One Way (Sam Archer 5)

by Tom Barber

  Archer and Vargas glanced at each other.

  ‘Tell you later,’ she said.

  As Archer rose, Vargas suddenly noticed the blood patch staining the lower left of Archer’s once-white t-shirt. He had his hand half-over it, but not enough to fully hide the red.

  ‘Hey. You’re hurt.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Let me see.’

  She reached for his arm and took it away gently. His palm came away red from the blood-soaked fabric.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Next door. Now.’

  Down on the street, Hendricks screeched to a halt as close as he could get to the barriers on the corner of West 135 Street. Jumping out of the car, he cut through the crowd and made a beeline for Shepherd, who saw him coming and stepped forward to meet him.

  ‘What happened?’ Shepherd asked his friend.

  ‘The men in there aren’t Lombardi’s people. He had no idea the kid and the Marshals were inside.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I put a gun to his balls and pulled back the hammer,’ Hendricks replied, looking up at the tenement block. ‘This is about something else.’

  ‘So someone else must want the kid dead,’ Shepherd said, thinking. ‘But who else would want to kill a seven year old girl this badly?’

  Silence. The penny dropped.

  ‘It’s not about the kid at all, is it? They’re going after another member of the group.’

  ‘It must be one of the Marshals. Or Archer.’

  ‘Not Arch,’ Shepherd said. ‘I’ve heard what eye-witnesses from the gunfight on the street have said. It was pure coincidence he ended up in this. He was just passing by.’

  ‘OK, one of the other three then. One of Dalton’s team.’

  ‘So why the hell would someone go to all this trouble for a US Marshal?’

  Both men shifted their gaze to Dalton, who was talking with his team, finalising their assault plans. Either he was lying about the girl or he hadn’t told them the full story.

  But it was time for some answers.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Calvin screamed. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  The men were all standing there, having gathered in the large lobby. None of them thought it wise to respond. Spades’ body was lying in a heap by the elevator doors behind them. No-one had bothered to move him. Braeten had seen one of his own guys sprawled dead on the roof of the elevator just before they secured the doors. He’d fallen to his death, Vargas or the asshole with her knocking him into the elevator shaft. Out of all his guys, he was the one he was closest to. It had put him in a foul mood.

  Calvin shot his cuff and checked his watch.

  ‘We should have handled this two hours ago. You think the cops are just going to keep waiting outside for us to resolve this?’

  ‘So let’s get the hell out of here,’ Bishop said. ‘Let it go, boss. We tried. It didn’t work.’

  ‘We’re staying,’ Knight said.

  ‘What more can we do, brother?’ Bishop replied. ‘We’ve torn this place apart looking for her.’

  Frustrated, Calvin looked around the lobby. He knew Bishop was right.

  ‘Let’s cut our losses and get the hell out of here while we still can,’ Bishop said.

  King didn’t respond. His eyes settled on the black holdalls they’d brought with them, full of equipment, dumped in the corner of the lobby. His breathing slowed.

  Then the solution came to him, like clouds parting to reveal sunlight. It had been staring him in the face the entire time. It was something he and his team should have done the moment they’d arrived. The others noticed the change in his demeanour.

  ‘Boss?’ Knight asked.

  He turned and smiled.

  ‘What is it?’ Knight asked.

  King looked at Bishop

  ‘You’re right. I think it’s time we got the hell out of here. We’re leaving.’

  FORTY

  With Carson watching Isabel and weapons close to hand, Vargas was patching Archer up for the second time that evening. This time however, they were in the kitchen, beside the table near the window. Although they were on the east side, the curtains were still drawn, memories of how Foster and Barlow had died still vivid in their minds. Archer had pulled up the lower portion of his shirt, Vargas cleaning the wound the best she could. Unlike the superficial cut to his arm, the glass had buried itself deeper here. And unlike the previous apartment they’d taken cover in, there was no first aid kit in the bathroom. Vargas was having to improvise.

  ‘What was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Piece of glass. Got it from the laundry room when the grenade went off.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me what this was really about earlier?’

  She looked up at him, concern on her face.

  ‘It went deep, Archer. I need to clean it.’

  She rummaged through the cupboards and drawers, searching for anything she could use. No luck; she pulled open the fridge and paused. Reaching inside, she drew out a small bottle of vodka, half-full. She unscrewed the top, taking a quick sniff, then re-joined him.

  ‘This is going to sting.’

  He nodded apprehensively and she poured some directly over the wound. His teeth clenched like he was being electrocuted, grunting in pain, his body tensing up. It was one of the most painful things he’d ever experienced; he felt like he was going to pass out. She covered the wound with a relatively clean towel she’d found in a drawer by the sink. The alcohol was still burning into the wound, killing any bacteria, and Archer took slow breaths, trying to work through the pain.

  ‘Guess this counts as a third date,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  She chuckled, shaking her head. ‘You got a girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m like a revolving door. People come and go. No-one stays.’

  ‘I have.’

  He looked over at her and found himself smiling. He’d only known her for a few hours, but she had a point. He decided not to mention that she hadn’t had a choice.

  He took over holding the cloth to the wound, and she withdrew. She wiped her hands on another towel then tossed it to one side and took a seat near him. They sat there in momentary silence, the curtains drawn, the lights low. The wound on his torso burned like hell. Archer looked over at her. She was sweaty and tired, blood and dirt all over her white shirt and dark jeans. Her hair was hanging down, jet black, covering the stained rivulet of blood coming from her right earlobe. She still looked great. Using the moment of quiet, she took her Glock from her holster and pulled back the slide. Withdrawing the magazine, she laid the weapon on the table and started popping bullets out onto her lap, counting ammunition. Holding the cloth to the wound on his torso, he watched her work.

  She paused and looked up at him, thinking.

  ‘You ever think of doing something else?’ she asked.

  ‘What, other than being a cop.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I don’t know how to do anything else. For better or for worse.’ He paused. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m a US Marshal now. Once the trial is over, that isn’t going to change.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You know, ninety nine per cent of people wouldn’t have intervened on the street,’ she said. ‘They would have stayed low, taking cover, looking after themselves.’

  ‘That’s not who I am.’

  Pause.

  ‘Most people switch on the news and see that something bad happened to a good person. Maybe they were mugged. Maybe they were shot or stabbed. They see those things and think how unfair it is. How unlucky that person was.’ He looked down. ‘But it’s always been more than that to me. It always will be. I see something like that and it really pisses me off. It makes my blood boil.’

  He glanced up at her.

  ‘That’s what I felt when I saw those guys coming for you on the street. Tha
t’s what I felt when the mob were heading for the apartment. That’s what I felt when they took Isabel and that man was taunting you on the intercom.’

  She watched him, still paused in her ammo count.

  ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he said. ‘But right now, I don’t want to do anything else. I’m not leaving it to another person to fight people like this for me.’

  ‘You can’t win forever,’ she said. ‘Eventually you’ll die.’

  ‘We all will. And if that happens, at least I died for something.’

  ‘That’s enough?’

  ‘It is for me.’

  Pause. She observed him in the dim apartment. For the first time today, she noticed a different look in his eyes. He fixed her gaze.

  ‘When they come, I’ll be right beside you,’ he said. ‘That’s a promise. I’m not going anywhere.’

  Silence. She watched him, bloodied and bruised, blood leaking from a cut over his eyebrow, his hand holding the makeshift bandage to the wound on his torso.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she said. He nodded. ‘If you could go back, would you still have intervened on the street?

  He grinned. ‘In a heartbeat.’

  ‘You’re that sure?’

  ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.’

  He’d replied instinctively then paused, realising what he’d said. Watching him for a moment, Vargas smiled.

  She went to respond but paused, frowning. There was a noise coming from the sitting room; Archer heard it too. It sounded like Carson was calling for them.

  He got up and followed her as she opened the door.

  ‘Oh shit!’

  Isabel was on the floor, fitting, her body jerking and spasming, her eyes rolled back in her head. Vargas dropped down and went to hold her but the girl had stiffened out. Archer threw his towel bandage to one side and dropped down to try and help.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s epileptic!’

  In the office building directly south of the tenement block, Marquez and Josh were still searching each floor. It was painstaking and tedious work. Josh had always trusted Marquez’s hunches but that’s exactly what this was, a hunch. Foster could have been capped off by a lucky bullet inside the building.

  They met by the north windows on 12. Both of them looked out at the building eighty yards away. Smoke was still streaming from the destroyed apartment on the 8 floor. There was a fire crew on the west side of the building, having finished hosing down the wreckage of the ESU chopper. Josh looked down at the mass of people on the street; he wanted to get back down there and re-join Shepherd and Hendricks. He and Marquez had been gone for a while. Peering closer, he saw the Marshals task force were gathered close, poised for action.

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ Josh told her.

  She shook her head, looking around the dark building.

  ‘There’s someone here,’ Marquez said. ‘I know it.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  She pointed at the building. ‘Look at that. It’s like range practice. And where’s the guard?’

  ‘Where we should be. Outside. We need to get back downstairs.’

  ‘And do what? Stand there and watch.’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘I’m leaving, Marquez.’

  She turned on him.

  ‘There’s someone here, Josh.’

  ‘No. There isn’t.’

  He turned without another word and walked towards the stairwell, pushing open the door and disappearing, the sound of his footsteps fading and leaving her alone.

  Isabel’s fit had just subsided, her body softening, the muscles relaxing after the fit had contracted and locked them tight. She was lying on the floor, her head on Vargas’ lap; she seemed confused, blinking and looking at them, not saying anything.

  ‘Stay still, honey,’ Vargas said, reassuring her. She checked her watch. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She missed her medication. She takes it twice a day, morning and night. The flashes from the gunfire must have triggered a reaction.’

  ‘Does she have any medicine with her?’

  Vargas thought for moment. ‘It’s in my bag. I left it downstairs in Helen’s apartment.’

  Archer looked at her, then at the little girl. Vargas was holding her head either side as she recovered. ‘What happens if she doesn’t take it?’

  ‘These attacks will come and go. They could go on all night.’

  He looked down at her and took a deep breath.

  ‘I have to get it then. The moment we fire a gun, it could happen again.’

  Archer pulled the mag of his M4A1, checking there was ammo inside, and slid it back into the rifle. Helen’s apartment was on 5.

  Seven floors down.

  And this time, he was going out there by himself.

  FORTY ONE

  Moments later, he was back in the corridor on 12, alone, his M4A1 in his hands. He focused his hearing as hard as he could; the close-proximity gunfire had left a dull ringing in his ears which wasn’t helping at all. Clearing both ways, he moved down the corridor. He slid into the south stairwell, immediately checking up and down, already missing Vargas’ protection watching his back.

  He started moving down as quietly as he could, looking out for any tripwires or hidden Claymores. When he got to 11, he stopped by the door then swept across, making sure there was no-one lying in wait.

  No-one was there.

  He did the same on each floor.

  10, 9, 8.

  Then 7.

  Then 6.

  When he made it to 5, he paused, then eased out into the corridor. It was empty. He moved slowly, constantly checking behind him, his heart racing. If he got ambushed right now, he’d be vulnerable from both sides. Any unexpected or sudden gunfire would shred him to pieces.

  He arrived beside the doorway to Helen’s apartment, their first hideout hours ago. Well aware the sniper was surely still out there somewhere, he dropped to the floor and inched into the apartment slowly, making sure not to move the door and alert the sharpshooter that there was someone inside. There was enough of a gap for him to crawl through as he wriggled along the floor.

  The fridge was still on its side; behind it were the two dead bodies of the men in fatigues who’d followed up the sniper fire. Two dirty cops, Archer thought. No wonder their moves had been so practised. He crawled past them, trying to avoid the blood and milk pooled on the floor but getting some on his jeans, feeling it soak into the fabric. He made it to the doorway to the sitting room. Staying close to the wall, he worked his way inside, trying to ignore the throbbing pain from the cut just above his waist.

  Foster was still slumped against the wall, the bullet hole in his forehead, in the same position that he’d been in when they left him. Archer noticed with anger that both his weapons and his badge were missing. He looked at the dead Marshal, the first of their group to be killed. They’d all been caught completely off guard, no idea then of the lengths the other side were prepared to go to in order to kill Vargas. They could never have suspected a group of professionally trained men armed to the hilt and with a sniper were coming here to take her out.

  Although he hadn’t known Foster before tonight, in that brief time he’d been hugely impressed by him. His response to the ambush on the street and his actions inside the building had been instrumental in saving their lives. At least he’d gone out on his shield, protecting the group and doing his job.

  From the few intense hours he’d known him, Archer guessed that’s how he would have wanted it.

  He crawled forward and saw Vargas’s black bag across the room on the floor. He reached over, taking hold of it. He opened it and found the box of tablets inside. Carbatrol was printed on the box, along with a white prescription sticker just below.

  Miss I Lombardi. 200mg x2 daily.

  Sliding them into his pocket, he left Vargas’ bag and shuffled back towards the doorway the way he’d come.

&n
bsp; Moving back into the kitchen, he stayed low and headed towards the door, wanting to get the hell out of here.

  Then he heard someone coming.

  Moving out of the stairwell, Knight and Bishop turned and headed towards 5B, the apartment where Joker had killed Foster and where Markowski and Patterson had been whacked soon after. Arriving at the door, they tried to push it back further but the frame jammed against the refrigerator lying on the floor inside. The two men slid through the gap in the door, moving into the apartment.

  Aside from the bodies, the place was still. Looking down at Markowski’s body at his feet, Knight shook his head. Knight’s real name was Sergeant Ben Denton, an eleven year man with Miami PD and Calvin’s oldest friend and police partner. Thirty three years old, he was one of the original ringleaders of their operation along with Calvin, Fowler and Markowski. During the course of his career he’d personally acquired over two million dollars in dirty cash and had beaten several charges of misconduct and one of sexual harassment.

  Denton had a special dislike for Vargas. He’d made a move on her once outside the locker room at the station, having had his eye on her for a while; she’d given him a black eye and almost broken his arm. He was the man who’d seen her on the television eight days ago when he’d got home from a grilling at the Department. Tonight, although he knew he could never go back to Miami, he was more than invested in killing her out of principle and revenge. He wasn’t leaving this building without making sure she was dead. After that, he’d stay with Calvin, laying low and getting over the border into Canada. Denton had screwed over a lot of people over the years, both police and criminal. If he went down, he knew he wouldn’t last a week in the joint, shacked up with a load of guys he’d busted.

  Failure tonight wasn’t an option.

  There was only one way this was going to end.

  He watched Bishop, aka Fowler, across the room rummaging through Patterson’s overalls, searching for what they were after. Pools of blood were starting to dry under both bodies, colleagues of theirs and close friends. Denton swore. Fowler looked up and knew what he was thinking.

  ‘Rather them than us, right,’ he said, as he frisked his way through the dead man’s fatigues.