him. They all hustled over, fully prepared and ready to go. Doing a quick headcount, Shepherd made fifteen of them, stern-faced and determined, people who had colleagues trapped inside and would make damn sure they made it out in one piece. He’d had experience with the Marshals service before and they didn’t screw around, especially if their own people were in danger. The four thugs holding the lobby would be no match for this team.
He glanced over his shoulder at Hobbs, who was looking at the group with narrowed eyes. Turning the tablet, Dalton laid it on the front of his car, tilting it up so the gathered team could see.
‘Right, listen up,’ he called. ‘Here’s the situation.’
He started his brief but then heard something that made him pause.
The noise was faint, yet increasing in volume.
Seeing him halt, Shepherd frowned, then turned his head. He also heard the sound.
It was getting closer.
Other people on the street started to look up. Dalton realised what was happening. Swinging from his group of Marshals, he stalked towards Hobbs standing by the ESU truck.
‘You son of a bitch!’
Eighty yards downtown, an office building elevator dinged on the 13 floor. The man in the black t-shirt and blue jeans with the briefcase stepped out, looking left and right, making sure he was alone. The lights were off, the place deserted, a dark stillness filling the offices that would be a distant memory tomorrow morning.
He walked through the aisles, eventually arriving by the windows facing uptown. The tenement building was straight ahead, less than a hundred yards away. The
street to the right was packed with squad and Federal vehicles along with a crowd of cops, detectives and curious bystanders.
He stood still for a moment, examining the building’s exterior, all of its windows and the roof. His position on 13 meant he was halfway up the other building, giving him a total view of the entire south side.
Then he laid his briefcase on a desk and clicked it open.
In the 5 floor apartment, Helen was just administering the dose to Carson. He had an old belt wrapped up tightly by his elbow, the needle jabbed into a prominent vein in his arm. She’d opened one of the foil packs of brown powder, tipping it onto a clean spoon with a touch of water which Foster held for her. She’d warmed the underside with a lighter, and used the syringe to suck up the resulting liquid. She pushed the substance into Carson’s bloodstream, Foster, Archer and Barlow observing in silence. Vargas had her back to the room and was looking out of the window with Jennifer by her side, pointing things out in order to distract both the child and herself.
The effect of the opiate was immediate. Carson’s face, screwed up with pain, suddenly softened like butter in a pan. It was extraordinary but also disturbing. His body relaxed. His mouth opened, sucking in air like a fish, his movements slowing right down as if he’d been dropped in a vat of treacle. Everyone else in the room save Vargas and Jennifer watched, their feelings most definitely mixed. The instant release of pain was clear and a relief to everyone, not just Carson. However, what they’d just had to do went against every instinct they had.
Withdrawing the needle slowly, Helen pressed a pad against the puncture on his arm, staying silent. Carson’s groans and whimpers of pain had stopped.
‘How long will it last?’ Barlow asked, breaking the quiet.
‘Depends on the quality,’ Helen said. ‘Around a couple of hours I guess.’