by Tom Barber
Pushing off the man and staggering to his feet, Archer followed Vargas, who’d wrenched open the front door and was already back out in the corridor.
Next door, Pawn and Hearts ran back through the apartment. They slowed when they got to the entrance, then edged out into the corridor and saw the door to the north stairwell swinging shut.
Reloading, the two men sprinted down the hallway after them.
The moment the first man burst through the door, Archer front kicked him as hard as he could. He’d been standing beside the doorframe, the frame just missing him as it was smashed open.
The gunman flew down the flight of stairs and hit the landing between 22 and 21 hard, the breath knocked out of him. He dropped his rifle, dazed and winded. The other man behind him reacted fast but Vargas had been ready, coming from the other side. Considering Archer was behind the guy, Vargas couldn’t shoot so she smashed the butt of her rifle into his face instead.
He shouted in pain and fell back into the corridor, trying to raise his own M4A1 through blurry vision. This time he had nothing behind him. Vargas had no choice and fired.
On the landing in the stairwell, the other gunman had regained his senses. He lifted his rifle but Archer got there a split second ahead, putting the sights of his M4A1 on the man’s upper torso.
‘Drop the weapon!’
The man paused, mid-sweep, staring into Archer’s eyes venomously, his face masked by the balaclava.
‘Don’t do it!’
Pause.
He suddenly swung the rifle up all the way.
Archer fired just before he did. The burst hit the man in the sternum and killed him instantly, his finger jerking instinctively and spraying a burst of bullets into the wall near Archer, who threw himself to one side.
Those last shots echoed down the stairwell.
Then it was silent.
Archer got back to his feet, panting as Vargas re-joined him. Both of them were bleeding from flying glass and covered in debris from the gunfight, dirty, sweaty and cut up. Pulling up his M4A1, the barrel hot to touch, Archer aimed down the stairwell beside the dead man, waiting for his hearing to fully return and for any other gunmen to run into his sights.
He stood there, Vargas beside him, both of them taking deep breaths.
They watched and waited.
But no-one else came.
TWENTY THREE
Everyone in the lobby had heard the shots. They’d echoed down the north stairwell. King, Bishop, Castle and Spades were standing there, along with Braeten and the members of his crew, listening and hopeful.
It sure as hell sounded like someone had found the Marshals.
Then there was silence. King pushed the pressel on his uniform, walking over to the north side and pulling open the door.
‘What the hell is going on up there? Give me a sitrep.’
Nothing.
‘Pawn, Hearts, report.’
Nothing.
‘Report.’
The man didn’t have a radio; the anonymous team were communicating with earpieces and pressel switches. Archer had already pulled the earpiece from the man’s ear, listening closely. Pawn, Hearts. They were using call signs, chess pieces and card suits, not their real names.
‘Pawn, Hearts, respond, damn it. Someone in the area check it.’
Holding the earpiece to his lobe with his right hand, Archer used his left to grab two magazines from pouches on the front of the dead man’s fatigues, stuffing them into his pocket. He checked the rest of the guy’s fatigues quickly but he had no ID. He pulled off his balaclava. The man had black hair and was tanned, stubble around his chin and neck; he was white and appeared to be in his thirties, tough, with a fighter’s face, some scar tissue across his eyebrows.
His head lolled back as Archer released it, blood leaking out of his mouth, his eyes open. Archer looked down at the dead man.
It was you or me, buddy.
And you started this.
Suddenly, he heard a noise from the stairwell. He stood up and leant over the railing; there was the sound of running feet, and more than one pair. It was distant, but getting closer, from about ten floors below and moving fast.
In his ear, the man’s radio had gone quiet.
Scooping up the magazines and the M4A1 and letting the earpiece go, Archer ran up the last flight and joined Vargas in the hallway. She was doing the same as him, taking what she could from the dead man. She’d also pulled off the man’s balaclava and was staring at the guy when Archer joined her.
‘We’ve got to go!’ he whispered.
She didn’t react. He grabbed her shoulder, which finally got her attention. Scooping up her M4A1, she also pulled two grenades from pouches on the man’s tactical vest and took off down the corridor with Archer, both of them bloodied, dirtied and bruised but still alive.
Archer took point, moving out into the south stairwell. There was no-one coming up these stairs. Whoever the footsteps belonged to were coming up from the north side. The doors to the corridors on the upper floors were all shut, so even if they passed the stairwell at the same time as anyone on the north they wouldn’t be seen.
Vargas followed him and they started moving down, the door behind them swinging shut as they disappeared out of sight.
Moments later, Knight and Diamonds arrived at the 21 floor, having sprinted up from 11. Both men slammed to a halt, panting when they got there, and saw Pawn’s body on the landing between their position and the 22 floor. His balaclava had been pulled off, blood around his mouth; he was staring up lifelessly and was sprawled out limply across the stairwell landing. He’d been shot in the chest.
Another one of their guys down.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Knight muttered.
Diamonds stepped past the body carefully, carrying on up the stairs. Knight dropped to one knee and examined his dead colleague. The spare magazines for his M4A1 had been taken, the pouches empty. Blood was pooled on the floor under his body, still warm under Knight’s knee. He felt his anger rise; like Markowski, Gibbons had been a close friend of his and was a tough bastard. None of this was going to plan.
Half a flight up, Diamonds reappeared. ‘They iced Taylor too. He’s gone. Three in the sternum.’
‘Someone, report goddammit. What the hell happened?’
Neither man responded at first. Then Knight pushed the pressel on his radio, still kneeling in Gibbons’ blood.
‘Sir, we’ve got a serious problem up here.’
*
Down in 8A, Archer locked the door and dragged the refrigerator back into place as Vargas moved through into the sitting room, both of them relieved to be out of the stairwell and back behind the relative safety of the barricade. Barlow, Jennifer and Helen all looked up as Vargas walked in and were immediately taken aback by her appearance. Her once-spotless white top was dirty, covered in brick dust, and she had cuts and nicks on her arms and face, her top and face blackened with smoke. Archer looked much the same as he walked in, joining her in the sitting room.
Vargas put her rifle and the two grenades she’d lifted to one side then knelt down in front of Jennifer, the girl hugging her with as much strength as she could muster. The embrace meant some of the dust and debris on Vargas’ clothing was imprinted onto her own clothes and arms, but she clung on tight.
‘What the hell happened up there?’ Barlow said.
‘We ran into company,’ Archer said.
‘And?’
‘Two more of them are down. We found the ESU team on the roof.’
‘So where are they?’ Helen said, hopefully.
‘They’re dead. This response team took them out.’
‘All of them?’
He nodded. ‘All.’
‘Were they shot?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Claymore mines.’
She looked blank.
‘They’re anti-personnel weapons that fire metal ball bearings,’ he explained. ‘The helicopter dropped the team off into a circle of them. O
ne push of a clacker was all it took. The chopper got hit by an anti-tank rocket. We saw the spent launcher dumped up there.’
‘Did you find the phone?’ Helen asked.
Vargas nodded. ‘That’s the good news. I spoke to Dalton, our Supervisor. Told him the situation and what happened to Foster. The chopper earlier was this other team abseiling in. Everyone outside thought it was one of theirs, and by the time they realised it wasn’t the team were already inside in the building. They counted ten of them.’
‘Now there are six,’ Archer said.
‘Still ten,’ Barlow said. ‘You’re forgetting the four guys from the street.’
Pause.
‘What did Dalton say?’
‘They’re working on coming in through the front door.’
‘It won’t be easy.’
She shrugged. ‘They’ll have to duke it out. It’s their only option. One way in, one way out.’
Vargas turned her focus to Jennifer, talking to her quietly. As she did so, Archer walked over to the couch, knelt and checked on Carson. Helen was sitting beside him, her hand on his brow.
‘Any change?’
‘The same,’ Helen said. ‘Hanging in there. But he’s lost a lot of blood.’
As she spoke, she noticed something on Vargas’s leg and pointed.
‘As will you if you don’t get that looked at.’
Archer turned and saw where Helen was indicating. There was a wound to Vargas’ thigh from the gunfight upstairs, what looked like a small piece of shrapnel buried in her jeans. She looked down at it, just as surprised as everyone else. It looked painful. Seeing the injury, Archer rose and motioned towards the kitchen with his head.
‘C’mon. There’s still some of my shirt left.’
In the lobby, King and his men listened to Knight’s report, all of them stunned.
‘Pawn and Hearts are dead, sir.’
‘What?’
‘There was a shootout on 22. Pawn bought it in the stairwell, Hearts in the corridor. Both took a burst to the chest. They tore up an apartment and the hallway. Looks like the fight went all over the place.’
‘That’s four of our guys down,’ King said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. Releasing the pressel, he whirled on Castle, Spades and Bishop, who were standing behind him. ‘How the hell are these people still alive?’
‘It’s not that easy,’ Bishop said. ‘This place is big. There’re still residents here, too.’
‘So? Are we all on the same page? Do you understand the consequences if that girl leaves this building alive?’
None of them responded.
‘So what the hell are you waiting for? Get upstairs and find them!’
As they headed off, he pushed down the pressel.
‘Everyone, get your shit together,’ he ordered. ‘Search every apartment room by room; I don’t care if it takes all night. Pull your fingers out of your asses and find these people. Don’t come back down here until you do.’
King released the switch, cursing again. He was left alone with the four gunmen he’d hired for the ambush on the street. They’d all listened to the exchange between King and his men, picking up on what had happened, but none of them said a word. The man armed with the AK-47 was cautiously peering out of the shattered hole where a glass pane on the front door had been, his concerns not on finding the girl, but on figuring out an escape and getting out of here alive. It looked like most of the NYPD were outside. He had no idea how the hell he was going to get out, and the cocaine up his nose wasn’t exactly helping him think clearly.
‘We’re running out of time,’ he said. ‘The pigs are gonna try to get in again soon.’
Furious, King went to reply but Braeten suddenly cut him off.
‘Hold on a second,’ he said sharply.
‘What?’ King spat back. ‘Your brain finally switched on?’
Turning to him, Braeten smiled, ignoring the slight.
Something Bishop just said had given him an idea.
‘I know how we can find her.’
‘What?’
‘I know how we can find the girl.’
TWENTY FOUR
The same as before, Archer and Vargas were back in the bathroom, but this time it was three floors higher and Vargas who was being patched up. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, watching Archer examine the wound to her leg.
He was kneeling on the step up to the bath, both their M4A1s within arm’s reach, the safety on each weapon clicked on. There was a sliver of metal in her thigh, jutting out of her jeans, a circle of red around the wound. It wasn’t in deep enough from what he could see to be overly concerning, but it was enough to hurt like hell.
He examined it up close. The shard was white and about the length of his index finger.
‘I think it’s a piece of balcony door,’ he said. ‘Must have come from the grenade blast.’
She didn’t reply; he looked up and saw she was staring over his head, her mind elsewhere.
‘Hey? You good?’
She snapped out of it. ‘Huh?’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
‘I’m going to have to cut a hole in your jeans.’
‘Go for it.’
Taking the scissors and a wad of gauze from a first aid kit he’d found under the basin, he snipped at the fabric, further exposing the wound. Placing the scissors to one side, he took hold of the shrapnel and looked up at her.
‘Ready?’
She nodded. A split-second later, he pulled the metal out and she exhaled sharply. Tossing the piece of shrapnel to one side, he staunched the immediate flow of blood with the gauze, keeping pressure on the wound. After a moment or two he lifted the pad and poured a small amount of antiseptic over the affected area, Vargas’s body tensing from the stinging pain. It needed to be cleaned, but he hoped she’d had a tetanus shot nonetheless. He then placed another wad of gauze over the wound, wrapping a strip from his old shirt around her thigh to hold the padding in place. He cinched and knotted it. Once it was done, he leant back and wiped antiseptic off his hands with the remains of his shirt, studying his handiwork. It sure as hell wasn’t going to qualify him for a medical career, but it would do for now. Her hair hanging down, Vargas checked out his work then looked up and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Guess that makes us even.’
‘No problem.’
He thought back to the battle upstairs and how she’d acquired the injury. She’d done brilliantly. She was conservative with her ammo, not panicking in the face of a full-on attack and had kept her cool, thinking fast when she’d jumped to the next balcony. She’d also taken out one of the gunmen without hesitation; everything she’d done had been faultless, decisive and extremely impressive. More to her than meets the eye, he’d thought earlier. That was for damn sure.
‘You were great up there,’ he told her.
‘You too.’
‘I can see why you’ve got that badge on your hip.’
There was a pause.
‘Did you know that the Marshals service has never lost a witness under protection?’ she said.
‘I didn’t. And that’s not going to change tonight.’
They made eye contact and shared a moment. ‘No. It isn’t,’ she said, sharing his determination.
He rose, picked up his M4A1 and moved into the kitchen, Vargas staying where she was on the edge of the bathtub. He walked up to the refrigerator rammed up against the door and stood still, listening intently for any sounds of movement in the corridor outside the apartment.
It was quiet.
He headed back into the bathroom and re-joined her, placing his rifle to one side but within reach. He leant against the basin, enjoying the moment’s respite and her company. Alone together, a barricade across the door, one could almost forget the predicament they were in. Almost.
‘So how long have you been a Marshal?’ he asked.
‘Not long.’ She noticed the way he was loo
king at her; he had another question on his lips. ‘What?’
‘Right now. You and me. This stays here. What is this about?’
She didn’t react.
He pressed her. ‘You can trust me, Vargas. Who’s the little girl?’
She didn’t reply but her manner had changed slightly. He got the impression she was just about willing to open up and offer him something. He pushed forward, seizing the opportunity. Foster had been like a brick wall the last time he’d asked this.
‘Is her real name Jennifer?’
Silence.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s Isabel.’
He nodded. She was ready to talk.
‘What did she see, Vargas?’ he asked. ‘Tell me.’
*
‘You know much about New York family crime?’ Vargas asked.
Archer shook his head. ‘I’m Counter Terrorism. Our focus is elsewhere.’
‘You’ve heard about the Five Families and the Mob stories from back in the day though?’
‘I saw The Godfather.’
‘There’re a few of these families still operating like that, especially downtown. Times may have changed but crime sure as hell hasn’t. In the last ten years, two dominant gangs have emerged in Tribeca: the Lombardis and the Devaneys. Italian versus Irish. They may have only come to full prominence in the last decade, but their feud goes back much further than that. This isn’t any Montague and Capulet shit, either. These are rough, nasty people who’ll go to any lengths to get what they want. They’ve put scores of each other into the ground and to the bottom of the bay over the years, fighting for control and power.’
She paused.
‘Three weeks ago, the head of the Lombardis, Gino, had a family gathering at his holiday place up in the Hamptons. It was a get-together to celebrate his fifty eighth birthday. Everyone was there apart from one of his kids who couldn’t make it. A hit team showed up and wasted the entire group. Machine-gunned the lot. The total body count was nineteen; men, women and children. It was the worst massacre ever recorded in the area. They hadn’t even had a single homicide around there for almost a decade.’