The Getaway (Sam Archer 2)

by Barber, Tom

  Waited.

  But it rang out.

  No one picked up.

  He tried twice more.

  C’mon Gerry, pick up.

  Pick up.

  Nothing.

  Shit.

  Archer looked at his reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breath and trying to think straight.

  Maybe it was a bad connection.

  Maybe Gerry was still in a meeting.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  He tried Gerrard again.

  But no one picked up.

  TWELVE

  Saturday night on 33rd Street was always busy, but fight night always gave those evenings an extra buzz. The Garden wasn’t called the Mecca of boxing for nothing. All the greats and world champions had fought there, from Ali to Frazier, Sugar Ray Leonard to Roy Jones Jr, Joe Calzaghe to Sugar Shane Mosley. The list went on and on. Las Vegas was the fight capital of the world, but tonight the sporting eyes of the world would be focused solely on a square 20x20 roped-off ring inside the Garden. As much a social occasion for the rich and famous as it was a sporting event for others, from the moment the opening bell rang till the moment the winner got his hand raised, Madison Square Garden was the place to be in the city tonight.

  The streets outside were busy. Spectators and those lucky enough to have tickets made their way inside, excited, looking forward to the evening, whilst scalpers worked those wandering around on the hunt for last-minute tickets, desperate to get inside and watch the fight. Amongst the fight crowd was the usual mix of people out on a Saturday night, headed both ways down 33rd and 8th Avenue. People making their way to bars with friends. Couples headed to an AMC cinema complex, just the other side of 8th on 33rd. Or simply those just walking past, headed somewhere else, but adding to the constant thoroughfare of activity.

  Inside a police car parked on 33rd, facing east and dressed in an NYPD officer’s uniform, Archer checked the clock on the dashboard and wondered what the hell he was doing here.

  9:47 pm. The fight would start in thirteen minutes.

  Which meant that Farrell, Ortiz and Regan had just gone inside.

  He scanned the streets, looking for any sign of extra law enforcement. There were cops behind and to his right, near the stadium. Archer counted eight scattered outside, not including the security that would be stationed at the gates and turnstiles inside, which meant twenty five others were somewhere else in the area. Although he was parked on the kerb next to the stadium, none of the cops on the street approached the car, and rightly so. It was giving no cause for suspicion. He had pulled up less than a minute ago, and had left the engine running, like he was waiting for his partner or had just stopped momentarily on the kerb. The car had been stolen earlier in the day, the plates changed, and Farrell had left it in a parking lot in Queens for Archer to pick up, with a uniform concealed inside.

  To his left, traffic moved past, headed down 33rd towards 7th, Broadway, 6th and the Empire State Building. He peered through the front windshield and looked at its tall, unmistakeable outline up ahead on the left. There were some LED lights set up on the upper levels, illuminating them with three different colours, and tonight it was red, white and blue. Patriotic and proud. Speaking of which, he peered through the windshield, looking for any possible FBI agents lurking, tooled up, ready to pounce. People wearing earpieces, or hanging around near the vicinity of the car.

  No one he saw gave him suspicion.

  Hopefully they were all inside, ready and waiting for the three thieves.

  Nevertheless, Archer felt extremely uneasy.

  He couldn’t back out now.

  He’d been trying Gerrard all night on the cell phone but he still wasn’t picking up. Archer had spent the last twenty four hours high up in his hotel room deciding whether to go through with this, his phone in one hand, the 9mm Sig in the other. He’d been up most of the night thinking about it. Anyone thinking clearly and sensibly would jump ship in a heartbeat.

  But he’d decided yes.

  Farrell knew who killed his father.

  Archer needed to stay close to him to find out who did it.

  And he owed it to Gerry to take down the thieves. They’d come too far. He couldn’t pull the rug from under him now.

  If he’s even still alive.

  Looking down the street ahead, he took a deep breath and reasoned with himself.

  It’s fine. Gerry’s just being debriefed. He can’t have his phone on because he’s in meetings all day. He’ll be in touch soon.

  If Gerry had managed to brief his team, Archer realised that the agent who’d flipped might expose him or herself. He could kill two birds with one stone, and take the agent down as well as Farrell and his team. If he hadn’t managed to brief them, Archer would get the three thieves and the cash out of here then take matters into his own hands. Somehow get the drop and subdue the three of them, then call the FBI or NYPD straight away, returning every stolen dollar.

  So, against all his instincts telling him to bail and against his instincts as a cop, he decided to go through with it.

  Stay cool, stay in control.

  If he played his hand correctly, he could bring down the whole team in one night, and get Farrell to tell him who the rat was.

  He checked the clock again. 9:48 pm.

  They would be inside the concessions stores now, the door closed, subduing the guys inside and packing up the cash.

  Archer hadn’t driven here with the other three. They’d all arrived separately to avoid any NYPD suspicion, legitimate officers wondering who the hell these four strangers in uniform were. He glanced either side of the car again, but he still couldn’t see any sign of an FBI ambush. When to approach the thieves was possibly a logistical problem. On this job, none of the robbers had shotguns or heavy weaponry on them, but each had a pistol and bad intentions to go with it. He checked the time again and realised the trio might never even make it back from the stash room. An FBI team would be waiting in there with shotguns and assault rifles to make sure they didn’t, surprising them and trapping them down there.

  But just as the thought came into his mind, the trunk to the car was suddenly pulled open.

  He turned and saw two cops standing there, each carrying a large black holdall swung over the shoulder.

  It was Ortiz and Regan.

  They dumped them inside and pushed down the trunk quickly, shutting it, then turned and headed back towards the stadium for the second portion of the haul.

  Shit.

  So far so good.

  No intervention.

  He started planning ahead, working out a strategy to take the crew down himself and return the stolen cash. But now might be when they get snatched, his mind reasoned. Maybe Gerry’s team already had Farrell in handcuffs and were waiting for Bonnie and Clyde to return. They were greedy. He guessed there was close to a million dollars already in the trunk. A fortune for anyone, a career heist for most thieves. Now they were just toying with fate, riding their success, figuring they could cheat the security and the odds again and again.

  He checked the clock.

  9:49 pm.

  Shit.

  This was bad.

  All of a sudden, the front passenger door opened.

  Archer turned, expecting to see Farrell.

  But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Regan or Ortiz.

  It wasn’t Gerrard.

  It was a dark-haired woman.

  He instantly recognised her.

  He’d seen her a week ago at his father’s funeral. She had been staring at him the other side of the coffin.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

  She pulled the door shut, and jammed something into his ribs quickly. He looked down and saw a Sig Sauer P226 pistol, FBI issue, same as his father’s, fourteen rounds in the magazine, one in the pipe.

  ‘Drive,’ she ordered, glancing over her shoulder.

  He looked at her.

  Didn’t move.

  ‘Drive man
!’ she ordered, pulling back the hammer on the weapon with her thumb. One twitch of her trigger finger and Archer would die. ‘I don’t want to kill you but if I have to, I will.’

  He looked over at the kerb and the entrance to the stadium. He couldn’t see Regan or Ortiz.

  And there was no sign of the FBI.

  The woman jammed the gun higher and harder into his ribs.

  ‘Drive!’ she ordered for a third time.

  Shit.

  He had no choice.

  Cursing, he put his foot down and the police car sped off down the street.

  They moved fast down 33rd, headed east, Archer’s mind racing as he saw the stadium shrinking in the rear-view mirror. This wasn’t part of the plan.

  ‘You’re messing with the wrong people, lady,’ he told her, feeling the barrel of the gun digging into his side. ‘Do yourself a favour and let yourself out. Walk away.’

  ‘Shut up. And drive faster,’ she said, checking behind them.

  ‘This isn’t what you think it is.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Archer sped on. He pulled a left at Greeley Square and burned up Sixth Avenue. He hit a run of green lights and they moved fast, past Bryant Park. There was some kind of movie screening going on in the Park. He saw a large crowd gathered on the grass, the New York Public Library behind them, a large movie screen set up in front of them.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Just keep driving,’ the woman said, turning and looking behind them, checking to see if they were being followed. She seemed edgy, but the pistol was strong and firm, digging into his side. The police car barely slowed as they raced on uptown.

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  She paused.

  ‘Upper East Side.’

  Archer obliged and turned a sudden right on 45th, speeding down to 3rd Avenue. After he got there, he turned left and moved on, headed uptown. They drove on in silence, catching another series of green lights. They were moving fast, but being in a cop car no one they passed reacted. The woman kept looking behind them anxiously, the gun jammed into Archer’s ribs, her manner tense and edgy. Behind the wheel, Archer was thinking fast.

  After five minutes of silence and a journey that took them further and further uptown, they passed 90th Street.

  91st.

  ‘Turn here,’ the woman said, the gun now held to Archer’s neck. ‘Here!’

  Archer complied and turned right down 92nd.

  It was a residential street, but there were a series of empty spaces on the kerb. He figured she had some kind of safe house here, or there would be a switch car parked on the street. She’d either pull the trigger and leave him in the car, pieces of his neck and brain all over the interior, or she’d keep him as a hostage and take him with her. He felt the pistol in the woman’s grip soften slightly, no longer pressed as hard against his neck. She thought she was home free.

  He made his move.

  He suddenly put his foot down all the way, and the car leapt forward.

  Then he slammed down on the brake pedal as hard as he could.

  The woman wasn’t expecting it and she wasn’t wearing a seat-belt. It threw her forward, her pistol momentarily jarred free from his neck. In a flash, he let go of the wheel and grabbed her arm with his left hand, pushing and holding it to one side. With his right, he pulled his father’s Sig from the holster on his cop uniform, jamming it into her neck, right under her chin. He gripped her right arm tightly with his left hand, the limb fully extended, her pistol now aimed uselessly at the windshield.

  Archer’s Sig was now pushed under her neck, his hand and stronger grip clamped on her left arm, holding her in place.

  The tables had turned.

  With her head tilted to one side from the pistol, she looked over at him, scared.

  ‘My turn,’ he said. ‘Now let’s have a talk.’

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘My names Katic. Mina Katic. I’m a Special Agent. I work for the FBI,’ she said fast, trying to shift her position. He tightened his grip on her left arm and kept the Sig nestled in her neck.

  ‘Bullshit. You’re after the cash. Do FBI agents hold up getaway drivers?’

  ‘You’re not a getaway driver. You’re an English cop.’

  Pause.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I was at your father’s funeral. You saw me, remember? I was standing across from you. I knew who you were before then. I’d checked up on you. Found you on the UK Met system. I’ve been tailing you ever since.’

  ‘Are you Farrell’s inside man?’

  Her head tilted away, he saw her frown, then her eyes widen.

  ‘What? No? Did he tell you he had one?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Listen to me. Please. I need your help.’

  ‘With what?’

  She tried to shift, but he kept her where she was.

  ‘With what?’ he repeated.

  ‘I know there’s a leak in our team. You just confirmed it.’

  ‘And it’s not you?’

  She shook her head slightly, as much as the Sig would allow. ‘I swear. I got the jump on you because I had to get you out of there. You’re being played.’

  ‘By who?’

  Pause.

  ‘By Gerrard, I think.’

  Archer looked at her for a moment, incredulous.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What complete bullshit. I’ve known Gerry almost my whole life. He’s clean as a choirboy.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He’s flipped. He’s working with the bank team. He had a deal worked out with Farrell and his crew, but Farrell won’t co-operate with him anymore. Gerrard’s trying to find out where they’re keeping their money and take it for himself. He’s using you to get to the cash.’

  ‘Bullshit. He’s straight as an arrow.’

  Pause. He tightened his grip on her arm.

  ‘Anyway, you’re the one holding me up. Maybe you’re the leak in the detail,’ he said.

  ‘Does anyone know you are working with him?’

  Archer went to respond.

  But he didn’t.

  ‘Has he ever taken you to Federal Plaza?’ she asked.

  Archer didn’t reply.

  ‘Does anyone else in the detail apart from me know who you are?’

  Pause.

  ‘Yes. He briefed your team. He told you all what the deal was.’

  She shook her head. ‘No he didn’t. We weren’t even on duty tonight.’

  Pause.

  But despite the heat, Archer’s blood started going cold.

  ‘Show me your I.D,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  He eased back slightly as she reached down to her hip with her left hand and pulled it slowly, flipping it open for him to see. He glanced at it. It looked legit.

  ‘I’m trying to help you, I promise,’ she said, her head pushed back from the Sig in her neck. ‘Can you put the gun down? It’s hard to talk like this.’

  He thought for a moment, weighing her up.

  ‘Drop yours first.’

  She complied straight away. The other Sig clattered onto the dashboard and slid down, dropping into the front passenger foot-space.

  And he let her go.

  She panted in the seat, rubbing her neck, leaning back.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ she said, looking at the gun in his hand, which was still aimed at her stomach. ‘Right now I’m one of only two people in the entire United States who know that you’re on our side. If you kill me, you really are screwed.’

  Suddenly, headlights lit them up from behind. Both of them jerked around.

  But it wasn’t a threat. Just someone trying to get past. Archer pulled into a parking slot to his left and let the car pass. Katic stayed where she was, making no attempt to reach for her pistol, rubbing her neck and arm instead. On
the kerb in an empty slot, Archer switched off the engine and took a deep breath. He glanced over at the woman. She looked far too troubled for this to be a play. She wasn’t messing him around.

  ‘Right,’ he said, the pistol still in his hand. ‘Please tell me what the hell is going on.’

  ‘We’re a six man team. Used to be twelve, but eighteen months ago, finally, our clearance rate improved,’ Katic said. ‘We were six -and-six, six FBI, six NYPD. The cops pulled their guys from the squad, sending them elsewhere. Claimed the clearance was so high that their work was done, that we could handle it and their resources would be better used elsewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, I know all this. Gerrard explained this to me. You felt like they ditched you.’

  ‘Exactly. Since they left, the number of heists have risen. But that means we’re the ones taking all the flak for it. The cops have their own bank robbery detectives, but they handle note-jobs and liquor-store stick-ups, petty stuff like that. The big heists get sent our way, with just six of us asked to handle every single one in the five boroughs.’

  They were momentarily lit up as another car passed them down the street, but neither reacted. Archer listened closely as Katic explained.

  ‘I was with the old team. One of the originals. Once we’d got that heist level down to just 26 in a calendar year, our old boss figured his work was done too. No better note to retire on. He packed his bags and headed back to Virginia for his retirement. Two of the others were promoted and transferred back to D.C. So there were three of us from the old team. Myself, O’Hara and Lock. And last summer, three new agents were brought in. Siletti, Parker-‘

  ‘And Gerry.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. And we couldn’t have asked for three more different guys.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘First of all, Gerrard was bitter as hell when he arrived. We all noticed it straight away. There were a lot of rumours circulating, but word on the grapevine was he got demoted from his old position at Quantico.’

  ‘What did he do?