One Way (Sam Archer 5) (19 page)

‘Jesus.’ Hendricks looked up at the tenement block. ‘You think they’re still alive?’

‘They must be. The response team sure as hell aren’t leaving yet.’

‘So who the hell is this witness?’

‘A seven year old girl.’

‘A child?’

‘Other than that, we don’t know much more.’

‘Nothing at all?’

Shepherd nodded towards Dalton. ‘He won’t give.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Hendricks said, striding over towards the US Marshal. Shepherd joined him.

Jake had a way of getting people to talk.

TWENTY NINE

Once he’d put out the fires in 8A, Bishop had stumbled his way down the north stairwell, leaving the smoky corridor behind him. He pulled back the door on the ground floor and moved into the lobby. He was still disorientated, unsteady and nauseous, his face blackened, dust and smoke in his lungs. The others were momentarily taken aback when they saw him.

King was reloading his M4A1, having apparently just fired off some rounds through the window. He turned and looked at him.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bishop said loudly, shaking his head to clear his hearing. ‘There was an explosion. Castle was in there with most of the mob. They’re gone.’

‘Jesus Christ, I’m sick of this,’ King hissed, as Spades, Diamonds, Knight and Braeten stood there in silence. ‘All I’m hearing tonight is failure. Do you call this shit professional?’

Silence. None of the men responded.

‘All of you, get your game-faces on and step up your shit. It’s a kid, a gunshot Marshal if he’s still alive, a hundred-twenty pound woman and some asshole wannabe street hero who’s in way over his head. If they want a war, let’s give them a war.’

Just then, there was a commotion on the stairs behind them. A handful of the remaining guys from the volunteer mob appeared from the north side doorway, all of them looking spooked. The response team turned to them.

‘Where were you?’ Bishop asked, coughing.

‘We were on 9, getting ahead,’ one of them said, noting Bishop’s appearance. ‘What the hell happened?’

Bishop didn’t reply, stepping to one side and shaking his head to try and get back his hearing. One of the guys from the stairwell walked towards King.

‘We’re leaving.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘You didn’t say anything about us getting blown up. We’re out of here.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Try to stop us, asshole.’

Pause.

‘Is this all of you?’

The man looked behind him. ‘I guess so. Everyone else bought it upstairs.’

Without another word, King swung up his M4A1, aimed at the man’s head and opened fire. The guy didn’t have a moment to react. The burst took half of his head off; as he dropped, the men behind didn’t have time to move as King machine gunned them all, blood and bits of clothing spraying into the air. He worked the trigger, moving from right to left, as the assault rifle tore them to pieces, and he kept the muzzle climb low, expertly using every round to kill.

When the clip clicked dry, the air reeking of cordite and gun smoke, King looked down at the bloodied and torn bodies slumped in front of the stairwell. Pushing the magazine release catch, he let it fall to the floor and slapped another one home from a pouch on his tac vest. He turned to the other men, who were standing back impassively.

‘No-one’s leaving. Neither them, nor us. Not until she’s dead.’

Bishop stepped forward, beginning to recover, and retrieved his pistol from the man on the floor. He tucked it back into the holster on his thigh.

‘Where are your guys?’ King asked Braeten. ‘Were they killed too?’

He shrugged. ‘I think they’re higher up, still looking. You said they had to earn their way out of here.’

‘The door to 8A was barricaded,’ Bishop said. ‘And you all heard Joker. The Marshals were definitely in there just before Castle and co made it inside.’

‘So where the hell did they go?’ Spades said.

King didn’t reply, pushing his pressel switch instead. ‘Joker, sitrep. Give me some good news. What the hell happened?’

‘Hard to say. It’s smoky as shit over there. I dropped Barlow. He’s gone. But they were all in there just before the posse showed up.’

‘Maybe they went up in the blast?’ Spades suggested.

King looked at Knight, who was tracing the building chart on the wall beside the elevator with his finger. ‘East-side 6 is a large laundry room,’ he said. ‘It’s connected to all the apartments on the 8
th
floor.’

The men looked at each other.

Without another word, King took off towards the south stairwell.

The rest of the team and Braeten followed, sprinting after him up the stairs.

‘They killed her entire family?
’ Hendricks said, incredulous, Shepherd equally surprised beside him. Dalton nodded. Another burst of gunfire from inside the building had shaken his resolve and finally loosened his tongue. He’d just filled Shepherd and Hendricks in quickly on who exactly ‘Jennifer’ really was.

‘If the child had been killed, we never would have known,’ he continued. ‘It was a master stroke. Hell, it took us a while to be convinced ourselves; the detectives figured the girl might be suffering from PTSD. But then we realised the plan made perfect sense; Lombardi and Devaney control 99 per cent of illegal activity down there in Nolita and Tribeca. If Devaney’s people are out of the picture, Mike Lombardi plays the grieving son and can take over without any competition.’

‘And he tracked her down. That’s what this is about.’ Hendricks looked up at the tenement block. ‘Is he inside?’

‘No idea.’

Hendricks shook his head. ‘This level of organisation. Premeditation. Weapons. Tactics. They had no idea this would end up in this particular building, yet they were able to react almost immediately with that kind of firepower and entry. These are some seriously dangerous people.’

Neither Shepherd nor Dalton responded.

‘So where are our guys right now?’ Hendricks asked.

They looked up at the building. ‘We don’t know,’ Dalton said. ‘We don’t even know if they’re still alive.’

He stared at the smashed windows on the south side 8
th
floor apartment, smoke still drifting out and up.

‘But if they are, I pray to God those men don’t know where they are either.’

Inside the laundry room, the remaining members of the group were sitting by the south-side wall, Archer and Vargas on the outside ready to protect Helen, Carson and Isabel between them. All of them were sooty and covered in nicks, cuts and scratches, battered and bruised. However, they were still alive. Considering what they were up against and what they’d been through, that was a hell of an achievement.

Archer and Vargas had dragged a protective shield of the heavy washers and dryers in front of them to offer some kind of barricade in case the response team found them. Their exit point was a fire door leading to the south stairwell to their immediate left inside their barrier, which could only be opened this side. There was another door across the room, connected to the main 6
th
floor corridor. If the enemy came, that would be their point of entry. The west and north side of the walls were lined with grille-covered chutes at intervals, under which large baskets would have been placed once upon a time to catch the laundry. It was an ancient design, almost a relic. God only knew how long it had been since this building was renovated. After all the gunfire and explosions tonight, the solution would probably be a wrecking ball.

Carson was starting to groan, filling the quiet. Helen knelt down to check and comfort him. She looked up at Archer and Vargas, concerned.

‘The heroin is wearing off,’ she said. ‘He needed to be out of here an hour ago.’

‘What do we do? Should we dope him up again?’ Vargas said, looking at Archer.

He went to speak but stopped, hearing something.

There was a clanging from the chute they’d come down on the other side of the room. Archer and Vargas looked over their barrier of old machines.

A black shape suddenly dropped down into the room.

It bounced on the floor and rolled towards them.

A grenade.

THIRTY

Archer and Vargas reacted within that initial half-second, diving back for cover, taking Isabel down with them.

Their makeshift barrier saved their lives as the grenade exploded.

The sound was deafening, taking all of their senses and smashing them to pieces. The blast destroyed some of the washers, shrapnel and chunks of metal flying through the air, a few machines knocked over, others closer to the blast completely totalled.

Archer had covered Isabel’s ears with his hands so his had been unprotected and the effect was catastrophic. It felt like the grenade had gone off inside his head.

Suddenly, everything was silent, like an interlude.

Releasing the girl’s ears and seeing her move, confirming she was OK, Archer shook his head to try and clear it, the room as quiet as a church in prayer. The air was thick with dust and smoke, stinging his eyes. He’d dropped his M4A1 in the blast and saw it a few feet away, beside some rubble and pieces of washer. It was lying by the wall.

I need that
, he thought.

He staggered to his feet, stumbling and falling back, wet liquid on his face. It felt like water; maybe a pipe had ruptured in the explosion.

He touched his cheek and his hand came away red.

Not water.

A grenade, Sam.

They know we’re here.

They’re coming.

Reeling, he made it to the wall and scooped up his M4A1. He turned and tried to aim at the doorway, falling into a wrecked dryer, blinking dust from his eyes, swaying as his brain frantically tried to recalibrate. Beside him, Vargas was still gathering her senses, trying to get to her feet but only having managing to get to her hands and knees. He saw a trickle of blood coming from her ear.

Through the haze, two figures suddenly appeared in the main doorway, looming out of the smoke and dust. Archer went to fire but stopped when he saw a small figure to his right, standing still, staring at the two men.

Isabel.

He’d turned his back for a second and she’d gone. She was disorientated, and had stepped out from behind their protective barrier, walking right into the enemy’s firing line.

The two men saw her. They had black assault rifles in their hands, inevitably full magazines inside, enough ammo to take on a squad of cops, let alone an unprotected seven year old child. Two figures from a nightmare, black masks over their faces, guns in their hands.

That’s it.

It’s over.

She’s gone.

The two men stared at the girl. They lifted their rifles.

Then aimed them directly at Archer

They opened fire and noise in the room came back. Archer had already flung himself down as the bullets tore into the wall and machines, spraying more pieces of metal and chalk into the air. Vargas swung her M4A1 forward and started to fire back through the gloom. Her aim was poor, her senses still affected by the blast, but it was enough to force the two men to duck behind the door in the hallway and buy Archer several vital seconds.

As Vargas kept her barrage up, he moved out from behind his cover and ran across the room, grabbing Isabel, scooping her up and taking her back with him, her screaming lost in the gunfire and smoke as Vargas emptied a magazine into the doorway, adrenaline speeding up the return of her faculties as she fought the muzzle climb, shell casings spraying out of the ejection port.

Pushing Isabel behind him, Archer took over the counter-firing as Vargas reloaded fast, slapping another clip into the weapon. The two guys on the other side of the door did their best to return fire, but they didn’t have a chance to engage them properly as Archer kept up the onslaught, keeping them pinned down.

His mag clicked dry, Vargas taking over as the two men at the doorway fired a burst back. Pulling the empty clip from the weapon, he grabbed his last one from his pocket but turned as he did so to make sure Isabel was still behind him.

Then he saw Helen.

She was leaning against the wall, staring straight ahead, the noise and terror of the gunfight lost on her. If it wasn’t for the thick piece of metal jutting out of her chest, she would have looked serene, as if she was taking a moment to absorb it all and watch the fight, like a spectator at Wimbledon.

As Vargas kept up her fire on the door, Archer moved over to Helen, his eyes stinging from the dust. She stared back vacantly, the light gone from her eyes, strands of hair hanging down either side of her smoke-stained face. He looked down at the piece of metal; it was white, a piece of destroyed washer from the grenade blast.

It had pierced right through her, pinning her to the wall.

She was gone.

Grabbing Carson and dragging him towards the fire escape, Archer pushed the bar down with his elbow and kicked the door open. Vargas squeezed off two more bursts then scooped up Isabel and quickly followed them through the fire exit.

Just as they left, two more grenades were tossed inside from the other side of the room.

Vargas saw them early and slammed the door shut behind them, protecting them as they took cover in the stairwell.

Outside, everyone on the street heard the explosions and savage gunfight unfold. It was happening this side of the building, so they could see the muzzle flashes from the 6
th
floor windows, the reports of the weapons echoing in the street.

Suddenly there was another explosion and more windows smashed out. As people recoiled, ducking down, Shepherd cursed, his patience at an end. He turned and kicked a car out of frustration, feeling totally helpless. Any NYPD officer or detective in peril made him anxious, but that concern went to a whole new level when it was one of his own people, someone under his command depending on him to come up with a solution. He looked up at the building, more smoke coming from the 6
th
floor, and pictured Archer somewhere inside.

Just hold on, Arch,
he thought.
Wherever you are. We’re coming for you.

Hendricks was standing beside him, his face dark, watching the apartment block. The gunfire ended abruptly, but the echoes from the shots and the explosions were still reverberating in people’s ears, reporters behind the public barriers giving rapid updates, as shocked as everyone else at the speed of events. Hendricks looked over at Dalton and the Marshals team. They’d switched their attention from the apartment building and were now poring over the I-Pads, crowded round and peering at the screens.

It looked as if a frontal assault was imminent.

He glanced over at the lobby,
Claymores and an anti-tank rocket
echoing in his mind. If they had that kind of protection for the roof, God only knew what they had waiting for them behind that door. No way was the Marshals task force getting in without many more, or even all of them, going down.

They needed to find another way to end this.

He turned to Shepherd. ‘Remind me, who’s the girl?’

‘She’s a State witness. According to Dalton, she’s due in a matter of days. She makes the stand, she buries her brother and the team who killed her entire family.’

‘Where are they based?’

‘Walker Street. The family own a bar down there.’ Shepherd looked at Hendricks. ‘What are you thinking?’

Hendricks didn’t reply. He turned and stalked through the crowd instead, moving towards his car.

He ripped open the door and moments later was speeding downtown, dialling a number on his cell phone.

He needed an exact address.

Arriving on the 12
th
floor, Archer staggered down the corridor, Carson once again over his shoulders, his blood leaking over Archer’s once white t-shirt and joining the black smoke stains. Vargas was right behind him, holding Isabel’s hand, her M4A1 in the other. On the way up they’d ducked into the corridor on 7, hearing running footsteps coming from above, and had just managed to avoid two gunmen sprinting down the stairwell. Once they’d passed, Archer and Vargas moved on as quickly as they could, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the laundry room.

12 was as far as Archer’s legs would take him, his body still recovering from the grenade explosion.

An apartment a third of the way down the corridor was open, on the east side so away from any potential sniper fire. Without even checking it first Archer ducked inside, followed by Vargas and Isabel; there was no one here.

They collapsed into the room, Vargas quickly shutting the door then locking it. Dumping Carson down heavily onto the floor, Archer did the same as before with the refrigerator, unplugging and dragging it into place as a barrier. This time it was much more of an effort, almost Herculean; he was exhausted. When it was in position, the door secured, they stepped back, sucking clean air into their lungs. As he breathed in, Archer suddenly felt a searing pain. He looked down and saw some glass had hit him in the lower left of his torso, slicing through his t-shirt. He stared at it for a few moments, then glanced at Vargas. She hadn’t seen it. Then he made eye contact with Isabel. She had.

He pulled it out, coughing from the pain, and tossed it to one side with a
clink
, holding his M4A1 with one hand and cradling the wound with the other.

Downstairs, the gunmen were in the laundry room. Their boots crunched on the debris, their M4A1s sweeping the now empty space. King and Diamonds had been the two men trying to force their way in, but the man and woman had held them off, despite three grenades. King walked forward slowly through the smoke and saw a woman slumped against the wall.

She was dead, impaled. She had a chunk of metal the size of a man’s forearm jutting out of her chest, her eyes blank and staring straight ahead. He had no idea who she was.

Spades and Knight reappeared from the south stairwell, panting.

‘And?’

‘We lost them.’

King stayed still for a moment. Then he raised his weapon and unleashed a burst into the dead woman in frustration and fury, blood and shell casings spraying into the air.