Green Light (Sam Archer 7) (4 page)

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 78
^th
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.’