by Tom Barber
Alone in the office building, Marquez arrived on 13. The layout was the same as the floor below, lots of dark cubicles and desks with computers and keypads, everything switched off. It was strangely quiet for a place so normally infused with noise and activity.
She wasn’t mad at Josh for leaving; neither of them had any idea if Archer was still alive. All the gunfire and explosions from the tenement block over the course of the evening seemed to have eroded his patience and frayed his nerves. She was very fond of Archer but knew Josh viewed him as family.
Suddenly she spotted something and walked forward to take a closer look, heading towards the north side of the building. As she moved closer, the hairs on the back of her neck rose.
A silenced rifle was laid on a table, pointed at an open window.
It had been abandoned, but she caught a hint of aftershave in the air.
Someone had just been here.
Reaching to her pocket, she grabbed her phone and started scrolling for Josh’s number, her Sig Sauer in her other hand.
But the pistol pushed into the back of her neck made her freeze.
Vargas crept down into the basement. There was a hum from the boilers, the air much warmer, the corridor wider to accommodate the machinery. Sweeping either side with her M4A1, she heard the beeping get increasingly louder the further she headed along the corridor.
She stepped forward quietly.
The beeping got even louder.
Up ahead, a large puddle of water had settled on the tiles, water dripping from an old leaky pipe running across the ceiling. The severed cords of the phone lines were dangling in the water, a death trap, beside a fire axe that had been dumped there. Just before the water, to her right, was a metal box with a glass panel that had equipment or wires inside. A maintenance map of the building was beside it, stuck to the wall. Just above the box was the intercom.
It was taped down, the light turned green.
Beside it was something else, beeping monotonously.
The digital receiver for a detonator.
She froze, then glanced up. C4 had been packed all around the joists above her head. She looked to her left and saw it had also been pushed into the corners of the ceiling.
Plastic explosive.
Enough to blow the entire building.
Her blood ran cold when she realised what was going to happen.
It was almost as cold as the steel of the gun that was pressed into the back of her neck.
FORTY FIVE
‘Drop the weapon,’ a familiar voice said.
She didn’t move, staring at the wall in front of her.
‘Drop it.’
She let it fall to the ground, still facing the receiver. She didn’t need to turn to recognise who was holding the weapon. His name was Denton, Calvin’s old partner, a Sergeant in SRT and a creep. He’d made a move once, and after she’d rejected him and kicked his ass that lust had been transformed into pure hostility.
Facing the wall, she sensed him lean in close.
‘I knew you’d come down eventually,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Inquisitive bitch.’
She felt his other hand touch her lower back.
It slid lower and she tensed.
‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking I might have some fun before I pull the trigger.’
She suddenly coughed, momentarily loosening the gun from the back of her neck as her head jerked down. She deflected his arm, twisted and kicked him as hard as she could in the groin, driving her shin upwards like she was taking a goal kick. He recoiled as he took the blow, dropping the gun and yelping in pain. She swung her M4A1 around but he recovered enough to grab it and wrench the weapon out of her hands, the assault rifle clattering to the floor as he slammed her up against the wall.
He had about eighty pounds on her and he knew what he was doing. He wrestled her to the ground, using his superior strength and size advantage, and started strangling her. She smashed the heel of her palm up into his nose desperately, which loosened his hands. Pinned under him, she frantically scrabbled for anything within reach that she could use as a weapon; she cut her hand on some glass from the smashed phone-line panel.
Ignoring the pain, she grabbed the shard and slashed it across his face. He immediately recoiled and released her, shouting in pain. She hit him again with the heel of her palm, this time breaking his nose, and managed to roll away as he rocked back, clutching his face. She scrambled to her feet and reached for the pistol on her hip. Wiping blood out of his eyes and lurching to his feet, Denton saw the puddle of water behind her with the ruptured cord from the severed phone lines hanging in it.
He lunged forward and kicked her back, the force knocking her into the water.
There was a whump. The force of the electric shock threw Vargas back against the wall. She dropped in a limp heap, collapsing to the ground just out of the puddle.
Denton spat blood out of his mouth and wiped it out of his eyes then reached for his M4A1.
Scooping up the rifle, he buried the stock in his shoulder, pulled the slide and aimed at her head.
Suddenly he was thrown forward as a burst of assault rifle fire hit him in the back, the muzzle flash lighting up the dark basement. Seeing the man fall, Archer ran down the corridor past him and dropped down by Vargas, who was lying motionless on the floor. He felt her neck for a pulse.
There was none.
Quickly laying the M4A1 to one side, he started CPR, constantly checking either side of him. Under his hands, Vargas jerked lifelessly with each push on her sternum, her body limp, her weapon dropped to the side.
‘C’mon, Vargas,’ he said.
He pushed harder, willing her to come back.
‘C’mon!’
He breathed into her mouth and continued the CPR.
Suddenly a figure appeared from the north stairwell, one of the original gang members who’d ambushed Foster and his team on the street. He had a gun in his hand.
Archer swept up his M4A1 fast and pulled the trigger. Click.
It was empty.
Dropping the rifle, he threw himself to one side as the other man fired, hitting the air where Archer’s head had just been. Archer had already pulled Carson’s USP from his belt and fired from his back, putting two rounds in the guy’s sternum a half inch apart.
Archer pushed himself back to Vargas as the dead man hit the ground, pressing with even more force, continuing the compressions rhythmically and firmly.
‘C’mon, Alice.’
He pushed but she wasn’t responding.
She was limp.
‘Stay with me.’
He pushed hard.
‘Let’s go, Vargas.’
Nothing.
He pushed.
Nothing.
He pushed.
Nothing.
‘Let’s go Vargas!’ he shouted, pushing even harder.
She suddenly took a huge breath, her eyes wide with panic, and started scrabbling, gasping, coughing and whimpering. Archer grabbed her and held her close, giving her time to recover and realise where she was.
Sucking in air, her chest heaving, she hugged him, looking over his shoulder at the darkly lit corridor, her eyes wide in panic, gripping onto him like they were floating out at sea and she couldn’t swim.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK. He’s gone. I’m here.’
She panted for breath, clutching him close.
Suddenly, another of the gang members appeared from the south stairwell. He had a pistol in his hands. Archer had his back to the man and didn’t see him. Still holding Archer, Vargas desperately whipped her Glock from the holster on her hip and fired a split-second before the gunman. She hit him in the leg then fired again and hit him in the chest. He collapsed to the floor and was still.
She tried to keep the Glock up but it fell from her fingers and she clung onto Archer with both arms, sucking in deep breaths, recovering from the electric shock. As she did so, he turned and checked over his shoulder. The guy
she’d shot was dead.
They sat there in the basement, her chest heaving, both of them bloodied, bruised and beaten up.
And above them, the detonator kept flashing, hooked up to the C4 that would demolish the building at any moment.
FORTY SIX
Downtown on West 30 Street, Shepherd car’s swept into the estate, Hendricks having just quickly shown the guard on the front gate his badge.
As they sped into the compound, the two Sergeants saw the rotors of an NYPD Agusta A119 helicopter already whirring at full speed; Hendricks had ordered it to be ready and waiting, the vessel flying over from the NYPD’s helicopter base in Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn.
Screeching to a halt, the two men stepped out, slammed the doors and moved around to the rear of the vehicle. It was a Counter Terrorism Bureau Ford, not Shepherd’s own car, so it contained the standard issue weapons and equipment stowed in the back. Shepherd ripped open the trunk and they both started pulling on bulletproof vests, locking them in place, NYPD printed on the front and back in thick white lettering. Pulling two Mossberg shotguns from stowed positions in racks inside, Hendricks grabbed a box of ammunition and passed one of the weapons to Shepherd, who slammed the door shut.
The two Sergeants ran across the tarmac towards the chopper, pulling open the door and climbing inside. Securing the door behind them, Shepherd grabbed a headset and pulled it on as Hendricks started loading his Mossberg, pushing shells into the breech. Up front, two pilots from the Aviation Unit were ready to go.
Both of them were looking over their shoulders, peering at the two Counter Terrorism Sergeants.
‘We going to the building?’ the lead pilot asked over the helicopter intercom.
‘Make it fast, Lieutenant,’ Shepherd said.
‘You sure that’s wise?’
‘We have people trapped inside. They’re running out of time.’
The pilot looked at him, well aware of the ESU chopper that had been dropped. Then he nodded. Loading his own shotgun, Shepherd watched the helipad shrink as they rose into the air above the rooftops, the lights of Manhattan suddenly appearing as they lifted higher and higher.
Hendricks racked the pump on his Mossberg and held a support grip, the vessel turning and heading uptown fast.
On the 20 floor of the West 135 tenement block, Calvin, Bishop and Braeten were almost at the roof. With his M4A1 in one hand, Calvin looked at the detonator in the other. When the solution had come to him downstairs, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered it sooner. With the pace of events, the gunfights and explosions, he’d completely forgotten about the C4 explosive, timer and control switch they’d brought in one of the black holdalls.
That was the answer.
Demolish the building.
The moment he explained the plan to the others, their eyes had lit up. They’d lost six of their guys tonight; by blowing the place, they could abandon Vargas and chopper out. The moment they were within safe distance, they’d detonate. It didn’t matter where she was, the whole building would be destroyed, reduced to a heap of dust and rubble. She’d go down with it and they’d be out of here, making their escape. Calvin smiled as he moved up the stairs, thinking of her hiding somewhere in the building, barricaded in with the asshole helping her and the kid, figuring if they just waited it out they’d be saved.
The three men arrived on 21, passing Gibbons’ body in the stairwell, lying in a pool of blood. Stepping over their dead colleague, Calvin and Fowler saw Taylor, aka Hearts, sprawled in the corridor where he’d been shot. The demolition would also take care of their bodies; CSU would probably find enough to ID at least one of the dead cops, but by then Calvin, Fowler and Denton would be out of the country.
Breathing hard, they raced to the stairwell that led to the roof, pushing open the door and running up the final set of stairs. When they arrived, the trio ran towards the heap of dead ESU officers in the centre of the roof. They grabbed them, dragging them out of the way to make space for their chopper which was already on its way. Denton had remained downstairs, fixing the explosives and insisting on lying in wait until the last minute in case Vargas appeared. He wanted to shoot her himself, not blow her up. Calvin knew Denton had something personal to settle with her, so he left him down there, telling him to not wait long and haul ass when he hit the stairs.
Calvin checked his watch; he’d better be on his way up by now. They sure as hell weren’t going to wait for him. Two of Braeten’s guys were still down there too, hunting for her. It still wasn’t too late for one of them to hitch a ride out of here with Calvin and his team. He couldn’t care less either way.
Checking his watch, he pushed down the pressel on his vest.
‘Knight, where the hell are you?’
He waited. Denton didn’t come back.
‘Ben, get your ass up here! We’re not waiting!’
He looked over at Braeten, who was dragging the last ESU officer out of the way by his heels, the body leaving a trail of blood on the concrete behind it.
‘Where the hell are your guys?’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ he shouted, well aware of the time. He dumped the body to the side then pulled his pistol out of the back of his waistband. ‘Let’s go!’
Running into the lobby, Archer pulled his cell and dialled Shepherd, following Vargas. They smashed into the north stairwell and climbing over the pile of dead bodies, started running up the flights. If it was just the two of them, they could break a 1 floor window and climb out.
However, they had Carson and Isabel ten floors up, both completely unaware of the sudden new level of danger they were in.
As he raced up the stairs, Archer felt faint and dizzy but willed his body to give him one last spike of adrenaline. The wound on his stomach burned but he ignored it. He could feel hot blood leaking into the waistband of his jeans. He’d never felt so tired, but he fought his way up the stairs, his lungs bursting, his thighs full of lactic acid. In front of him he saw Vargas was struggling too, still recovering from the aftermath of the electric shock.
4.
5.
6.
The phone was to his ear, still ringing.
Then Shepherd answered.
‘Archer! Talk to me!’ he shouted. The background noise on his side of the call was loud and intense.
‘They’re cops, sir!’
‘Say again?’
‘They’re all Miami PD!’ he said, sprinting up the stairwell behind Vargas, who was grimacing and struggling in the aftermath of the electric shock. ‘They’re planning to blow the building!’
‘Hendricks and I are on our way in a chopper. Get to the roof!’
FORTY SEVEN
The black unmarked helicopter that had brought Calvin and his response team to the building was approaching from the west. The pilot moved across the Hudson and headed towards West 135. Up ahead, he saw the smoking wreckage from the ESU chopper in Riverbank State Park by the water. Two fire trucks and some NYPD squad cars were surrounding it in a cluster. There were no other choppers around the building, which made him smile. It seemed what had happened to the ESU team had deterred any other pilots from risking taking a hit. It would make their escape a hell of a lot easier.
His eyes narrowed in satisfaction as he looked at the roof. All the bodies of the dead cops had been moved, which would give him room to land. He saw three men standing there waiting for him, all of them armed, Calvin, Fowler and some guy with blond dreadlocks. He must have earned himself a ride somehow.
‘I see you,’ he shouted into his radio. ‘Stand back!’
‘Hurry up!’
Suddenly, there was a loud clunk.
Clunk. Clunk.
Alarms started going off in the cabin, red emergency lights flashing. Fighting with the controls, the pilot wrestled with the stick, confused. Looking over his shoulder, he saw black smoke billowing from the side of the vessel.
Jet fuel was leaking down the side of the chopper, all the alarms in the cabin how
ling, gas spraying into the air from the ruptured fuel tank.
He fought with the stick as hard as he could but he couldn’t control it. The helicopter started to spin.
‘Shit! I’m hit!’
In the office building downtown from the tenement block, Marquez aimed through the scope of the Vintorez and hit the chopper’s fuel tank twice more, putting five bullets into a grouping the size of a cup and saucer, smashing a window of the office building as she fired.
Fuel was bleeding out and the chopper was starting to spiral, same as the ESU vessel earlier.
Beside her, the response team sniper was dead. She’d assumed she’d been done for when the gun was pushed into the back of her neck, the man holding the weapon ordering her to drop her own pistol. She’d closed her eyes, knowing she was about to die, when there’d had been a gunshot. She’d stayed still then slowly opened her eyes.
Turning to her left, she saw the sniper was dead. Josh was standing there, his pistol in his hand.
He’d changed his mind.
After making sure she was OK, they went to call it in. They tried Shepherd, but they couldn’t get through, the line engaged. Josh had been inspecting the dead sniper for any ID and Marquez examining the weapon when they’d suddenly seen a helicopter approaching from the other side of the Hudson. Both of them immediately identified it at the same vessel that had delivered the response team earlier, definitely not one of theirs. Marquez had dropped down behind the man’s rifle and aimed directly at the fuel tank.
Time for some payback.
Now she watched the vessel spinning, going down. Below, the fire team hosing down the smoking ESU chopper were already running for cover. The second chopper hit the ground twenty yards from the first and exploded on impact.
On the roof, the three remaining gunmen had swung round in her direction. They realised what had happened and immediately started firing at the windows of the building. Briefly ducking her head as some of them smashed around her and Josh, she took aim and fired, hitting one of the gunmen in the shoulder and punching him off his feet.