The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (36 page)

They were in
an old storage place, a safe-house that only he and a select few other members of the FBI knew about. It was dusty and smelt of sawdust but
it
was quiet. No one was going to come in here. But just as the thought crossed his mind, a noise came from behind him, and he turned, pistol in hand. But it was only O’Hara. He was returning from a trip to get some food, two burgers and fries from McDonalds. They needed to fuel up before the evening’s events. He walked over without saying a word and dumped the bag on an empty chair, passing Siletti a wrapped up burger. He pulled back the plastic and took a bite, watching the three hostages.

The three of them would have to die. There was no question. All three had seen his and O’Hara’s faces. Katic and the kid weren’t a problem. He’d do them both, cut them up, then dump them in the sea, the pieces weighed down with bricks in individual bags. He’d do it down in
Atlantic City
, far away from here. No one would ever discover the bodies. Sanderson was the only problem. He was an Assistant Director, which meant there was going to be a shitload of attention on what would happen if he disappeared. He also didn’t know how he had got down here and become involved. He figured the Bureau had sent him, but he had come from the hotel where the Slavic bitch and the English asshole were staying and that was too coincidental for his liking. He needed to find out who had set them up together. He’d go to work on Sanderson later, and get him to tell him who.

But he had something else to attend to first. He took a bite on his burger and turned, looking over at O’Hara. He was standing behind him, eating and looking down at the three captives, Katic in particular.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told Katic, who was glaring up at him. ‘I blindfolded the kid for you. I can take it off.’

Siletti took another bite, then rose. He signalled O’Hara to follow him, and he headed over to the bathroom, out of earshot. The other man followed him and they both stood inside the stall, the door open, the two hostages watching them, the girl blindfolded.

‘What?’ O’Hara asked him, inside the bathroom.

‘I planned ahead,’ Siletti told him. ‘I brought us weapons and body armour for taking on Farrell.’

O’Hara’s eyes widened.

‘You did. Where is it?’

‘I hid it behind those tiles,’ he said, pointing behind O’Hara at the wall. ‘Check it out.’

O’Hara turned. He reached over across the bathtub, reaching for the tiles.

In the same moment, Siletti’s silenced HK USP pistol appeared in his right han
d.

He aimed the gun at the back of O’Hara
’s head and pulled the trigger.

The weapon gave a
thud
, like someone had stamped once hard on the floor. Blood, brains and skull sprayed into the air and spattered all over the wall, and O’Hara collapsed with a thump over the bath. There was no shower curtain to shield Siletti from the gore, so he ended up wearing some of his former partner’s brains and blood on his face and shirt. Siletti walked back into the main room, not bothering to wipe himself down. Katic and Sanderson were staring at him, their eyes wide with horror. The girl was blindfolded, but she was shaking like the temperat
ure was below freezing in here.

With blood and bits of brain all over his shirt
and face, Siletti took a seat.

He grinned at them, taking another bite of the burger, and checked his watch.

Across the city, in a dark brick room below the Astoria Sports Complex, Farrell, Ortiz and Regan stood together, making final adjustments. They were all wearing the black reinforced body armour, black boots on their feet and the usual three layers of latex gloves on their hands. The stolen car they’d use was parked in a garage connected by doorway to the building, so they wouldn’t have to go out on the street.

For this final job, they’d need a quicker rate of fire than the shotguns would offer. This time, none of them gave a shit about ballistics. They’d be out of the country before anyone could make a match to the weapons they used. Each of them lifted an M16 203 assault rifle from the desktop at the same time, slamming a full 32 round magazine into each base and pulling the slide, loading the three weapons. Each M16 was modified and also had a grenade launcher attached to the front, under the main barrel, and there was a grenade already loaded inside, four more in special sewn-in compartments on their black uniforms. They each checked the safety on the weapons, then laid them back down on the table, turning to look at each other.

‘Final check,’ Farrell said. The three of them looked each other over, checking everything was in place, no gaps in their armou
r.

‘Good,’ Ortiz said.

‘Good,’ Regan said.

Farrell nodded. He took one last look at the room, where every job they had ever pulled had been planned. The last time he’d ever be inside this room.

Thi
s was it.

Showtime.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

His two companions nodded.

‘OK. Let’s do this,’ he said.

TWENTY-TWO

The
Billie Jean King Tennis Center
was located in
Flushing
Meadows
Corona
Park
, a 1200 acre area on the east side of Queens towards
Long Island
. Renowned as being one of the largest tennis venues in the world, the
Billie Jean King
was also the proud location for the U.S Open tennis tournament every year, one of the major highlights in the sport’s annual calendar. The tournament was two weeks long, and the stands, even for preliminary matches, were always packed so the concessions stands, ATMs and businesses inside made an absolute killing in that fortnight. The main court, the
Arthur Ashe
, had the largest capacity for any tennis stadium in the world, 23,200 seats, and with other courts in the Center with many thousands of seats, every single person who sat in one
was another potential customer.

Sunday was the end of the first week of the tournament, where most of the lower-seeded players had already been eliminated in the opening rounds and both the Men’s and Women’s draws were down to only eight players each. Unlike
Wimbledon
and the French Open at Roland Garros, the U.S
.
Open played matches at night, sometimes into the early hours the next morning if there was a prolonged fifth set. That early September Sunday evening, there was a big match on
Arthur Ashe
taking place, as two of the top male seeds fought for a place in the semi-finals. The match was being broadcast around the world, and the stadium itself was packed to capacity.

Sunday was also the day that the first week’s cash load would be escorted out of the
Tennis
Center
and taken north up the I-495 to a secure location in
Long Island
. Door to door, the journey would take around eighty minutes, a
nd was usually a two man job.

But considering the wealth of the cargo in the back of the truck that evening, tonight
the security was double loaded.

As the clock ticked to 7:01 pm, the last of the haul was being secured inside, the crowd inside the
Arthur Ashe
behind them cheered as a dramatic point ended. The cash was locked and secured in individual bags and bullet-proof cases, stowed in secure shelves inside the truck. As three stadium officials finished loading the money, four other men in black combat fatigues and boots stood
on the tarmac behind the truck.

They were all tough, grim-faced men, military trained, and were heavily armed to say the least. Each man was equipped with an AR 15 assault rifle, a 9mm Berretta pistol on his hip and five spare magazines for each weapon in slots on their tactical gear. The weaponry was all authorised by the United States
Federal
Reserve, necessary back-up given the value of the cargo in their possession. They’d be in the truck, protected by over two dozen tons of steel, but with ports either side so the men could fire out if they got ambushed or attacked. Unlike most armoured truck personnel who were retired cops, these guys were in their thirties and pulled straight from the military. If someone was stupid enough to try and engage them when they were out there on the road, it would be the last mistake they ever made.

The security officials finished loading up the last of the cash into the truck as the four men stood there, watchful and alert. Once all the money was inside and secure, they climbed into the truck and pulled the heavy door closed behind them, sealing it shut and taking seats inside. A fifth man, the driver, walked around the side of the truck and climbed into the front seat, locking his door shut and then bolting it. They were all inside now. Secure. The driver fired the engine, strapping on his seatbelt. He gave a thumbs up to the three stadium officials to his left, and released the handbrake, setting off east through the 1200 acre park towards the ea
stern exit.

Eighty minutes, door-to-door, and counting.

As the driver headed down
New York Avenue
, through the
Tennis
Center
and past the fans and spectators on the sidewalks either side of him, he used the time and slow movement to get a feel for the vehicle. He’d been with the armoured courier company for six years, but this was his first time driving this particular journey and his first time with so much wealth in the back. Despite its weight, the truck wasn’t a hard vehicle to manoeuvre. He kept his eyes on the road, and tried not to think about how much cash was in the back.

He pulled out of the Center, turning left, and then after twenty seconds or so, he turned  right. They were now moving down
Perimeter Road
, the long winding lane which ran all around the Park. They’d pass both a mini-golf and golf course on their right, then the swimming pool and Aquatics Center, then finally follow the road east then turn a
nother
right and head south on the Van Wyck Expressway, where they could transfer to the I-495 highway and get on their way to Long Island.

The truck moved on down the road. The place was pretty quiet. There was the occasional person walking in the park, and a couple of groups sitting enjoying a picnic, but most of the activity in the area was back inside the
Tennis
Center
, the action
taking place
on the courts. They passed the golf course
on
the right.
The driver
glanced over at it, and accidentally let the vehicle
drift
to the edge of the road. It dropped off suddenly, but he
quickly
re-corrected
and pulled back onto the tarmac.

‘What the hell was that?’ called a voice from the back.

‘Nothing,’ the driver said.

Looking over, he realised there was a little ditch each side of the road. Nothing to worry about for someone driving a normal car, but a nightmare for something this big and heavy. If he drove too
close
to the edge, they could slip off the side and topple to one side like a turtle on its shell. Focusing on the road instead, he drove over a small bridge and the road started to curl to the right, towards the exit.

He glanced to his left and saw a black car parked on the grass
with
a couple of people
sitting
inside.

Suddenly, a third
person
stepped out from behind the car, also in all black
,
wearing what looked like
a balaclava or a black helmet.

He saw the
figure
drop to one knee and li
ft something to
their
shoulder.

Aiming it directly at the truck.

And he realised what it was a second too late.

The person in black recoiled as the rocket-launcher whooshed. In a split-second, the driver saw something zoom towards him.

Then th
ere was a deafening explosion.

And the world tipped over.

Ortiz hit the truck first time. She was using a Stinger, and it hit the side of the vehicle perfectly. The rocket didn’t penetrate the steel, as they knew it wouldn’t, but the force of the blast smashed the truck over onto its side. It fell over with a giant crash and groan under a large fireball from the explosion, and came to a shuddering halt on the grass, on its side. They knew there were four guys inside.

And now their gun ports were all but useless.

She dropped the rocket launcher to the ground immediately and grabbed her M16 203 that was resting on the grass beside her. Whilst she did this, the car containing Farrell and Regan
raced
forward, coming to a halt by the upended truck. Across the grass, people on the grass and bystanders in the area started screaming and ran for cover as they reacted to the explosion and realised what was happening.