Green Light (Sam Archer 7)

by Tom Barber

  Looking up, he watched her leave the deli and step into the pizzeria, a six-pack of beer in a white bag clutched under her arm. Her concerns about his wellbeing weren’t unfounded; the Q train wasn’t the first time in the last few years that Archer had survived against the odds.

  Having come from the Armed Response Unit, one of the two premier counter-terrorist teams in London where he’d experienced some serious heat, Archer had been in New York for fourteen months and the temperature hadn’t dropped at all. During that time, he’d been up against everyone from psychotic neo-Nazi terrorists to corrupt cops determined to empty a clip into his skull. Using all his skills, training and every ounce of luck that he appeared to have been blessed with, he’d cheated death more times than he liked to remember.

  However, now things had changed. Before, he’d only ever had to worry about himself but now he had Vargas and Isabel to consider, both of whom had their own demons to battle. Isabel had had one hell of a year to say the least and Alice seemed to attract almost as much trouble as he did. With every passing day he felt more attached to the pair and it scared the shit out of him.

  I’m not going anywhere, he’d told her. Given the nature of their work, that was a bold statement. Alice was right; it seemed as if every few months they came face to face with death and tonight was a perfect example. Before the call had come in, Archer and the team had been assessing a routine case at the Bureau’s HQ, winding down for the day.

  An hour later he, Vargas and Josh had almost died.

  But how many lives do you have left? a voice whispered at the back of his mind. He’d used up more than his fair share already; as he thought back to all those close-calls, he watched Vargas twenty yards away inside the parlour and felt a jolt in his stomach.

  I don’t know.

  Feeling like some fresh air and doing his best to banish the negative thoughts swirling around his head, he opened his door and stepped out, closing it behind him with a quiet click.

  Although there were a number of parked vehicles dotted about, the lot was empty of human activity, a quiet night in Queens. As he stood there, he realised he was still wearing the workman’s shirt that he’d borrowed to cover his NYPD vest, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the fabric still showing the effects of the explosion in the station, dusty and slightly dirty. Patting the chest pocket, he felt the pliers; he’d have to see if he could track the guy down and return them. Maybe give the shirt a run through the washing machine first, he told himself.

  He undid the buttons and was about to pull it off but then movement across the car park caught his eye.

  He saw a young woman heading quickly towards a car.

  She was blonde and very attractive, in her late teens or possibly early twenties, dressed in a plaid shirt and short skirt. She was wearing high-heels that clicked rapidly on the concrete as she hurried towards her vehicle, a beaten-up white Chevy Lumina parked fifteen yards away, sitting on its own in an otherwise empty row.

  Archer watched as she nervously checked over her shoulder just before she reached her car then quickly rummaged through her bag, presumably looking for her keys.

  There was something about her nervous behaviour that held his attention. He’d always been able to read people well, a skill that had been honed during his time as a cop, and as the woman glanced around her, he recognised the look on her face.

  It was fear.

  Beyond the woman, Vargas stepped out of the pizza joint, checking her cell with one hand and carrying a box with the six-pack of Budweiser balanced on the top with the other. She walked past the young blonde without even noticing her, engrossed in her phone as the girl found her keys and pulled them out.

  ‘Went for mozzarella and pepperoni,’ Vargas said, re-joining Archer by the Ford and putting her phone away. ‘No pineapple. God sure as hell didn’t invent pizza so we could put fruit on it.’

  Archer didn’t reply, focused on the young woman, who was now fumbling with the car lock.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Vargas asked, turning to see what Archer was looking at.

  But before he could reply, it happened.

  A black van that had just entered the other side of the car park suddenly roared forward and slammed to a halt beside the blonde woman. As she spun round in shock, dropping the keys, the side door on the van was ripped open, revealing a man in a grey tracksuit and white ice hockey mask holding a grey pistol.

  He fired immediately, the muzzle flashing, and the bullet cut straight through her, smashing out the driver’s window of the Chevy.

  Before the girl even landed on the concrete, Archer’s hand was already on the grip of the Sig Sauer P226 on his hip but the gunman had the drop on him and moved fast, swinging the pistol round in Archer’s direction and firing twice, a quick double-tap. The two bullets hit him in the chest with the force of what felt like a freight train, winding him and knocking him to the ground.

  Six feet from him, Vargas had reacted just as fast but seeing Archer go down caused her to hesitate a split second. She’d already dropped the pizza box and booze and reached instinctively to her hip but there was nothing there except an empty holster. Her weapon was with the Department, left for analysis after the shooting at Union Square.

  A beat later there was another gunshot and Vargas took the round in the neck, blood spraying into the air, and she hit the concrete hard in a heap.

  Lying there on his side, Archer stared at her in horror. He saw his Sig a few feet away but it was out of reach. Fighting to breathe, he looked across the lot and saw the masked man jump quickly out of the van and put two bullets into the blond woman’s head, the harsh gunshots booming in the night, someone screaming from somewhere nearby as dogs barked in the distance.

  Turning, the anonymous gunman then stalked towards Archer and Vargas.

  Seeing the man coming, Archer tried to reach for his pistol but the guy made it before he could touch it and kicked the Sig away, the metal gun skidding across the concrete out of reach.

  Standing over him, the gunman then aimed his pistol at Archer’s head, smoke coming from the barrel and the air stinking of cordite, greasy straggly hair visible either side of the hockey mask.

  Waiting for the final shot, staring at the last thing he’d ever see, Archer suddenly saw the brown eyes behind the pistol barrel and hockey mask widen.

  ‘Oh shit,’ the guy said, his voice muffled under the mask.

  Behind him, the driver of the van leant out and shouted to his partner. ‘What are you doing? Kill them!’

  ‘They’re cops!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re cops!’

  The driver pushed open his door and stepped out, running around the van with the engine still running.

  Both Archer’s and Vargas’ NYPD vests were now clearly visible through the parted fabric of their shirts, as were the badges on thin ball chains around their necks.

  ‘Shit!’ the driver said, looking down at the pair. ‘What the hell do we do?’

  ‘Screw it. We kill them.’

  ‘Whoa, are you crazy? We’ll have the entire NYPD on our asses!’

  ‘They’ve seen us.’

  ‘They haven’t seen shit!’

  The gunman didn’t reply, his gun still aimed at Archer, indecision in his eyes behind the mask as the driver’s words had an effect.

  Suddenly he turned his head a fraction. The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, the first responders reacting fast, someone having already called 911 or patrols reacting to the sound of the gunshots.

  ‘Let’s go!’ the driver shouted, running back to the van.

  Staying where he was, his pistol still trained on Archer, the gunman hesitated a moment longer, trying to decide what to do as he looked at the downed cops.

  Helpless, Archer watched him as he fought for breath, Vargas lying still as she bled out over the concrete a few feet from him.

  The approaching sirens in the distance spurred the gunman into a decision.


  He swore and ran over to the van, jumping into the back and pulling the sliding door across as the driver floored it, the tyres squealing as the vehicle sped out of the lot and away into the night.

  With the van and the two men gone, the car park was suddenly silent, the noise of the receding vehicle fading as the sound of the sirens grew louder.

  Still half-winded, Archer hauled himself up and crawled over to Vargas, his forearms imprinted with her blood from the concrete.

  She was lying on her back, her head tilted to the right, and was looking up at him. Blood was leaking out in a pool around her, already matting her dark hair, her eyes wide with silent shock and fear as she stared at him.

  He clamped his right hand over the wound, holding his left to the side of her head, looking down at her as she bled out.

  She tried to say something, her lips moving slowly, but nothing came out, her blood warm against his fingers as it continued to pulse from the wound.

  ‘Hold on, Alice,’ he whispered fearfully, looking at her so they were face to face. ‘Just hold on.’

  Panic in her eyes, Vargas again tried to say something as she stared up at him.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Archer said, desperately trying to reassure her as her blood ran through his fingers. ‘I promise.’

  Vargas didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

  And as he stared at her, Archer saw the faintest sheen of tears appear in her eyes again.

  FOUR

  A month later it was the third week of October. The warmth of the summer was now just a memory, replaced by a chill that seemed to be increasing by the day, the leaves on the trees in the city turning golden, caramel and brown as the city residents began to get ready for the upcoming holiday sequence of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

  A few blocks from his home on West 78th Street, Josh watched leaves fall from trees across the street and drift down onto the pedestrians below, the branches disturbed by the slight wind. He was sitting inside a coffee shop, a freshly-served cup of Earl Grey tea in front of him. The place was warm and welcoming, smelling of blended coffee and baked goods straight from the oven; as it was mid-afternoon on a Sunday the atmosphere was muted, but under the table Josh’s leg was jiggling with suppressed tension as his mind raced, turning over possible scenarios.

  Unlike those around him, he wasn’t at all relaxed.

  He hadn’t thought it possible but what had already been a terrible few weeks had, in the last few hours, threatened to take a drastic turn for the worse.

  Twenty feet away, the bell rang as the door opened, allowing a sudden rush of cold air into the coffee shop; Josh looked over and saw Marquez walk in, right on schedule. She was dressed in grey jeans, a black and grey polo neck and a black jacket, the pistol and NYPD badge on her hip briefly visible as she closed the door, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.

  Spotting her team-mate, she moved forward to join him, taking a seat across the small table and blowing air into her cold hands.

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Josh asked, as she sat down.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t there. You?’

  ‘Not a trace. I checked his apartment, his gym, his local bar, talked to his neighbours. They haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’

  Marquez swore. ‘So where the hell is he?’

  As the pair looked at each other, confused and worried, a waitress approached and Marquez ordered a black coffee, no milk or sugar.

  ‘You think he flew back to England?’ she suggested, once the waitress had departed. ‘Just forgot to mention it?’

  ‘I thought of that so I called Chalky. He said he and Archer haven’t spoken for a couple of weeks. Anyway, Arch’s hearing is on Monday. He’s not allowed to skip town. He misses that, he knows he could get kicked out of the Department.’

  There was a pause. Marquez ran her hand through her hair worriedly, looking out of the window.

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’ she asked.

  ‘Day before yesterday.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Pissed off. Really pissed off.’ As he spoke, Josh noticed the look on her face. ‘What?’

  ‘You think he did something stupid?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What happened to Vargas hit him hard. That kind of shit can mess with your head.’

  Josh realised what she was thinking. ‘Lisa, are you kidding? This is Sam Archer we’re talking about. That son of a bitch is harder to put down than anyone I’ve ever met. No way would he help someone do it.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I mean do you think there’s a possibility he went after someone? On his own, without telling us?’

  ‘Why would he? The case is closed.’

  ‘Maybe he found something.’

  Before Josh could reply, Marquez’ coffee arrived. As the female detective thanked the waitress and picked up the cup, wrapping both hands around it in an attempt to warm her cold fingers, Josh considered the possibility of his detective partner planning to exact his own justice after what had happened in that parking lot four weeks ago.

  It wasn’t exactly a stretch to see him doing it.

  ‘Let’s track back, to the beginning,’ Marquez said, cradling her cup. ‘See if we can figure out where he could possibly be.’

  Josh nodded. ‘I’ll start. Archer and Vargas are on their way home and stop to pick up a six pack and some pizza. As they’re about to leave a van pulls up, someone shoots a girl then takes out Arch and Alice before they could react. Vargas takes one to the neck, Arch two to the chest; the vest saves his life.’

  ‘With the shooting going down in their Precinct’s jurisdiction, Homicide from the 114th take charge of the investigation,’ Marquez continued. ‘But they don’t make any progress in almost a month. When we go over there last Saturday to find out what the hell is going on, Archer loses his shit and lays out one of the investigative team.’

  She paused.

  ‘A Lieutenant.’

  ‘Archer’s suspended on the spot and his badge and gun are confiscated,’ Josh continued. ‘Four days later, the two leading suspects are found and the case is closed, which was Thursday, seventy two hours ago.’

  ‘And Archer’s hearing for assaulting the Lieutenant is tomorrow at 10am,’ Marquez finished. ‘If he’s lucky he’ll be demoted. If he’s not, which is far more likely, they’ll kick him out of the Counter-Terrorism Bureau. That’s if he even shows up.’

  Josh cursed. ‘I don’t know much about the guy he punched, but I heard he has a bad reputation.’

  Marquez nodded. ‘I’ve got a friend at the 114th; she said if you get on the wrong side of this guy, he’s like kryptonite to your career. He’s a vindictive bastard and right now, Archer is the number one target in his crosshairs. Lieutenant Royston wants him on a platter with sides.’

  There was another pause. Frustrated and worried in equal measure, Josh looked around the coffee shop as Marquez took a sip from her drink.

  ‘How’s Isabel?’ she asked, keeping the cup close to her lips.

  ‘Confused.’

  ‘What does she know?’

  ‘Nothing. When it all went down, Archer told her Vargas had to go away to see some family. She doesn’t understand why Alice hasn’t called in a month. Or Arch, now.’

  ‘When was the last time he spoke to her?’

  ‘Three days ago. She keeps asking where he is and why he hasn’t called. I’m beginning to run out of excuses.’

  Marquez took another mouthful of coffee then reached inside her jacket and pulled out a folded brown envelope, sliding it over to Josh.

  ‘After you called, I stopped by the Bureau. Ethan pulled it for me. It’s the 114ths closed case file from the shooting. Check it out.’

  Quickly scooping it up, Josh opened the envelope, curious to see first-hand the details of the investigation that they were all so invested in.

  The uppermost sheet was a photo of a dead b
londe woman slumped on concrete, keys and bag lying beside her, the girl who’d been shot in the parking lot. A small square police mug-shot of her holding a placard was pinned to the top; she was very attractive with a porcelain complexion, arresting green eyes and long blonde hair. She wouldn’t have looked out of place on a catwalk or gracing a magazine cover.

  ‘Her name was Leann Casey,’ Marquez said, as Josh studied the girl’s photo. ‘She was a nineteen year old escort.’

  ‘Pretty girl.’

  Marquez nodded. ‘Expensive too, not street trash. The day that mug-shot was taken, she was arrested in a Vice bust on an Upper West Side hotel. Client unknown due to an injunction, which means he had a profile to protect. But apparently her rate was $5000 a night. She served three months in the women’s facility on Rikers Island.’

  ‘A kid like this?’ he said. ‘She’d be feed in a place like that.’

  ‘She was,’ Marquez said, turning the photo over.

  There were several of the girl’s face, this time badly battered and bruised, her lip split, one eye swollen, her beautiful face almost unrecognisable.

  ‘She was lucky to get away with just that,’ Marquez added.

  Josh stayed silent, looking at the photographs for a moment, then turned the page to her report from the rehabilitation facility.

  ‘She was killed the day she left rehab,’ Josh noted, reading the notes.

  ‘Less than two hours after she walked out. She’d admitted herself into Covenant Housing, who supported her through a four week drug rehabilitation program for addiction to pain-killers. The staff there were the last documented people to see her alive, apart from Arch and Alice. And her killers, of course.’

  ‘Homicide talked to the clinic?’

  Marquez nodded. ‘It was out on Long Island. Near Jones Beach.’

  ‘Was she scared to leave?’ Josh asked.

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ she said. ‘They had nothing but good things to say about her. Said she was upbeat, positive, excited, confident. A different person from the one who’d checked herself in four weeks earlier.’

  Flicking back to the first page, Josh glanced at the crime-scene photo of the girl whose life had been so brutally and suddenly extinguished. She’d been shot once in the chest and twice in the head.