One Way (Sam Archer 5)

by Tom Barber

  He sensed someone approach and turned. Josh walked over to his desk, joining him, holding a foam cup of tea. He was dressed in the same outfit as Shepherd, his pistol and badge on his hip.

  ‘Morning sir.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Everything alright?’

  ‘Yeah. I guess. All things considered.’

  Josh saw the paper on the desk. He tapped it. ‘Did you see page 4?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I did.’

  With the case against Mike Lombardi and his crew ironclad, one of his men had come forward two days before trial and said he’d testify against the others in exchange for a reduced sentence in a secure facility out of the State. Called Luca, he’d taken to the stand with two black eyes and a broken nose. Rumour had it an NYPD Sergeant and close friend of Shepherd’s had been responsible, but there was no proof. Luca was so desperate to escape serious time, he let it go. Shepherd had watched from the back of the court and listened as Luca gave his testimony.

  Apparently, Lombardi had been looking for a chance to make his move for a while. It had needed meticulous planning, no witnesses, no-one left alive to talk. The East Hampton gathering had been the perfect opportunity. As family, Mike had been invited to the party but had politely declined, setting up an alibi and secretly arranging with three of his most trusted men, with the promise of significant financial reward and roles in his new organisation, to take out the entire group. He’d already sounded these guys out about a potential takeover; all of them were on board.

  It was time for the old guard to move on.

  The job couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Gino’s villa was pretty secluded, located beside the beach. They’d come in from the water and walked right into the house, Gino and the family pleasantly surprised to see them. Each man was carrying a gift, parcels wrapped under their arms.

  They’d walked in and then opened fire.

  Hosing the entire group had taken just over a minute. The first ten had gone down before they even knew what was happening; Mike had fired through the package and dropped five of them himself. They were armed with silenced sub-machine guns packed with ammunition from weapons they’d lifted from some of Devaney’s muscle, and they annihilated the entire family. They’d found two more upstairs, both women who were unarmed, one of them with a phone in her hand about to dial 911. They’d been taken care of, killed where they stood. When it was done, the men checked they hadn’t left anything incriminating or anyone alive. Satisfied, they’d taken to their boat and left.

  Their alibis in place, the murder weapons dismantled and dropped in the sea, Mike had been at home that night when he got the expected knock on the door. A blue and white had taken him to the local Precinct and he’d used all his acting skills, feigning horror and anguish at the atrocity. There was only one group of suspects he was told, and they were bringing them in. Casings had already been found with prints from the Devaney crew; if they could prove the hits were ordered, they could send down Frankie Devaney himself. Four weeks later, seemingly recovering from his grief, Mike started to assert control over the family operation. Too soon, and the cops would smell a rat. Too late, someone else would take his shot. Everything was in place; everything had been accounted for.

  Save one thing.

  The girl.

  Luca said Mike had attended the funerals for his family; they’d had two joint services, nineteen caskets eventually going into the ground, all of them different sizes for the men, women and children killed that afternoon. However, Mike’s hit list had included twenty names; standing there in his suit at the second of the two funerals, the priest talking, he suddenly realised there was a coffin missing and started to panic.

  Who did we miss?

  Mike had been quick to realise who it was: his seven year old half-sister, Isabel, the youngest member of the family, the apple of her father’s eye who’d been an unplanned surprise to them all when Gino’s wife had announced she was pregnant again at the age of forty three. Isabel’s coffin wasn’t there. He’d checked with his guys if they remembered capping her off, but none of them could. She probably wasn’t at the villa, he told himself. She was at a friend’s place. The police have her in protective custody in case the Devaneys try to finish the job. His suspicions were confirmed two weeks ago when he caught a news bulletin of the girl being ushered towards a car in DC; she was alive. He didn’t order any moves on her though; they’d wasted everyone at the villa and checked every room. She didn’t see anything.

  How wrong they were.

  Shepherd chuckled, remembering Mike and his crew’s face when the child was brought in as a witness. The Court had to provide a box for her to stand on so the jury could see her as she gave her testimony which she gave clearly, her high pitched little voice condemning them to a life inside. Four weeks on from the building siege, the child was recovering but still had a long path ahead of her. She’d seen more violence in the past few weeks or so than most people experienced in their entire lives. Nevertheless, with Vargas sitting near Shepherd and smiling at her reassuringly, the girl had told the courtroom what she’d seen that day and had unhesitatingly identified her brother and his crew as the shooters.

  Game, set, match.

  It was one of the worst acts of violence committed in living memory by a New York crime family. Although he had nothing to do with what happened at the building on West 135, Mike Lombardi and his team, save for Luca, received several life sentences each on nineteen counts of murder. The story on page 4 was to do with them; apparently, there had been some kind of incident at Riker’s yesterday involving four new inmates during yard time. An investigation was underway, but no murder weapons had been found and apparently no-one had seen who jumped them. Mike Lombardi and his team were out of the picture for good. Street justice, if ever such a thing was appropriate. Here, it definitely was. You reap what you sow.

  Shepherd and Josh stood there in silence, the building around them at work but not busy, the weekend shift putting in their time. Looking at the paper, the same person came to mind, someone who should have been standing there beside them.

  Shepherd rose. ‘C’mon. We’ve got work to do. Franklin’s got a new op for us. And I’ve finally found a replacement for Jorgensen.’

  ‘Really?’ Josh said, intrigued.

  ‘You, me and Marquez will lay out the audit first upstairs. They’ll meet us all in the city later and you can make introductions.’

  He rose, patting Josh on the shoulder as he passed. Josh looked down at the newspaper’s headline for a few moments. Then he turned and followed Shepherd up a metal flight of stairs leading to some Conference Rooms used for briefings on the floor above.

  Marquez was already in there, waiting for them with Rach, an analyst. She nodded to the two men as they both took a seat. Shepherd was damn proud of her; it turned out she’d had a hunch that the response team had a sharpshooter. Josh had joined her but lost patience and left her to it, thinking she was imagining things. However, she’d found a rifle soon after he left, just before she had a gun pulled on her from behind. The sniper was about to shoot, but Josh had returned just before he pulled the trigger and dropped him. Apparently on his way out Josh had noticed something leaking out from a store closet in the stairwell. Pulling open the door, he’d found the dead body of the guard from the front desk inside. She was right. There was a sniper there.

  Marquez had used the dead man’s rifle to put down the enemy chopper as it came in from the Hudson. If she hadn’t, the building would have been detonated. Once again, his team had outdone themselves. And he had a feeling their new fifth member would fit right in.

  ‘Morning Rach,’ Shepherd said, settling into his chair.

  ‘Morning sir.’

  ‘So what do you have for us?’

  ‘Checkmate.’

  Vargas examined the chess board in front of her. Her opponent was right; she’d lost all her pieces and the King was done. Across the small circular table in Bryant Park 42 Street, Isabe
l reached over and knocked it over.

  ‘You win,’ Vargas said, smiling ruefully. She’d allowed it to happen, but managed to look suitably crestfallen.

  Across the table, Isabel grinned back. She went to respond but something caught her attention over Vargas’ shoulder. Vargas turned and saw another small girl waving at them. She was with what had to be her parents on the lawn, the adults taking a seat and enjoying the sun.

  ‘Do you know her?’ she asked Isabel.

  She nodded keenly. ‘Can I say hi?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  Isabel was already off her seat, running over and hugging her friend. Moments later, the two girls were doing cartwheels and handstands on the lawn, getting rid of some of their seemingly limitless energy. Vargas leaned back in her chair and watched.

  Now they were approaching the end of April, the good weather was here to stay and the city looked spectacular. She still had a small bandage over her eyebrow and was walking with a limp from the shrapnel wound to her thigh, but other than that she was in pretty good shape, the other bumps, cuts and bruises all but healed. She’d had some minor heart palpitations as a result of the electric shock she’d sustained, but the doctor told her those would settle and pass with time. However, psychologically she felt much better. She now knew for a fact that everyone involved in the corruption in the Miami PD Special Response Team was either dead or in jail. For the first time since she could remember, she wasn’t undercover or looking over her shoulder, worrying if the guys she busted had found her.

  Surviving the ordeal on the street and inside the building had earned her a hell of a lot of respect in the Marshals service as well as in the Miami-Dade Police Department, especially considering she’d not only kept her witness alive but had also taken down the four gang members and the ten-man response team with Archer’s help. Isabel had made the stand and buried her brother and his crew. They were all going away for several life sentences. Mike Lombardi had been picked up on Monday morning having been found handcuffed to a chair inside an NYPD safe-house in Midtown. He was shouting and hollering that a dark-haired cop had put a gun to his balls and assaulted some of his people at their bar in Tribeca. He’d kept up the complaints all the way to the stand, but no-one took any notice and Isabel’s testimony finished him. As it turned out, he had more than a few enemies inside. Reports had come through that he and his four friends hadn’t made it past their second night; Gino Lombardi’s influence had reached out from beyond the grave and for some men, you didn’t need to share the same blood to be considered family.

  The funeral services for the fallen ESU team had all taken place. Funerals for Carson, Foster, Barlow and Helen had also taken place around two weeks ago. She’d missed Barlow’s for obvious reasons. The body count from that Sunday night had been high. A number had been killed in the explosion on the 8 floor apartment when the mob had come hunting but few people mourned them. After long debriefing and extensive statements from all parties, the DOJ had officially let it be known how impressed they were with Vargas’s performance in keeping the child and herself alive.

  However, she’d made it very clear how it hadn’t all been down to her. Not by a long way.

  As she cast her mind back to that evening, she remembered the conversation she’d had with Archer, before they ventured downstairs and realised the building was about to be blown up. She’d seen the look in his eyes; he knew he was going to die. He’d stayed with her and brought her back from when Denton had electrocuted her. No-one had ever made those kinds of commitments to her. Ever. She felt emotion rising in her throat, but swallowed it back down, blinking as she thought of him.

  Glancing to her left, she saw someone approaching, moving through the people wandering around the Square. He was a young guy, early twenties, and was walking directly towards her. She’d seen him before, in a photograph.

  She rose and they shook hands. He had his mother’s eyes.

  ‘You made it,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ Pause. ‘I’m Peter.’

  ‘Alice.’

  He took a seat beside her. Together, the two of them watched Isabel in silence; she was having a good time, playing with her friend. Since that evening she’d been up and down, suffering from bad nightmares and delayed stress. A psychiatrist had warned things could get worse. However, he’d also offered some hope; although children were easily scared, they didn’t know the way the world worked yet. They were able to recover from trauma surprisingly well, given the right nurturing and care. Time would tell.

  ‘That’s the girl?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  There was a pause filled by background noise from the Park and neighbourhood.

  ‘They told me a piece of shrapnel killed her,’ Peter said.

  Vargas nodded. ‘That’s right. From a grenade explosion.’

  Someone nearby heard this and looked up from their paper. Vargas caught his eye and smiled; the man returned his attention to the New York Post.

  ‘Must have been quick,’ Peter said.

  ‘Yes it was. She saved all of us. When we first took cover in there, she didn’t hesitate or tell us to leave. She let us in right away. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here. Neither would Isabel.’

  Pause.

  ‘I heard her talking when we were trapped up there. She was talking about you. How much she missed you and regretted what had happened.’

  The young man blinked and swallowed.

  ‘But we’re alive because of what she did.’

  Pause.

  ‘Have you spoken to your father?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘Maybe give him a call.’

  A pause. Their conversation was never destined to be a long one; she could see the young man struggling with emotion but holding it together. He was tough, just like his mother. He stood up and turned to her.

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you,’ he said, offering his hand.

  Vargas shook it. ‘You too.’

  He walked away and she watched him go.

  As he moved down the path, headed out of the Park, he passed another man who was coming the other way.

  Vargas’ breath caught when she saw him.

  Apart from a butterfly stitch over his eyebrow and some nicks and cuts on his arms, he looked normal. She watched him walking over; he was wearing a white t-shirt. As he moved, a gust of wind pushed the fabric against his stomach and she caught the outline of the bandage strapped to his lower torso, across the jagged wound which was healing nicely.

  A pair of kids raced past him, almost knocking him over, but he swerved just in time and took a seat beside her. He looked over at her and smiled.

  ‘Hey Vargas.’

  ‘Hey Archer. You made it.’

  ‘Of course. I love this place.’ He glanced at the table beside them. ‘Let’s skip the chess, though.’

  She smiled. ‘Agreed.’

  He’d passed out on the roof from blood loss and exhaustion. An NYPD helicopter had arrived on the roof shortly after he’d fallen unconscious. Two men ran over, one of them saying his name was Shepherd and that he was Archer’s sergeant. They’d carried Archer onto the helicopter, watched anxiously by Vargas and Isabel, who’d climbed in after them. With the girl safely on her lap, Vargas had watched the building shrink as they moved away, the bodies of Calvin and the other two splayed out on the roof. Archer had regained consciousness in hospital the next day, an IV in his arm, his wounds cleaned and bandaged. Apparently they’d got him there just in time. He’d been discharged two days later and had been taking it easy since, letting his body heal up.

  Vargas had met his NYPD partner Josh at the hospital, who told her Archer’s physical state after police operations was becoming a bit of a running theme. Apparently he’d been off for three months since Christmas and had been due back in the field the day after the incident at the building. Josh had taken to calling him Lazarus, but amongst the jokes and ribbing she’d seen how relieved he was that his friend was OK.
That son of a bitch never gives up, Josh had told her the night Archer had been admitted and was unconscious, both of them sitting by his bedside. After everything that had happened, she could certainly agree with that.

  The two of them watched Isabel doing cartwheels, sunbathers and people on office lunch breaks sitting around the pair of girls as they played on the grass. A kid having fun, far from danger and bloodshed. No-one watching would have any idea who she really was and what she’d been through. That was the way it should be.

  ‘So she’s all yours now?’ Archer said.

  Vargas nodded.

  ‘No surviving family. No other guardians. It was me or the foster home. Something else I’m new at. Guess we’ll both have to figure it out.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. You’ve already done more for her than anyone else in her life ever has.’

  Silence fell as they watched her play. Vargas turned to him.

  ‘So what now for you?’

  He looked back at her. ‘At least my cough’s gone.’

  The way he said it made her laugh.

  ‘I just got a text from Shepherd. He wants me in tonight. Apparently an op just came in. Some kind of security audit for Cinco de Mayo. Finally back on field duty.’

  ‘The building didn’t count?’

  ‘That was just a warm up. I needed a bit of practice.’

  She smiled. ‘I meant what now for you. Right now.’

  Pause. He smiled and glanced at his Casio. ‘I’ve got a few hours to kill. I guess I could hang out here for a while.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ She motioned at Isabel. ‘I think she would too.’

  ‘I’ll go grab us a drink. I never did finish my Sprite just before I first met you.’