[Sam Archer 08.0] Last Breath

by Tom Barber

  ‘I’ll wipe down here and get Peralta’s prints on my gun. I’ve led him all over town all night and am gonna set him up as working with the NSA team. We’re covered.’

  Ending the call, she looked down the sights of her pistol at Peralta, who was still struggling to breathe.

  ‘Lucky timing that Marcia Barrera was killed when we were on duty, wasn’t it, partner? I’ve been shepherding this thing all the time, trying to steer you all towards NSA. Hid the info on Ledger’s link at the bookstore. Even when Sorenson took over the investigation. Even when that kid stopped the shooting at the school; I thought it was just a crazy coincidence, but when I saw that Anonymous mask on his bedroom wall that gangly little shit had me worried there for a minute. He’d figured us out, but tried to be a hero. He didn’t have time to tell any of those other geeks. The tech showed us he hadn’t posted any recent messages or emailed anyone after he’d realised what was happening.’

  Wiping down her burner phone, she knelt down beside Peralta and wrapped his fingers around it before tucking it into his pocket. He writhed in pain, his lips moving, but the words wouldn’t come, a wheeze coming out instead, air filling his chest cavity from the open bullet wound. He’d been in such a hurry to get over here he hadn’t put his bulletproof vest back on.

  ‘For all anyone will know, you’re the one who was working with Veach and his team all night. They’ll be able to trace calls to that phone, no problem, but they weren’t recorded.’ She looked back at Burnett’s body. ‘He took care of that. But my job was to take care of him and Veach.’

  ‘You bitch,’ Angela suddenly said, unable to stop herself.

  Font looked at her, smiling. ‘You don’t have any idea what this is really about, do you? You never figured it out, even though your sister died for it.’

  Lifting her gun, she aimed it at Angela’s head.

  ‘You should have stayed away. We couldn’t find you. You might have survived this if you’d just moved on and not been so set on finding out why your sister died.’

  She grinned.

  ‘Then again, I should say thanks. People in your profession are about to make Rozio the biggest selling weapons company in the world. And the shares those men have given me are about to make me a multi-millionaire.’

  Behind her, Peralta coughed and she glanced back at him.

  ‘But it’s time to go. There’s one last thing that needs to be done. One final show. Somers stopped us earlier. That’s not going to happen again.’

  ‘Yes…it is,’ a voice said.

  Font swung round, but lying where he’d fallen, Ledger shot her twice, the FBI agent knocked backwards to the floor.

  As soon as she saw Font was no longer a threat, Angela ran over to the male FBI agent, whose wheezing was getting worse.

  ‘Hang on!’ she told him, looking over her shoulder at Ledger. ‘Both of you!’

  ‘Call…911,’ Ledger grunted, wincing in pain. Angela took the dead FBI agent’s phone out of the wounded man’s pocket and dialled the three digits.

  ‘I’m at 121 Dupont Circle, 3rd floor! We’ve got two wounded men here, one of whom is an FBI agent , the other a police officer, Harry Ledger. Yes, that’s what I said.’

  As Angela gave more details, Ledger looked at the dead female FBI agent, and shut his eyes, trying to think through the pain.

  ‘Don’t close your eyes!’ Angela told him, interrupting her explanations to the operator. ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘I’ll bet they…are,’ Ledger muttered, trying staunch the bleeding and think. ‘Veach…said…he didn’t use…his team.’

  Angela didn’t reply, focusing on Peralta. But Font’s words kept echoing in Ledger’s mind.

  It’s still a full house over there.

  Somers stopped us earlier.

  One final show.

  FIFTY ONE

  Jesse and the paramedic found him on the 3rd floor, his eyes lifeless, his hair, face and shoulders soaking wet. Calling it in over his radio, the paramedic ran forward, dropping to one knee and checking for a pulse as he rolled Archer onto his side.

  ‘Is he unconscious?’ Jesse asked desperately.

  Not wasting time responding, the paramedic began chest compressions, pushing down on Archer’s sternum.

  ‘How long ago did he come in here?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘I don’t know. Ten minutes?’

  The paramedic cursed under his breath, continuing the compressions. Watching, Jesse felt stress, sickness and sadness overwhelm him.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Jesse asked, his voice breaking. ‘He can’t be dead.’

  Suddenly there was the sound of running footsteps on the stairs and another EMT paramedic arrived. Immediately assessing the situation, he quickly moved behind Archer and taking his head in both hands, brought Archer’s jaw forward while arching his head back at the same time.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘Trying to open up the muscles of his throat,’ the first paramedic said, continuing the chest compressions.

  Then Archer convulsed.

  Coughing, he instinctively rolled to the side. ‘That’s it buddy,’ the paramedic said. ‘Breathe. Come back to the light.’

  Staying on his side, Archer retched then sucked in air, blinking as he looked around and saw the three people with him.

  ‘Breathe,’ the EMT said.

  ‘What happened?’ Archer managed to get out, gasping and coughing.

  ‘You drowned,’ Jesse said.

  Having to wait before he could reply, one of the medics attempted to put an oxygen mask over his face.

  ‘How did you…bring me back?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Just breathe.’

  ‘How?’ Archer insisted, finally letting the EMT get the mask over his face.

  ‘Your larynx tightened and sealed the air passage,’ the EMT explained, seeing Archer was going to persist and wanting to keep him calm. ‘It’s your body’s way of stopping water getting into your lungs. By stretching your head, I opened up your larynx and my partner restarted your heart.’

  Archer nodded and let the oxygen mask do its work, replenishing the oxygen in his blood.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ the second EMT asked.

  Not hearing the question, Archer glanced at Jesse, who was still staring at him, looking worried. ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘I saw you fall onto the roof. What happened?’

  Archer shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. How long was I gone?’

  ‘Had to be less than five minutes, otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to us,’ the paramedic replied. ‘You need to relax, man.’

  Looking across the floor, Archer saw an empty 7.62mm magazine lying on the concrete. He remembered using one similar in the assault rifle he’d fired in Anacostia, the last thing he remembered.

  What was that brand, he thought.

  Ro-something.

  Rozio.

  He remembered firing that gun and he remembered the drone. He recalled coming to see Sarah, but not much afterwards.

  Then as he lay there, everything that had happened earlier that evening started to crystallise.

  And he remembered something that had been swirling around at the back of his mind all night.

  Something that had been bothering him.

  ‘When we first met in Buena Vista…we escaped…through the back…door,’ Archer got out, looking at Jesse while taking deep breaths, his voice muffled through the mask.

  ‘Right. What does that matter?’ Jesse replied as the two EMTS looked at each other.

  ‘For guys this…proficient…why didn’t they…have that…covered? Why just…the front?’

  Jesse shrugged. ‘Perhaps they didn’t think about it.’

  ‘They were trying to steer us…that way. That’s…why. They wanted us…to escape.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Ledger isn’t…the only one they wanted involved…in this,’ he said to Jesse.

  ‘Who else?’ Jesse as
ked.

  ‘Me.’

  As Angela stayed close to Peralta at Veach’s office, doing what she could for him while trying not to stare at the dead bodies of Veach, his assistant and Font, Ledger peeled off his over-shirt, ripped off a double strip and tied it tightly over the wound to his thigh.

  Staggering to his feet, he gasped in pain from the fresh gunshot wound. His pistol had just three rounds left, so he limped over and took Peralta’s service weapon, a Glock 22, along with the keys that Angela had dropped when the shooting had started.

  ‘The cops will be here any minute!’ Angela said. ‘Where the hell are you going? You need medical attention!’

  ‘To…stop this,’ Ledger said, before limping towards the exit, trying to ignore the blood seeping through his makeshift bandage and the throbbing pain in his leg.

  ‘Stop what?’ she called after him.

  Turning, he told her, then pushed open the stairwell door, leaving a blood-stained print on it as he hit the stairs.

  Stunned by what he’d said, Angela sat for a moment longer, then did as Ledger had asked and scrambled for the phone to call it in.

  ‘You?’ Jesse said, the two paramedics looking at each other in confusion as they tried to make sense of the conversation. ‘Why would they want you involved?’

  Archer saw Nate’s body by the East River. Ledger the supposed perpetrator, and his own intention to come here and find him. The group of operatives hunting them all night.

  The weapons used.

  The false identities.

  The destruction.

  ‘They wanted this,’ he said, looking at the burning building as he got his breath back. ‘All of this. All this violence. They needed Ledger and me to give them a reason. They haven’t been trying to kill both of us; not at first. They’ve been using us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They murdered my partner’s son to provoke me. They framed my old room-mate in the NYPD. They knew I’d come looking for him. They let us escape in Buena Vista earlier. They wanted me to get involved so they had an excuse to attack us repeatedly. They knew on your own you stood much less of a chance to fight them off. They needed you to have some help and who better than a friend of yours who had a reputation for fighting back?’

  ‘Why would they do that? What’s the point?’

  Archer heard Angela’s voice in his mind. Weapons companies are going through a renaissance right now. The weekend after the primary school shooting in Connecticut a few years ago, gun purchases went through the roof.

  People were queueing out the door.

  Actually requesting the same model of rifle that the gunman used.

  ‘Shootings,’ he said, coughing. ‘Violence. These men…planning it with Rozio…weapons.’

  He paused as he took a few deep breaths.

  ‘And Anonymous trying to stop them.’

  As he spoke, everything fell into place.

  ‘Jeremy,’ he said, finally figuring it out. ‘Jeremy.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He didn’t carry a gun into school to kill the other kids in your class.’

  Archer looked at the dead boy’s closest friend.

  ‘He took it in to save them.’

  FIFTY TWO

  ‘Save them?’ Jesse said. ‘Our class was at risk from someone else? Who?’

  Pushing his damp hair out of his face, Archer tried to get to his feet but his legs were weak, his body still craving oxygen.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ one of the EMTs suddenly ordered, holding him down as his partner reached for his radio. They’d just realised who he was.

  ‘I have to go,’ Archer said, resisting but his body weakened from the drowning.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until the cops get here.’

  Suddenly they heard a click from behind them; the two medics turned to see the kid holding Archer’s Sig, aimed in their direction.

  ‘Leave the radio,’ Jesse ordered, the man’s hand dropping to his side as both men stared at the pistol moving between one and the other. Pulling his mask off, Archer pushed past the men and took the gun from Jesse.

  ‘You son of a bitch,’ one of them said. ‘After what we just did for you.’

  Looking around, Archer spotted some rope holding a tarpaulin over some wood against the far wall. Keeping the weapon on the pair, Archer retrieved it then bound the two men’s hands either side of an exposed pipe.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Archer said quickly. ‘I’m grateful, guys. But we haven’t got time to explain it to the cops.’

  Taking their radios and sliding them across the floor out of reach, Archer and Jesse moved for the stairs, but suddenly Archer’s legs gave out and he stumbled.

  ‘Wait!’ one of the medics called. ‘Listen. You’re still at risk,’

  ‘From what?’ Jesse asked.

  ‘Secondary drowning. Water fills pores in the lungs, which means your body can’t oxygenate your blood like it should. That’s why you feel weak. Your heartbeat could start to slow down.’

  ‘Then what?’ Archer asked.

  ‘You fall asleep and don’t ever wake up.’

  ‘Is that likely to happen to me?’

  ‘It might. Depends how long you were out. Let us go and we can help you!’

  Archer looked at him for a moment. Then using Jesse as a prop, he and the boy continued to move towards the stairs.

  ‘Jeremy never fit the profile of a mass murderer,’ Archer said quickly. ‘You said he wouldn’t harm a fly; he wasn’t depressed and didn’t want notoriety, anything like that.’

  Archer stopped as they reached the top of the stairs and looked at the teenager.

  ‘But what if he was forced to take action? What if he found out something was going to happen and felt he had to intervene because there wasn’t enough time to warn anyone?’

  He paused.

  ‘What if he realised kids at his school were in danger?’

  ‘From who? Another student?’

  ‘Who was the only person who got shot?’

  ‘The guard.’

  ‘Who was the only other person on site he knew had a weapon?’

  Jesse looked at Archer as realisation dawned.

  ‘The guard.’

  Reaching the midway point in the stairs between the highest floor and the street, Jesse stared at Archer.

  ‘You think Cummings was going to open fire first? On kids in the class? Why?’

  ‘I saw a picture of him on the news when we were in the van in Barry Farms. They showed his bio; he was a star football player who was destined for the big leagues, but ended up working at the same school he’d been a god at seven years earlier.’

  ‘So he decided to shoot up the school?’ Jesse said, incredulous. ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘Is it?’ Archer asked. ‘Or he was put up to it.’

  ‘By who? The guys chasing us all night?’

  ‘Had to be. They assumed he’d either shoot himself or be killed by ERT when they breached the doors. But against all the odds he survived, and then he realised that due to a twist of fate he was going to get that fame he’d always wanted. The hero guard, who saved the day. But he’d forgotten about whoever had encouraged him to light up the school. He was still alive and could talk. So he was killed by a rifle shot, breaking the frame on Harry.’

  He looked at Jesse as they continued slowly down the stairs.

  ‘Why do you think they’d go to all that trouble to set him up and then use the same MO to kill Cummings when it was obvious Ledger couldn’t have done it?’

  ‘Because they had to shut Cummings up,’ Jesse said.

  ‘Right,’ Archer said. ‘He was meant to die at that school, after blasting your entire class. But Cummings could ID at least one of them, so he was living under a death sentence.’

  ‘But how would Jeremy have found out?’

  ‘Anonymous. Their war on Rozio. He was a whizz with computers, right? After what happened to Tyron, he must have done some digging. S
omehow found out what Cummings was planning. But he must have found out too late to warn anyone. Last class of the last day of the school year, no time to call it in. He had to take action himself.’

  ‘Why the hell would they want Cummings to shoot up my school?’ Jesse asked. ‘What could the NSA get out of that?’

  ‘They aren’t NSA,’ Archer said. ‘I think they’re Rozio Weapons Systems.’

  Behind the wheel of one of the two cars heading towards Reagan Junior High, the man who’d been using Carl James Thorne’s identity for the past four days checked the time, while his passenger impersonating Deerman was picking at the transparent pad glued onto the end of his forefinger.

  ‘Not yet,’ Thorne ordered him in Spanish.

  He looked at the man’s nose, busted up from Archer’s elbow as they drowned him.

  ‘Plug that. Don’t want to leave any blood for forensics.’

  The man nodded, pulling a tissue from his pocket. Their real names were Emilio Alva and Rulon Sanchez, both ex-soldiers from Mexico’s Special Forces and now professional gun-runners.

  And they were two of the few remaining major shareholders in Rozio Weapons Systems.

  The pair and the other four guys in their group had been in the gun-running game for almost six years, operating in one of the most dangerous regions in the world, the northern part of Mexico, which was awash with drug cartel crime and the violence and intimidation that came with it.

  When they were still in the military, Alva’s unit, all members of the elite unit GAFE aka the Airmobile Special Forces Group, had been tasked with battling the cartels, enabling them to see first-hand how crime in the region worked, who the major players were and all the time, being paid jack shit for it. The United States had been keen for the Mexican Army to succeed and had even trained several elite units from GAFE, including Alva’s, at Fort Bragg, the courses designed to prepare them for counter-insurgency.

  But their time there had had an unexpected outcome; the men developing a hatred for the country that was training them. They saw the disparity in living standards, the enormous inequality in income between the two countries. Their sense of injustice was only increased during their time under training and a burning resentment grew against their host country and its wealth compared to where they’d come from.