The Getaway (Sam Archer 2)

by Barber, Tom

  ‘Oh shit!’

  An NYPD squad car, the lights flashing, was bearing down on them, having pulled in fast from the east entrance.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Regan lifted his M16 and fired, the weapon tight in his shoulder. The fire-rate was set to automatic and he emptied the magazine into the front of the car. The bullets shredded through the windshield, stitching the two cops in the front seats and killing them instantly, blood spattering all over the windshield, the glass and headlights smashing from the hail of bullets, the car slewing to a halt forty yards away. The harsh sounds of machine gun fire echoed around the park, breaking the silence.

  As Regan reloaded his empty clip, Farrell stowed the last bag in the car. Regan dropped down from the truck and ran over to the getaway car, pulling open the door. Just then, another NYPD squad car appeared, moving fast, pulling off the road onto the grass to move around the first car.

  Still on the grass, Ortiz raised her M16. She emptied the mag into the front of the police car, then moved to the second attached weapon on the front of the M16 under the stock, the 203 grenade launcher. She aimed and pulled the trigger and the grenade landed smack on the windshield. It exploded on impact and the shockwave reacted with the petrol in the fuel tank, exploding into a fireball and erupting with a force that made her look away and shield herself.

  She ran over to the car, jumping into the front seat, Farrell behind the wheel, Regan in the back, the money in the trunk.

  ‘GO! GO!’ Ortiz shouted, pushing the catch on the M16 to let the old magazine drop and smacking a fresh one inside, doing the same with the grenade launcher. Farrell put his foot down and the car sped forward. He moved off the road and onto the grass. Any witnesses and onlookers were already out of the way, screaming and running for cover, so the path was clear.

  ‘Woo!’ Regan said, pumped up and excited from the back seat. ‘Home stretch, baby!’

  Farrell sped along the grass, the Industry Pond approaching on their right. They needed to get out of the Park and head north on the Van Wyck, straight to the turn off for the abandoned Flushing Airport and their last ride out of here.

  But suddenly, five more cars roared into view from the entrance, blocking their path.

  Four NYPD squad cars and a black truck.

  Farrell looked closer and swore.

  There were three letters printed in white on the side of the black vehicle, three letters that alone meant nothing but together spelt a shitload of problems.

  ESU.

  Things just got a hell of a lot harder. They hadn’t been expecting this. The NYPD standard-issue Beretta and Ithaca shotgun wouldn’t get through their Aramid and steel plate body armour, but ESU was the NYPD’s SWAT team. The officers inside the truck would be armed with sub-machine guns and assault rifles that stood a far greater chance of getting through their armour. Farrell shouted with frustration, and braked hard, grabbing his weapon and climbing out. The other two joined him, and together, all the frustrations and anger of the failed Garden heist reappeared.

  And together, the trio opened fire.

  The police cars and the ESU truck had pulled to a halt. They were forced to, as the three thieves just unleashed a lethal hail of bullets. The officers ducked for cover and rolled out the far doors, shielding themselves from the barrage of bullets, as the sound of automatic gunfire echoed around the Park.

  Ortiz was fired up and angry. She walked forward, firing down on one of the squad cars. Two of the cops started firing back with their pistols and she drilled them both, emptying her magazine and shredding their car. Behind the other four cars, the other officers started leaning over the vehicle and firing down on her. They managed to hit her a few times, but each round pinged off her armour and helmet. She realised they were aiming for her legs. The North Hollywood duo had screwed up by not protecting their ankles and feet. Farrell’s team had learnt from that and the three of them were covered in Aramid and plating all the way down to their boots.

  Regan was shooting at the other cars, whilst Farrell was pinning down the ESU team. He emptied his mag, then fired three grenades one-by-one, firing and reloading. The task force were forced to huddle behind the truck, taking cover, as the grenades exploded against the front of the truck. The ferocity of the assault had taken them all by surprise. As Ortiz took over and fired down on all of them, Farrell rushed back to the car and climbed in.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he shouted to Ortiz and Regan, who were still firing down at the ESU truck.

  Ortiz gave them another grenade and moved back as she fired, then ducked into the car, pulling her door shut as Farrell sped to the left around the cop car and the two dead officers blocking their way. As Ortiz reloaded, Regan took over, keeping up continuous fire. The five vehicles had been shredded, most of the cops behind them injured, but Ortiz suddenly pulled three grenades tucked into the doorframe beside her, passing one to Regan whilst holding the other two herself. They were flash-bangs, not explosives, designed to stun and incapacitate.

  Farrell saw what she was planning and slowed. She pulled the pins on both, the same time as Regan did on his. She passed them to Farrell, who threw the grenades rapidly out of the window towards the cop cars, one after the other, as Regan did the same. The three of them leant to the side, covering their ears and shutting their eyes as bullets pinged off the car.

  The three bangs was muffled, considering they had covered up, and after three seconds, the three of them were back in action. Farrell pushed his foot down and the car sped off. As they drove away, Ortiz saw cops and members of the ESU team in black gear either grounded, writhing on the floor, or staggering, blinded and stunned. She had reloaded her M16 and fired as they sped forward, killing three of them as they stumbled around, trying to recover their senses.

  Farrell roared through the gate and out onto the Van Wyck expressway, the I-678.

  ‘C’mon!’ he shouted, ecstatic. ‘Everyone OK?’

  Beside and behind him, Ortiz and Regan nodded, reloading their weapons. Their car was riddled with bullet holes, the windshields smashed, but the highway was pretty quiet as they sped up the expressway. The turn off to Flushing Airport was just a couple of miles away. Farrell pushed his foot down as hard as he could, and glanced at a watch on his wrist.

  7:23 pm.

  In seven minutes, they were out of here.

  Archer was in a car too, burning his way down the Grand Central Parkway, headed towards the airport. He had unloaded all the cash from the cop car then locked up and headed back to the Marriott Hotel after making a quick stop at a store on the way. He had gone up to the hotel room, pulling his Sig and dumping the bags in the corridor and eased the key into the lock. He burst inside, his pistol aimed, but no one was inside. They were all gone. He grabbed Katic’s car keys from the side, then left immediately with the bags and headed to the basement and the car park.

  Traffic had been typically unpredictable and bad, and he’d been held up, delayed on his way to the airport. He checked the time and swore. 7:24 pm. He needed to be there in six minutes or the three hostages would die.

  Suddenly, he heard a wailing siren from behind, and an ambulance appeared in his rear-view mirror. He waited for it to pass, then immediately pulled in behind and followed it down the highway, moving fast.

  7:24 pm.

  Six minutes to go.

  Farrell didn’t slow as he turned off the highway and sped on towards the deserted Flushing Airport. The place was empty, having been shut for almost thirty years, and the car hit the chain-link fence, breaking the lock and smashing it open, the vehicle speeding on into the abandoned airport.

  The entire airfield was made up of old tarmac, empty hangars and overgrown concrete lined with weeds, but up ahead they saw a black helicopter that was waiting on a space in the tarmac outside one of the hangars. Farrell and Ortiz had come here on Thursday night and moved it out of the hangar. It was resting on wheeled supports either side, and all they had to do was roll it outside gently, cover it with a gian
t tarpaulin, then lock the gate again and leave. No one ever came in here.

  As they got closer, they saw Tate standing by the helicopter. He was in his full tactical gear, balaclava and helmet on, his car parked out of the way to the right. Farrell saw the side to the helicopter was open, the money from the previous heists already stashed inside. Tate stood there, his M16 in his hands, and waited for them to pull up.

  The car torched forward then screeched to a halt to the left of the helicopter. The three of them climbed out quickly. Farrell opened the trunk and the three of them each grabbed a bag and took it to the helicopter, packing the money away inside. Farrell ran back and got the fourth and brought it over. When that was inside with the rest, he jumped back out and pulled off his helmet and balaclava, taking a deep breath of air and running his gloved hand over his head.

  ‘Holy shit! We did it, you assholes. We did it!’ he said.

  He walked over to Ortiz and Regan, who also pulled off their headgear and the three of them hugged, one at a time. They each turned and saw Tate standing there, watching them silently. He still had his gear on, and he hadn’t moved to join them the three of them standing there in a line in celebration.

  ‘We did it, man,’ Farrell said. ‘We made it.’

  Tate looked at him for a moment.

  Didn’t speak.

  Suddenly, he raised his M16.

  None of them had time to register what he was doing.

  And he fired.

  Tate used controlled, three-round bursts, all aimed at the head, the three of them unprotected without the helmets. Farrell, Ortiz and Regan took the rounds before they could react, and blood and brains sprayed on to the tarmac behind them as they all fell back, dead, each shot several times through the face.

  Tate looked at them for a moment, the three corpses motionless, blood and brains spattered around them. Then he went to turn back to the helicopter, but suddenly, another car burst into view through the entrance, driving fast towards him.

  Tate squinted through the visor, pushing the release catch on his M16 and quickly reloading.

  It was Archer.

  Archer couldn’t believe what he saw as he drove into the airfield.

  Farrell, Ortiz and Regan were all dead. Shot by Tate. He’d screwed them. He saw the man lift his M16. Archer reacted fast and slid the car to a halt on its side, opening the driver’s door and sliding out the side as a hail of bullets hit the side of the vehicle. He landed awkwardly on the tarmac, but pulled his father’s Sig from his pocket as Tate continued to fire on the car. He heard a click and the firing stopped as Tate’s magazine emptied. Archer then rose up over the trunk of the car, his arm resting on the metal top, the Sig aimed dead straight at Tate’s chest twenty yards away.

  He fired, relentless, bullet after another, his aim straight from resting his arm on the car. Most of the bullets hit Tate in the chest and head, knocking him back slightly, but each one pinged and dinged off the body armour under his clothes.

  None of them were getting through.

  Shit.

  He knew it was useless. He would never pierce the body armour from here.

  As Tate dropped down to one knee to reload his M16, Archer saw another car pull into the lot from an entrance ahead and to the left, speeding over the weeded tarmac.

  Siletti was at the wheel.

  The car screeched to a stop beside Farrell and his team’s getaway car and Siletti climbed out, a silenced pistol in his hand. Archer aimed and fired four more times at Tate, all four hitting him in the chest. None of them got even close to getting through the armour. Siletti fired back, then took cover, running around the side of his car and popping the trunk. Archer saw him drag Jessie out, her hands duct-taped behind her, a grey strip over her mouth and passed her to Tate. Someone had pulled a blindfold over her eyes, and strands of hair hung over it, the girl trembling as she stood there.

  ‘Enough!’ Tate called, from under the helmet, grabbing the girl by the hair. He threw his M16 to the ground and pulled a Glock pistol from a holster on his hip, putting the gun to the girl’s head. ‘Drop the gun or the girl dies!’

  Behind the trunk of the car, Archer didn’t move, his arm still gripping the pistol, aimed at Tate. He looked at Jessie, her body shaking and terrified. As long as the guy had the gun to her head, there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Drop it!’ Tate screamed.

  Archer rose very slowly, then tossed the gun to the ground, still standing behind Katic’s car.

  During this, Siletti had moved to the back seat of his car, pulling Sanderson out, dragging him towards Tate and pushing him to the ground. He was also duct-taped and bound. Lastly, Siletti walked back and dragged out Katic, pulling her by the hair to stand beside Tate, a silenced pistol in his hand, the harsh black barrel against Katic’s soft features. The two sides stood there looking at each other, the helicopter behind Siletti and Tate, the dead bodies of Farrell, Ortiz and Regan between them. There was no sign of O’Hara.

  ‘So what’s the deal?’ Archer called, at Tate, pointing at the corpses. ‘You kill all your friends and walk away?’

  Tate stood still for a moment, the gun still to the child’s head.

  He said nothing.

  Then he let go of the girl, and reached up and lifted off his helmet.

  He had a balaclava on underneath, which he pulled off too.

  Archer froze.

  He stared.

  He thought he was dreaming.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  He was looking at Supervisory Special Agent Todd Gerrard.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Gerry?’

  ‘Don’t move, Sam. Or the kid dies,’ Gerrard said, grabbing Jessie again and putting the pistol to her head.

  Archer stared at him.

  He was stunned.

  ‘Gerry, what the hell are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing? The bags. Throw them over here.’

  Archer didn’t move. Gerrard pulled back the hammer on his pistol, the gun to the girl’s head.

  ‘Don’t make me kill her, kid. Throw over the bags.’

  ‘Gerry, put the gun down.’

  ‘Bags!’ he screamed.

  In his hand, Jessie started to cry, scared, her sobs muffled under the strip of duct-tape, her eyes shielded behind the blindfold.

  Archer stayed still for a moment longer, then complied. He opened the trunk, grabbing the two bags by the handles, then threw them over towards him and Siletti, one at a time. They were about twenty yards from each other and the bags landed ten feet from Gerrard. They landed with a thud, next to the corpses of Farrell, Ortiz and Regan and beside their getaway car. Archer still stared at Gerrard, in disbelief. He looked into his eyes.

  But the man he'd known for so long wasn’t there anymore.

  ‘You played me, this whole time?’

  Gerrard didn’t reply. Beside him, Siletti grinned, ear to ear, like the Grinch.

  ‘Yeah. We did,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s O’Hara?’

  ‘Dead. Same as you’ll be soon enough,’ Siletti said.

  Archer looked at Gerrard, desperate for some kind of an explanation. His mind flashed back during the past week, through everything that had happened, like someone flipping through a stack of photographs.

  And suddenly, it all made sense.

  ‘So that’s the deal,’ Archer said, looking into Gerrard’s eyes. ‘You got sent here from D.C, broke and humiliated. Farrell and his team had just started pulling the jobs in the city. You were honest at first, but then everything finally just got to you. You met with Farrell, said you would make sure they never got rumbled so long as they gave you a slice. You did that for a while, but then they let you go. They decided they could do the rest without you. And you didn’t have any evidence to convict them. You couldn’t get within a mile of them. They knew you, and every member of your team, and if you tried Farrell would shop you to people in D.C. You were stuck, in limbo. So you figured yo
u could use me instead.’

  Gerrard said nothing.

  ‘You knew I’d be wound up, not thinking straight because of what happened to Dad. You made it seem like I was helping you bring them down whereas all you wanted was to find out where they were keeping their cash. I told you Tate made the trips down to A.C, so you went down there and killed him. You didn’t get called to D.C, did you?’

  Gerrard said nothing.

  ‘But somewhere along the line, he got wise,’ Archer said, pointing at Siletti. ‘He confronted you about it. I’m guessing he demanded to be involved, or else he’d start talking. O’Hara did the same. So you were working together, covering each other’s backs. You thought Parker and Lock might have their suspicions, so you executed them. You know how to trick a crime-scene. You covered all your tracks. It ran like clock-work, right?’

  Neither said a word. Katic looked up at him, tears in her eyes.

  ‘But you screwed up. Because Sanderson is here. He’s seen and knows everything you two are doing. How the hell are you going to explain his disappearance?’

  ‘By leaving too,’ Siletti said. ‘We’re out of here. We’re never coming back. We’ve got enough money here to live on for three lifetimes.’

  Archer saw silent tears streaming down Katic’s face, her hair snatched in Siletti’s grip. Gerrard turned to Siletti.

  ‘Fire it up,’ he said.

  Siletti nodded with a grin. Turning, he dragged Katic with him to the cockpit and flicked some switches. The rotors started to move slowly, as the vessel warmed up. The engine made no sound yet though. Gerrard looked at Archer, who was staring right back at him, into his soul.

  ‘I didn’t want to kill your father, Sam,’ he said. ‘He brought it on himself.’

  Archer stared at him.

  ‘You?’

  Silence.