by Barber, Tom
He opened his eyes and looked at all the greenery around him, the sun lighting up the place. Siletti and O’Hara knew that they didn’t just have the winning hand, but the entire deck, and there was only one man standing in their way. Once they took care of him, they’d get on that helicopter and fly away forever.
The perfect getaway.
Archer looked up and saw the sunlight filter through the brown trees and green leaves.
And he started to formulate a plan.
He sat there for another hour, working everything out in his mind, every possible scenario or outcome. He was still dressed as a cop, the hat over his head, so no one passing by in the Park would recognise him. At one point, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and deliberated whether to call Cobb or not. He decided against it. Even if he could help, Archer only had three hours. Cobb was across the Atlantic Ocean. He couldn’t do anything or get here in that time. And Archer had dragged Sanderson into this mess and it had got him taped up with a gun to his head. He was going to handle the rest of this himself. This was his problem and he was going to fix it.
He rose and started walking through the Park, headed north to the Upper East Side. The walk took him about twenty minutes. He exited the Park and crossed 1st Avenue and went straight to the parked police car on 92nd, pulling the keys from his pocket, unlocking it and climbed inside. In the front seat, he pulled off the police hat and started unbuttoning his shirt, and changed back into his clothes quickly, getting out of the cop uniform. He pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, trainers and grabbed the navy blue overcoat. He checked the chamber on the Sig, then clicked on the safety catch and tucked it into his coat. He went to climb out to get the money from the back, but something made him stop.
There was something stowed between the two front seats.
A gun.
He reached over and pulled it from its home and held it in his hands.
It was an Ithaca 37, pump-action 12 gauge shotgun, the same weapon that Farrell and his team liked to use. In a compartment under the radio, Archer found ammunition for the weapon, twenty shells inside a small cardboard box.
And he had an idea.
Across the city in an FBI safe-house, Siletti checked the watch on his left wrist.
5:51 pm.
Not long to go.
He looked across the dark room at his three hostages. He’d duct taped and gagged all three of them and left them lying on the floor. O’Hara had blindfolded the kid, but neither Sanderson or Katic were wearing one and the two of them glared up at Siletti, a mixture of rage and fear in their eyes. Katic’s hair had fallen over her face, hanging in strands over the grey-strip of duct-tape pulled across her mouth, and she was looking at him like she wanted to kill him. Sanderson had been a pain in the ass earlier, trying to fight them when they marched him downstairs to the Marriott parking lot, so Siletti had punched him three times in the face, breaking his nose. Join the club, he thought as he saw the FBI Assistant Director sat against the wall, his eyes blazing with fury, blood staining the skin under his nose and the strip of grey duct-tape across his own mouth.
They were in an old storage place, a safe-house that only he and a select few other members of the FBI knew about. It was dusty and smelt of sawdust but it was quiet. No one was going to come in here. But just as the thought crossed his mind, a noise came from behind him, and he turned, pistol in hand. But it was only O’Hara. He was returning from a trip to get some food, two burgers and fries from McDonalds. They needed to fuel up before the evening’s events. He walked over without saying a word and dumped the bag on an empty chair, passing Siletti a wrapped up burger. He pulled back the plastic and took a bite, watching the three hostages.
The three of them would have to die. There was no question. All three had seen his and O’Hara’s faces. Katic and the kid weren’t a problem. He’d do them both, cut them up, then dump them in the sea, the pieces weighed down with bricks in individual bags. He’d do it down in Atlantic City, far away from here. No one would ever discover the bodies. Sanderson was the only problem. He was an Assistant Director, which meant there was going to be a shitload of attention on what would happen if he disappeared. He also didn’t know how he had got down here and become involved. He figured the Bureau had sent him, but he had come from the hotel where the Slavic bitch and the English asshole were staying and that was too coincidental for his liking. He needed to find out who had set them up together. He’d go to work on Sanderson later, and get him to tell him who.
But he had something else to attend to first. He took a bite on his burger and turned, looking over at O’Hara. He was standing behind him, eating and looking down at the three captives, Katic in particular.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told Katic, who was glaring up at him. ‘I blindfolded the kid for you. I can take it off.’
Siletti took another bite, then rose. He signalled O’Hara to follow him, and he headed over to the bathroom, out of earshot. The other man followed him and they both stood inside the stall, the door open, the two hostages watching them, the girl blindfolded.
‘What?’ O’Hara asked him, inside the bathroom.
‘I planned ahead,’ Siletti told him. ‘I brought us weapons and body armour for taking on Farrell.’
O’Hara’s eyes widened.
‘You did. Where is it?’
‘I hid it behind those tiles,’ he said, pointing behind O’Hara at the wall. ‘Check it out.’
O’Hara turned. He reached over across the bathtub, reaching for the tiles.
In the same moment, Siletti’s silenced HK USP pistol appeared in his right hand.
He aimed the gun at the back of O’Hara’s head and pulled the trigger.
The weapon gave a thud, like someone had stamped once hard on the floor. Blood, brains and skull sprayed into the air and spattered all over the wall, and O’Hara collapsed with a thump over the bath. There was no shower curtain to shield Siletti from the gore, so he ended up wearing some of his former partner’s brains and blood on his face and shirt. Siletti walked back into the main room, not bothering to wipe himself down. Katic and Sanderson were staring at him, their eyes wide with horror. The girl was blindfolded, but she was shaking like the temperature was below freezing in here.
With blood and bits of brain all over his shirt and face, Siletti took a seat.
He grinned at them, taking another bite of the burger, and checked his watch.
Across the city, in a dark brick room below the Astoria Sports Complex, Farrell, Ortiz and Regan stood together, making final adjustments. They were all wearing the black reinforced body armour, black boots on their feet and the usual three layers of latex gloves on their hands. The stolen car they’d use was parked in a garage connected by doorway to the building, so they wouldn’t have to go out on the street.
For this final job, they’d need a quicker rate of fire than the shotguns would offer. This time, none of them gave a shit about ballistics. They’d be out of the country before anyone could make a match to the weapons they used. Each of them lifted an M16 203 assault rifle from the desktop at the same time, slamming a full 32 round magazine into each base and pulling the slide, loading the three weapons. Each M16 was modified and also had a grenade launcher attached to the front, under the main barrel, and there was a grenade already loaded inside, four more in special sewn-in compartments on their black uniforms. They each checked the safety on the weapons, then laid them back down on the table, turning to look at each other.
‘Final check,’ Farrell said. The three of them looked each other over, checking everything was in place, no gaps in their armour.
‘Good,’ Ortiz said.
‘Good,’ Regan said.
Farrell nodded. He took one last look at the room, where every job they had ever pulled had been planned. The last time he’d ever be inside this room.
This was it.
Showtime.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
His two companions nodded.
‘OK. Let’s do this,’ he said.
TWENTY-TWO
The Billie Jean King Tennis Center was located in Flushing Meadows Corona Park, a 1200 acre area on the east side of Queens towards Long Island. Renowned as being one of the largest tennis venues in the world, the Billie Jean King was also the proud location for the U.S Open tennis tournament every year, one of the major highlights in the sport’s annual calendar. The tournament was two weeks long, and the stands, even for preliminary matches, were always packed so the concessions stands, ATMs and businesses inside made an absolute killing in that fortnight. The main court, the Arthur Ashe, had the largest capacity for any tennis stadium in the world, 23,200 seats, and with other courts in the Center with many thousands of seats, every single person who sat in one was another potential customer.
Sunday was the end of the first week of the tournament, where most of the lower-seeded players had already been eliminated in the opening rounds and both the Men’s and Women’s draws were down to only eight players each. Unlike Wimbledon and the French Open at Roland Garros, the U.S. Open played matches at night, sometimes into the early hours the next morning if there was a prolonged fifth set. That early September Sunday evening, there was a big match on Arthur Ashe taking place, as two of the top male seeds fought for a place in the semi-finals. The match was being broadcast around the world, and the stadium itself was packed to capacity.
Sunday was also the day that the first week’s cash load would be escorted out of the Tennis Center and taken north up the I-495 to a secure location in Long Island. Door to door, the journey would take around eighty minutes, and was usually a two man job.
But considering the wealth of the cargo in the back of the truck that evening, tonight the security was double loaded.
As the clock ticked to 7:01 pm, the last of the haul was being secured inside, the crowd inside the Arthur Ashe behind them cheered as a dramatic point ended. The cash was locked and secured in individual bags and bullet-proof cases, stowed in secure shelves inside the truck. As three stadium officials finished loading the money, four other men in black combat fatigues and boots stood on the tarmac behind the truck.
They were all tough, grim-faced men, military trained, and were heavily armed to say the least. Each man was equipped with an AR 15 assault rifle, a 9mm Berretta pistol on his hip and five spare magazines for each weapon in slots on their tactical gear. The weaponry was all authorised by the United States Federal Reserve, necessary back-up given the value of the cargo in their possession. They’d be in the truck, protected by over two dozen tons of steel, but with ports either side so the men could fire out if they got ambushed or attacked. Unlike most armoured truck personnel who were retired cops, these guys were in their thirties and pulled straight from the military. If someone was stupid enough to try and engage them when they were out there on the road, it would be the last mistake they ever made.
The security officials finished loading up the last of the cash into the truck as the four men stood there, watchful and alert. Once all the money was inside and secure, they climbed into the truck and pulled the heavy door closed behind them, sealing it shut and taking seats inside. A fifth man, the driver, walked around the side of the truck and climbed into the front seat, locking his door shut and then bolting it. They were all inside now. Secure. The driver fired the engine, strapping on his seatbelt. He gave a thumbs up to the three stadium officials to his left, and released the handbrake, setting off east through the 1200 acre park towards the eastern exit.
Eighty minutes, door-to-door, and counting.
As the driver headed down New York Avenue, through the Tennis Center and past the fans and spectators on the sidewalks either side of him, he used the time and slow movement to get a feel for the vehicle. He’d been with the armoured courier company for six years, but this was his first time driving this particular journey and his first time with so much wealth in the back. Despite its weight, the truck wasn’t a hard vehicle to manoeuvre. He kept his eyes on the road, and tried not to think about how much cash was in the back.
He pulled out of the Center, turning left, and then after twenty seconds or so, he turned right. They were now moving down Perimeter Road, the long winding lane which ran all around the Park. They’d pass both a mini-golf and golf course on their right, then the swimming pool and Aquatics Center, then finally follow the road east then turn another right and head south on the Van Wyck Expressway, where they could transfer to the I-495 highway and get on their way to Long Island.
The truck moved on down the road. The place was pretty quiet. There was the occasional person walking in the park, and a couple of groups sitting enjoying a picnic, but most of the activity in the area was back inside the Tennis Center, the action taking place on the courts. They passed the golf course on the right. The driver glanced over at it, and accidentally let the vehicle drift to the edge of the road. It dropped off suddenly, but he quickly re-corrected and pulled back onto the tarmac.
‘What the hell was that?’ called a voice from the back.
‘Nothing,’ the driver said.
Looking over, he realised there was a little ditch each side of the road. Nothing to worry about for someone driving a normal car, but a nightmare for something this big and heavy. If he drove too close to the edge, they could slip off the side and topple to one side like a turtle on its shell. Focusing on the road instead, he drove over a small bridge and the road started to curl to the right, towards the exit.
He glanced to his left and saw a black car parked on the grass with a couple of people sitting inside.
Suddenly, a third person stepped out from behind the car, also in all black, wearing what looked like a balaclava or a black helmet.
He saw the figure drop to one knee and lift something to their shoulder.
Aiming it directly at the truck.
And he realised what it was a second too late.
The person in black recoiled as the rocket-launcher whooshed. In a split-second, the driver saw something zoom towards him.
Then there was a deafening explosion.
And the world tipped over.
Ortiz hit the truck first time. She was using a Stinger, and it hit the side of the vehicle perfectly. The rocket didn’t penetrate the steel, as they knew it wouldn’t, but the force of the blast smashed the truck over onto its side. It fell over with a giant crash and groan under a large fireball from the explosion, and came to a shuddering halt on the grass, on its side. They knew there were four guys inside.
And now their gun ports were all but useless.
She dropped the rocket launcher to the ground immediately and grabbed her M16 203 that was resting on the grass beside her. Whilst she did this, the car containing Farrell and Regan raced forward, coming to a halt by the upended truck. Across the grass, people on the grass and bystanders in the area started screaming and ran for cover as they reacted to the explosion and realised what was happening.
As Farrell ground to a halt on the grass by the truck, Regan leapt out of the car. He had five long lengths of plastic explosive strips in his hands, the kind used for demolitions, the M16 slung over his shoulder. Laying the strips on the grass, he waited as Ortiz ran forward, as fast as her body armour would allow. He had his back to the rear of the truck, and she didn’t slow as she approached him, putting her boot on his hands and jumping as he hoisted her up onto the truck with a grunt from the extra weight of her armour. He reached down and passed her up the demo strips one-by-one, and she laid them in a hexagon on the side of the truck, carefully avoiding the gun ports.
That done, she jumped down and ran for cover behind the black car, joining Farrell and Regan who were already there.
The three of them crouched behind the car, covering their ears.
Farrell had a detonator in his hand.
He pushed it.
There was a loud crack, and a groan as the metal fractured from the shock of the explosion. Whoever was inside would have been incapacitated, like someone
had tossed a flash-bang grenade inside. Ortiz and Regan ran forward. He hoisted her up again, then used the wheel to clamber up himself, whilst Ortiz stamped on the damaged metal side of the vehicle. It fell away after the fourth stamp, and she dropped down inside. The four guards were sprawled on the floor, their ears bleeding, rolling around in pain and agony, their assault rifles forgotten. Ortiz passed the AR 15’S up one-by-one quickly, and Regan tossed them to the grass. She plasti-cuffed the four men, and none of them put up a fight, all four disorientated and in pain.
Outside on the grass, Farrell passed four black holdalls up to Regan. He took them and dropped them down to Ortiz, who started loading the money from the shelves into them. The explosion had softened up any cages or cases that were locked up, and any that were still intact needed just a hard kick to open them.
Outside on the grass, through the visor of his bulletproof helmet, Farrell checked his watch.
‘Thirty seconds,’ he shouted.
Ortiz was just finishing zipping up the third bag. She passed them up to Regan, who tossed them to the grass, Farrell loading them into the car. Ortiz packed up the fourth bag, pushing it up to Regan, who tossed it onto the grass then reached down, pulling her up. Ortiz dropped down to the grass, but on top of the truck Regan looked ahead on Perimeter Road.