Green Light (Sam Archer 7)

by Tom Barber

  The guy fired his handgun, ripping up the wall while trying to turn the gun on Archer, but Archer hit him hard, using all his strength to slam the man’s hand into the wall and knock the gun free, sending it skittering across the floor. Terrified, April peered out from Isabel’s bedroom and gasped in horror as Archer’s attacker retaliated by slamming him into the wall with brutal force. As they smashed into the kitchen, Archer realised he was in trouble. Adrenaline had kicked in, giving his exhausted muscles survival strength, but this guy was far stronger than him and was just as pumped up.

  Ducking under an arcing elbow that would have knocked him out, Archer fired a vicious left hook to the man’s body, a liver shot. Done right, it completely incapacitates an opponent, causing their body to shut down, rendering them incapable until they could breathe again. However, the guy had spare ammo magazines in his pocket, which not only protected him from the blow but smashed Archer’s knuckles as he threw the punch.

  As he instinctively recoiled in pain, the man sunk in a crushingly powerful rear choke, tightening the squeeze around Archer’s neck. Archer desperately tried to fight his way out of it, clutching at the enormous forearm locked under his chin, fighting to loosen the hold and feeling the squeeze tighten so hard it felt as if his neck was going to break.

  Seeing Archer caught in the choke-hold, April darted forward and picked up his attacker’s pistol. Straightening, she aimed the weapon at the two men, her hand shaking.

  However, she couldn’t pull the trigger; Archer was in direct line of fire, the bigger man behind him as he strangled the blond cop.

  About to pass out, Archer frantically motioned with his hand to April.

  Realising what he wanted she threw the gun towards him, which he caught grip first.

  A beat later he put the barrel to the gang member’s thigh and fired.

  A distance shot from a 9mm handgun would produce a severe injury but up close it was catastrophic. The giant screamed like a stuck pig, instantly releasing Archer and falling to the floor, clutching his leg as he started to bleed out, staring in shock at the blood pumping from the wound.

  Staggering forward as he sucked in oxygen, Archer stood for a few moments waiting for the room to stop spinning then moved towards April, the sudden quiet filled by the sounds of dogs barking from down the street, the stench of gun-smoke and cordite hanging in the air.

  ‘We have to get the hell out of here!’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her towards the front door, blood running down his arm from the re-opened wound.

  However, before they could make it something was thrown into the room from the balcony.

  It came through the smashed gap where the window used to be and rolled straight towards them.

  As April stared in scared puzzlement, Archer’s eyes widened.

  He immediately dragged her into the bathroom, shoving her into the tub and throwing himself on top of her just as the grenade came to a stop in the hallway.

  A beat later the explosion was so loud it seemed to shake the entire world, blowing out every piece of glass in the apartment, setting parts of it on fire.

  The wounded gang member moved cautiously through the blown-apart space where the balcony glass used to be, looking down the sights of his weapon and treading carefully through the smoke, looking for his targets and seeing three of his friends down, two dead and the third bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

  There was no sign of the cop or the woman.

  Rolling out low from behind the bathroom door, still deaf from the blast, Archer shot the guy in the chest with his home defence pistol, hitting him twice and watching as the man dropped to the floor, joining his three friends.

  Bleeding, smoke-covered, his clothing partially torn and with his hearing severely affected, Archer staggered to his feet, four bodies laid out in his apartment around him, part of the floor destroyed and sections on fire. Moving forward, he knelt down by the first guy he’d shot and patted him down, pulling out his wallet quickly, wanting to check his ID the moment they got out of here.

  Ready to leave, he turned and saw April had staggered out of the bathroom, bleeding from her temple.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked her.

  She nodded, still half-deaf and only guessing what he’d said, giving him a thumbs up but still badly disorientated. Taking hold of her, Archer half-carried her out of the apartment while keeping his pistol up in front of him as they made their way down the steps.

  Their ears ringing, the pair bloodied and covered with dust and smoke, they reached the ground floor and moved to the entrance, the front door ajar. Easing it back an inch, Archer used the fob to unlock the Ford from where he stood, the lights flashing.

  He looked down at April.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked her quickly.

  She nodded.

  A moment later he ripped open the door and they began to run.

  FORTY TWO

  Inside the back office of the club on Brighton Beach, Shepherd was studying CCTV footage from the club’s security system. Next door, medical teams had just arrived and checked the three bodies but there was nothing they could do, all three men dead from gunshot wounds, one to the neck and the other two to the head. The shootings had taken place when the NYPD were in the club, yet none of them had heard a thing.

  Back-up officers were outside scouring the crowds whilst Shepherd and Hendricks were focused on finding Bashev, who according to the bar-staff had last been seen heading back to his office before the shooting happened. Watching the playback, Shepherd’s attention was drawn to sudden movement recorded by the camera covering the back of the club.

  As he leaned closer and watched the action unfold, Hendricks and Massaro suddenly reappeared from a door leading from a cellar, accompanied by a male and female member of Hendricks’ team.

  ‘I’m guessing he went this way,’ he said. ‘Son of a bitch. We must have just missed him.’

  ‘But he didn’t get far,’ Shepherd said, pointing at the monitor he’d been studying and resetting the recording back a few minutes. ‘Check it out.’

  The five detectives watched, seeing a burly figure carrying a briefcase moving rapidly towards a car, pulling out his keys and unlocking the doors, tossing the case inside.

  However, before he had a chance to get into the car, he was suddenly pistol-whipped from behind, two men appearing from out of the frame.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Massaro muttered.

  The group watched in silence as Henderson pinned Bashev to the ground, holding something over his face. Tully ripped open the side of a van and both men dumped the now limp Russian inside. They saw Henderson retrieve the briefcase from the car then a silenced pistol from the sidewalk before pulling off his coat, tossing it into the van and jumping inside, the vehicle taking off a moment later and disappearing out of frame.

  ‘Bet he’s wishing he’d stayed around for us right about now,’ Hendricks said.

  Shepherd nodded, pulling his cell to pass on the plates to Ethan. ‘They killed the last of the gang here, right under our goddamn noses. And with Bashev gone, that’s every member of his gang wiped out.’

  ‘So what’s driving this?’ one of Hendricks’s team asked, looking at the screen. ‘Are Henderson and Tully looking to move in on the turf down here?’

  ‘Just two of them?’ Massaro replied. ‘They wouldn’t last five minutes.’

  ‘Plus they must have known they were on camera when they took Bashev but for some reason they didn’t give a shit,’ Hendricks said, tapping the screen.

  ‘They know we’ll have them from when they went for April and Archer in the bar and Park,’ Shepherd said. ‘They must be bailing. With three more Prizraki dead and taking Bashev with them, I’m guessing they’ve done what they wanted to do.’

  ‘But without that escort?’ Massaro said. ‘After all that effort you told me about to track her down?’

  Shepherd looked at the detective. Then, cursing himself at letting her leave the Bureau, he ended his call to Ethan be
fore it could connect and quickly dialled Archer instead.

  ‘No-one else dies tonight,’ he said. ‘No-one. Not on my watch.’

  Eight miles north, Archer was burning his way through to the Queensborough Bridge, the fender lights on the car flashing as he headed for the safe-house. Turning a hard right, April holding onto her seat as the car slid around the corner, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wallet he’d taken, tossing it to her.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked.

  ‘Raul Ortega,’ she said after a moment, reading from his driver’s license. ‘Born in Juarez, Mexico. Thirty three years old. I don’t understand? Did Henderson and Tully hire them to kill you?’

  Archer shook his head.

  ‘He had the same gang ink as some of the guys in Rikers. They must have been sent to take me out. Probably as payback.’

  As they raced on towards the Bridge, Archer saw queuing traffic up ahead and was forced to slow, checking his rear view mirror for anyone chasing him down. Just then, the intercom inside the car that had synced with Archer’s phone started to ring; glancing at the screen, he saw it was Shepherd.

  ‘How the hell did they know where your apartment was?’ April asked, looking at him.

  Archer glanced at her as he pushed the button to answer Shepherd; she had a point.

  But instead of replying, he grabbed the back of her jacket and suddenly pulled her down a second before her window exploded.

  Walking out of the nightclub with Hendricks whose team were handling the scene along with CSU, Shepherd looked down at his phone and frowned. Archer wasn’t picking up. He glanced at Hendricks beside him but saw his focus was elsewhere, his eyes narrowed.

  Following his gaze, Shepherd saw four officers walking towards them, having just climbed out of two squad cars that had pulled up. He also saw they had their holsters unclipped, their right hands lingering near their weapons. Thinking back four weeks, Shepherd recalled seeing the same officers at the 114th; some of Royston’s men.

  ‘No need for that,’ Hendricks said. ‘The action’s over.’

  ‘You’re right,’ one of them said, looking at Shepherd as he spoke. ‘It is. For you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re under arrest.’

  ‘What?’ Shepherd said.

  ‘Apparently you assaulted Lieutenant Royston; you’re coming with us, sir.’

  Shepherd thought back to when he’d slammed the piece of paper and pen into the Lieutenant’s chest. He shot a glance at Hendricks, then focused on the men standing in front of him.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘No, we’re not. You assaulted a superior. We’ve been ordered to bring you in.’

  ‘He’s not going anywhere,’ Hendricks said.

  ‘Yes, he is. Right now, he’s under arrest.’

  The two sergeants and four officers stood facing each other, the body language of Royston’s men confident, fed by the knowledge they were acting under the orders of a superior officer. As they faced each other, Hendricks’ hand casually slid towards his holster in case they suddenly decided to pull their weapons as extra persuasion.

  Stepping forward, the lead officer took out his hand-cuffs. ‘Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.’

  ‘Try and put those on him and you’ll be heading for the ER,’ Hendricks replied.

  The words were said quietly but with absolute conviction. The officers all hesitated, but only briefly, the fact they were four against two giving them false confidence.

  And then they made their move.

  Two of them went to grab hold of Shepherd, but seconds later were lying on the ground, one with a busted nose, the other stunned after taking an elbow to the side of the head. The other two went to draw their guns but Hendricks stepped forward and hammered a punch into one man’s gut, doubling him over.

  The last officer managed to pull his sidearm but Hendricks caught his arm. A beat later the officer took a straight right to the face and fell back to the concrete, joining his three companions. As they stood over the four men, the fight over almost before it had begun, Shepherd’s cell rang and he answered immediately.

  ‘Arch?’

  ‘No sir, it’s me,’ Ethan said. ‘But it’s to do with Archer. Teams of officers have been dispatched to 38th Street in Astoria. There’ve been reports of multiple gunshots and an explosion.’

  ‘What? That’s Archer’s street.’

  ‘Apparently a police car left the scene shortly after the reports of a disturbance were called in. A blond man driving, accompanied by a woman.’

  ‘But Henderson and Tully were here.’

  ‘There are four dead gang members at Archer’s apartment. All Latino’s, with gang colours and ink.’

  Shepherd swore and ran towards his car.

  ‘It’s probably the same crew who tried to drop him in Rikers,’ Shepherd said, looking at Hendricks who was keeping pace with him. ‘He’ll be going for the safe-house. Give me the address, Ethan.’

  ‘It’s in the West Village, sir,’ Ethan said, handing over the specifics.

  Hanging up, Shepherd pulled open his door and jumped behind the wheel.

  ‘We need to get over to the Village. Archer and the girl got jumped by some gang members at his apartment. He’s in deep shit.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ Hendricks replied, climbing into the passenger seat as Shepherd fired the engine and took off down the street.

  On the Queensborough, one of the Latinos who’d been late getting to 38th Street and seen the cop drive off with the woman caught up with Archer’s car and fired again, blasting off a wing mirror and shattering the remaining glass. As the guy racked the pump, Archer fired twice over April’s back, hitting the driver in the shoulder and knocking him backwards, pulling ahead as his attackers’ car started to swerve.

  Flooring it, Archer swung the wheel round and headed straight into the oncoming traffic, speeding past the cars that had been stopped by the roadblock. Glancing in the rear-view mirror he saw two cars peeling off and give chase, but focused his attention on the road ahead, dodging the oncoming traffic, car horns blaring as the police car missed them by inches.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked April, who’d sat back up in her seat, gripping onto her door for support, wind whipping her hair round her face from her broken window.

  ‘I think so!’

  As Archer continued to weave his way through the traffic, he tried to call Shepherd back on the car’s system, but it was fried, having been hit by the shotgun blast which had annihilated April’s window.

  Then his cell started ringing. He went to answer but had to duck as they took more fire from the car behind.

  Forgetting the call for the moment, he focused on his driving, fighting to keep ahead of the two cars now right on his tail.

  In Little Odessa, Marquez and Massaro walked out of the nightclub just in time to see Shepherd and Hendricks taking off in one of the Bureau’s Fords, the 4x4 heading into Brooklyn. They were surprised to see three cops getting to their feet beside their squad cars, all looking the worse for wear, a fourth leaning against the side of the vehicle.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ she asked the guy leaning against the car as she and Massaro walked over.

  Ignoring her, he pressed down a button on his radio receiver.

  ‘This is Spilner. He resisted arrest, sir,’ he reported, turning his head to spit blood onto the concrete street. ‘Both he and Sergeant Hendricks assaulted us and drove off.’

  ‘Where were they headed?’

  ‘North. We should be able to tag their plates on the CCTV.’

  ‘I know where they’ll be going. Follow my instructions and you’ll find them. I’m sending back-up; do whatever you have to do to bring them in. Understood?’

  ‘Copy that,’ the man said, turning towards the squad car as Marquez and Massaro watched in confusion, the other three clambering to their feet and moving unsteadily towards their vehicles.

  ‘I don’t think
they’re going anywhere in a hurry,’ Massaro said.

  FORTY THREE

  When Bashev came to, the first thing that hit his senses was the sound of running water.

  Opening his eyes, blinking to clear his vision, he saw he was lying in the white-walled bathroom of an apartment he didn’t recognise. There was a strip of duct tape pulled tight across his mouth. He tried to move his arms, but realised they were bound behind his back, tightly zipped plasti-cuffs digging into his wrists.

  Turning his head, he saw two men dressed in white overalls pouring liquid into a bathtub from canisters, a blonde woman sitting on a chair watching them.

  The moment he saw her, Bashev blinked again, trying to focus, convinced he was seeing a ghost.

  But as his vision cleared and he stared at her in disbelief, his blood turned to ice; he knew now that he was in seriously deep shit.

  After a few moments the two men straightened, putting down the canisters they’d just emptied; then the woman spoke.

  ‘You need to get over there right now. They’ll arrive any minute.’

  ‘The Mexicans didn’t get it done?’

  ‘No. But you will. Do them both. We don’t need her.’

  As the pair left the room, the Russian vor continued to stare at the woman, still unable to believe it was her. Once the other two were gone, she rose and walked forward until she was standing over him.

  ‘Hi honey,’ she said. ‘Did you miss me?’

  With the duct tape over his mouth, Bashev couldn’t have replied even if he’d wanted to. Suddenly, everything that had been happening to his men over the past few months made sense.

  He stared up at her, his stomach starting to churn with fear as the woman knelt down and looked him directly in the eyes. Then she reached into a pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife. She flicked her wrist, the blade snapping out, and stabbed down hard into his leg. Bashev jerked and screamed in pain, the sound muffled under his gag. As he stared down in horror at the knife jutting from his thigh, the woman twisted the blade slowly, Bashev continuing to scream under his gag as the wound opened.