by Tom Barber
How he’d come to that office to protect her and saved Ally at the school by remaining behind to find her despite the danger and then jumping into the pool.
Moving forward into the study, she checked Jack hadn’t followed her, then pulled a book from its particular place, one no-one else knew about. Opening up, she looked at the assortment of news clippings, from The Times to most recently, The Washington Post, all linked to cases her contact at Metro had told her involved her brother.
British police foil terrorist attacks in London.
Viral threat secured by NYPD.
Hero cop and US Marshal survive Harlem building siege.
Turning the page, she stuck the new clipping on a blank page.
Former manhunt suspect Harry Ledger and an unnamed NYPD detective prevent mass attack on D.C. high school.
Flicking back to the front, she looked at a photo of them both from when they were teenagers, before her accident, the only one in this house of them both together, standing side by side.
‘Stay safe,’ she said quietly. ‘Please.’
Then closing the book, she put it back before returning to the patio, Ally and Maia spraying each other with the water guns and giggling as they ran around the small garden.
Now the Harry Ledger case had been resolved, the Amtrak police HQ inside Union Station was quieter than it had been a few days ago, but two things hadn’t changed. The air conditioning was still busted and it was the same sergeant on duty.
Archer was in front of him again, one of the same two officers beside him; the guy had just intercepted him as he’d been standing in line for his train. Archer looked the worse for wear; he had a black eye, a baseball cap pulled low over his head, and was wearing a white t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. His name and details hadn’t been released to the press so most people outside of D.C. law enforcement had no idea what his true involvement had been in the Ledger case or at Reagan; however, the sergeant appeared to be in the know.
‘Remember what I said?’ the sergeant said. ‘Keep a low profile? Stay out of trouble?’
‘Rings a bell.’
‘You call that keeping a low profile?’
‘I was just in town to see my sister. Things got a bit out of hand.’
‘No shit.’
Archer checked his watch. ‘My train leaves in fifteen minutes. Why am I here?’
‘We found these on the train,’ the sergeant said, handing over two plastic bags, Maia’s original presents wrapped inside. ‘They’re yours, right?’
Archer took them. ‘I could have used these earlier.’
‘Give them to her next year.’
‘Not sure I’ll get an invitation.’ He took the presents. ‘But thank you, anyway.’
‘My neighbours’ kids go to Reagan,’ the sergeant said. ‘Thank you.’
Archer smiled but didn’t reply. The sergeant looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and turned back to his computer.
Taking that as a dismissal, Archer stepped back from the desk and left.
Moving through the station, he joined the line for the New York train again. He couldn’t remember large portions of what had happened five days ago but had been filled in by various people. Apparently his larynx had spasmed again and closed from secondary drowning just before he got to the surface, but Ally had managed to float him into the shallow end, the Rozio rifle he’d been carrying jammed across the steps.
It was only his head tilting back over his rifle that had opened the muscles again. If that hadn’t have happened, he wouldn’t be here now; ironically, Rozio had ended up saving his life. His memories were vague; he remembered being under the water, but the next thing he recalled was being in an ambulance, an oxygen mask over his face.
But no handcuffs on his wrists. That had been a positive.
When the medics had given the go ahead, he’d undergone intensive debriefing followed by seemingly endless paperwork, all of which had taken the best part of the week. Despite the fact Archer and the others had broken a number of laws in the hours they were out there on the street, their misdemeanours had paled in comparison to what Los Peleteros had been doing around the city that night, plus it was recognised their actions were understandable once all the facts were known. Thanks to Archer, Ledger, Angela and Jesse, the plan had been foiled, but it presented some very real warnings for the future. They’d won this round and defeated the Peleteros, but there were more out there who’d be figuring out how they could exploit the tensions simmering under the surface here. Sadly, but almost inevitably, those weren’t going anywhere for a while.
Archer had remained in hospital under observation, but had finally been released and then cleared by the FBI after signing more non-disclosure agreements than he could count. Jack had shown up at the hospital, clearly trying to keep his cool while visiting his brother-in-law, but Archer knew he’d damaged their trust; he’d drawn them into danger which had almost cost them their lives; it was going to take time for Jack and Sarah to forgive him for that.
His ticket was scanned and he walked down the platform, boarding the train and putting his bag on the rack above his head.
Taking a seat, he leaned back, closing his eyes. He was keen to get back to New York, but not looking forward to what he knew awaited him there. Vargas was livid that he’d lied to her, that he’d come here without telling her his real plans and technically died twice. His body hurt like hell and his vacation was already over, but his team needed him back on duty. He’d be there tomorrow, even if he’d used up a couple more of the nine lives he seemed to have been blessed with.
He just hoped that he was done fighting for a bit.
He heard a whistle from the platform, and a few moments later, the train started to move out, heading home. Glancing to his right across the aisle, Archer starting thinking about what he was going to say to Vargas when he suddenly made eye contact with someone he immediately recognised, a large man with a splint over his nose.
It was the NFL player he’d dealt with on his way to D.C. ten days ago, the guy whose name had been emblazoned on the back of Jesse’s jersey.
By the look on his face, despite the fact the guy was pretty drunk the last time he’d seen him, he’d recognised him too.
He stared at Archer for a long moment then started to rise out of his seat.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Archer muttered.
THE END
###
About the author:
Born in Sydney, Australia and raised in England and Brunei, Tom Barber has always had a passion for writing and story-telling. It took him to Nottingham University, England, where he graduated in 2009 with a 2:1 BA Hons in English Studies. Post-graduation, Tom followed this by moving to New York City and completing the 2 Year Meisner Acting training programme at The William Esper Studio, furthering his love of acting and screen-writing.
Upon his return to the UK in late 2011, Tom set to work on his debut novel, Nine Lives, which has since become a five-star rated Amazon UK Kindle hit. The following books in the series, The Getaway, Blackout, Silent Night, One Way, Return Fire, Green Light, Last Breath and Jump Seat have been equally successful, garnering five-star reviews in the US and the UK, France, Australia and Canada.
Last Breath is the eighth novel in the Sam Archer series.
For info on all new releases
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Read an extract from
Jump Seat
By
Tom Barber
The heart-stopping ninth Sam Archer thriller.
Now available on Amazon Kindle.
*****
PROLOGUE
‘Oh shit, not again,’ the woman said, holding onto a rail as the yacht suddenly rolled hard to one side. The bubbling mixture inside one of the saucepans in front of her came dangerously close to spilling, despite being only a third full. It’s got to be cooked by now, she thought, and killed the heat under the pan
along with three others sitting on the stove-top. Two of them contained more of the chicken mixture, which she’d had to split out due to the movement of the yacht. The other saucepan had been used to prepare rice and that wasn’t going anywhere.
A blonde Scandinavian man wearing a thick coat suddenly arrived below deck and sniffed the air. ‘What’s on the menu, Cath?’
‘Thai Green curry.’
‘Smells delicious,’ he said, going to a refrigerator in the small galley. He withdrew two six packs of Tuborg beer. ‘It’s happy hour up top.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ she said.
‘Wear your coat. It’s a little chilly.’
‘Will do,’ she replied, pouring the contents of two of the saucepans into a heavy pressure cooker. She clicked the lid in place, then secured it with a pan clamp. The six members of the crew had a dinner rota, and tonight it was her turn. Last week she hadn’t accounted for the sudden movements a yacht could make and most of the contents of the saucepan had ended up on the deck at her feet.
Dinner fixed, she paused for a moment and swallowed as she felt a brief wave of queasiness pass over her. She took deep breaths through her nose and out through her mouth, the nausea passing, then instinctively ran her hand through her short hair.
It was starting to grow back stronger now after the chemotherapy. She couldn’t wait to have a full head of hair again. No more wigs.
A second chance at life.
Sailing across the Atlantic had been a goal she’d set herself when her chemo treatment had started to get nasty and this trip became something she and her husband Barry had promised themselves they would do once she finished the course. A goal; something to cling to during those long hours in the hospital.
However, available spots on trans-Atlantic yachts were hard to come by. She and Barry had sent out several applications, explaining their situation and why it was so important for them to make the journey, but either heard nothing back or were politely rejected. Just when they were convinced it wasn’t going to happen, a Dane called Jon Dahl Lyman had replied, saying that provided Cath had recovered sufficiently and she and her husband both undertook some necessary training, he and his crew would be happy to have them on board.
Delighted to have been provisionally accepted, Cath and Barry had both undertaken the training, finishing with a get-to-know-you weekend in Copenhagen with the two couples they’d be sailing with, and they’d reunited in Gran Canaria just over a week ago before setting sail for the Caribbean. The journey was scheduled to take approximately 22-25 days but once they arrived, the adventure continued; Cath and Barry were planning to jump on a flight to Miami, where they were going to rent a car and spend the next three weeks driving up the American East Coast, another thing on her bucket list.
So far, the journey across the Atlantic had been the most challenging but most exhilarating week of her life. She and Barry, Jon Dahl, his wife Lena, and Andreas and his wife Freja took it in turns to cover watches on deck, which consisted of three hour shifts up top followed by six hours of rest. The duty pair would trim the sails, check the radar, fix any minor problems and more often than not, let the autopilot do its thing.
The weather had proved to be as temperamental and unpredictable as Barry’s ex-wife but Cath had loved every second of the trip, relishing how alive it made her feel, the spray of the salt water stinging her eyes, the lashing rain dampening her hair, the bright sunshine on her face during brighter days. The stars and Milky Way at night were as beautiful as the phosphorescent plankton in their wake but her favourite part of the voyage had been when a pod of dolphins had appeared three days ago, keeping pace with them and jumping through their bow wave.
She heard singing coming from above her and smiled as she pulled on a woollen hat and looked around for her coat.
As she reached for the garment, her eyes were drawn towards the rifle stowed in a rack, a box of bullets in a drawer beside it.
For all its excitement, this trip wasn’t without risk. According to Jon Dahl there’d been multiple reports of trouble in the Atlantic lately. Random attacks on shipping and private yachts, the raiders taking crew members hostage and stealing cargo. Jon Dahl said they were causing the maritime authorities hell. He’d even considered cancelling the trip at one point because of what had been happening but his wife Lena had talked him out of it.
Her confidence had been vindicated and so far, there hadn’t been any sign of rogue ships, which had been a great relief to Cathy. She didn’t want anything to spoil the way she felt right now. In all her thirty four years, sunsets had never looked so good. Rum had never tasted so good. The meals cooked with varying degrees of skill followed by fruit, Nutella and cans of Fanta tasted better to her than fine dining at a top London restaurant. Life was special.
She pulled on her coat and deck shoes, then went up the steps to join the others. They’d already opened their cans of beer with Andreas leading the singing, some kind of Danish folk song. Cath greeted her husband with a kiss, tasting saltwater and Tuborg on his mouth, then took the cold beer he passed her.
‘Are we eating dinner off the deck again tonight?’ he joked, taking a punch to the arm for his comment.
As Jon Dahl started trying to teach Barry the words to the song, Cath cracked her beer and looked at the horizon, relieved to see nothing but the dark sea melding with the sky. She was more tired than she’d liked to have admitted, the legacy of the chemo and lingering ravages of the illness, and sat on one of the benches set into the side of the yacht, not wanting her husband to pick up on her sudden shakiness.
Nevertheless, she saw Barry glance at her with a flash of concern. She smiled reassuringly at him and took a sip of her beer.
‘Any reports from other vessels?’ she asked Andreas, who’d been on the most recent watch.
He shook his head. ‘I spoke with another crew ahead of us. They’ve had no sightings either. I think the trouble is currently located further north.’
‘Good. For us, anyway.’
As he joined the others in the singing, she lifted her beer can to her lips again and looked up at the darkening sky.
But she didn’t swallow.
Jon Dahl was the first to notice her stillness and stopped singing.
He turned to see what she was staring at.
The others did the same and the singing ended.
Cath rose from her seat.
‘What is that?’ she whispered.
Way above them, a strange light was moving through the sky.
A fireball.
‘Is it a comet?’ Barry asked.
The burning shape continued on its path for another ten seconds or so.
Then it suddenly split and started to fall towards the water in two halves.
‘No,’ Cath said quietly. ‘I think that’s a plane.’
ONE
Three days later, on a cold Monday afternoon in early November, the cabin of the Boeing 747 shook slightly as it hit some turbulence and NYPD Detective Sam Archer felt his stomach lurch, keeping one hand on the armrest beside him.
He was sitting towards the back of the plane in a two-seat row, no-one next to him, and was keeping a close watch on the cabin. Wearing jeans, Timberland boots and a grey sweater, Archer was an eye-catching guy, described by someone recently as a mix between the Hollywood actors Paul Walker and Liam Hemsworth. Blond haired with piercing blue eyes, he was thirty years old next month, which wasn’t as remarkable to him as was the fact that it would mark twelve years since he’d first started his police training back in London. Some time ago he’d been in a bar in the East Village when he’d seen a quote from the famous novelist CS Lewis painted on one of the crossbeams and the words had stuck with him.
Day to day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different.
This is certainly different, he thought to himself, looking around the cabin. The flight this afternoon wasn’t full, with several empty seats dotted around the cabin. Archer wasn’t a nervous
flier by any means but today he was slightly on edge and with good reason after the loss of two planes last week, the most recent over the Atlantic this Friday past.
However, it was becoming clear that other passengers were dealing with the nerves in different ways. A few rows ahead a guy who’d clearly been hitting the in-flight hospitality a bit too hard was serenading his fellow passengers.
‘I’ve got sunshinnnne!’ he warbled, slurring his words. ‘On a cloudddyyy dayyy.’
Archer leaned out from his seat and looked up the aisle at the man, who was sitting in the row opposite a few seats ahead. He was a big guy and thick-set; potentially a problem. Archer saw a female member of the cabin crew move down towards the noisy passenger. She was petite and he must have outweighed her by over a hundred pounds.
In a close-quarter environment with alcohol involved and not wanting to lose face, Archer knew how quickly tempers could escalate.
‘Sir, could you please maybe stop the singing until we land?’ the woman asked politely.
‘No. Get me another drink.’
‘Other passengers are being disturbed by the noise you’re making.’
‘Tough. I paid enough for this seat. I can do whatever the hell I like.’
Archer’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t move, leaning back and keeping an eye on the exchange as the flight attendant continued to try and persuade the passenger to quieten down. Archer had started his career as a cop in the London Met, but had then applied and been accepted into one of the more elite divisions, a newly-formed team in London called the Armed Response Unit. He’d joined the ARU in his mid-twenties and after a successful two years, had transferred across the Atlantic to the NYPD.