Silent Night (Sam Archer 4)

by Barber, Tom

  ‘It didn’t take a genius to work out they were planning some sort of atrocity. Once I was done, the leader took the package with the smallest amount of the virus I transferred for him and was out for a while. He didn’t come back with it.’

  ‘It detonated in Central Park,’ Marquez said. ‘Killed a man.’

  Kruger stared at her but didn’t respond. The doctor went to unbutton his shirt and check his torso for injuries but he caught her hands. ‘I’m fine, doc. It’s just my face.’ He seemed resolute and tough. Archer liked him already.

  At the door behind them, Josh ducked his head into the room. ‘Sir?’ Shepherd turned. ‘I’ve got some news. The third bomber has been found. He’s out of the game.’

  ‘What do you mean he’s out of the game?’

  ‘He’s dead. He was found in a restroom of a café near Bryant Park. His neck was broken.’

  ‘His bomb?’

  ‘That’s the problem sir. The device was there. But the vial containing the virus was gone.’

  Thirty five miles to the south west, a New Jersey farmer pulled open the door to a large barn where he always took his lunch break. Despite being in his early seventies, he’d been up since first light, something he had to do if he wanted to make the most of the season and prepare for the spring.

  He’d just finished his work for the morning. He owned a large spread of land and the shed he was standing in was almost like his office. It was also excellent storage for his retirement gift, an Antonov An-2, a single engine biplane. Given that it was a Russian model, built back in 1946, the duster was a favourite of collectors and aircraft aficionados. The farmer was the latter, although he’d never flown the plane. A pilot couldn’t fly an Antonov in the United States without an experimental certification which the farmer was currently working on attaining. He’d spent most of his retirement fund on the duster, much to his wife’s fury, but was planning to sell it as soon as he’d taken it up in the air just the once. After he experienced that, he’d be happy. An expert had come by last month to give him an evaluation. He’d told him that the plane could be worth over $60,000 to the right collector. The farmer was elated. He’d bought it for two thirds that price.

  Leaving the door to the barn open behind him, he walked towards his old armchair. It was beaten and worn, much like the farmer himself, but over time the seat had adjusted to his body shape and now was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat in. He relaxed back into the chair, his knees creaking, enjoying that moment when the pressure was taken off them. Beside him on a table was a radio, a newspaper and his lunch. His wife had made him a sandwich wrapped in foil. He clicked on the radio then snapped out the newspaper on his lap. Reaching over, he picked up his sandwich and unwrapped the foil. It was a Reuben, his favourite, corned beef, cheese, sauerkraut and Russian dressing on thick-cut bread.

  Warm and comfortable, he picked it up and went to take a bite.

  'That's quite a plane,' a voice suddenly said, startling him.

  He looked up and saw two people standing in the doorway of the barn. It was a man and a woman. They’d appeared silently and out of nowhere. He didn’t recognise either of them and they definitely weren’t rural folk. The man had white blond hair, almost like an albino, most of it sticking straight up. The woman looked the tougher of the two, her face hard, lank dark hair that looked like it needed a good scrub and a brush. Both were in jeans and leather jackets.

  Both were staring at him.

  'Can I help you?'

  'What kind of model is that?' the man asked, pointing at the crop duster.

  'Antonov. An-2.'

  ‘How much is it?'

  ‘It’s not for sale.’

  ‘You don’t know how much I’m willing to offer.’

  The farmer didn’t reply.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked instead.

  'You got any pesticide?' the blond man asked, ignoring the question.

  The farmer's eyes narrowed. 'Now what would you want with that?'

  'How much you got?'

  'Enough.'

  ‘Well show us what you have and I’ll tell you how much I’m willing to pay.'

  The farmer hid his excitement. He had much more than he needed and could make a tidy profit here which would please his wife. He pretended to think for a moment, pondering the offer. Then he pushed himself out of the chair and walked over towards them.

  Up close, he got a closer look at the pair. The white-blond haired guy had a thick scar over his eyebrow which told a story that the farmer didn’t want to know. The woman had a face that looked weathered and hard. Not city folk. They lacked that softness.

  And there was something about them that was unnerving.

  'You don't look like farmers.'

  'We're from out of town,' the woman said, her eyes fixed on him.

  'The plane’s not for sale. But I can sell you some pesticide. For the right price.'

  'Let’s see it first.'

  The farmer looked at them for a moment, then beckoned the pair to follow, leading them out of the barn and to another shed next door. He undid the lock, taking the wooden bar off the front and placing it to one side, then pulled open the doors.

  He had six thick canisters of the pesticide stored inside. Each barrel was about the size of a beer keg, a yellow toxic sign on the side of each one.

  'There you are,' he said, turning. ‘Now let’s talk about the price.’

  The blond man grinned.

  ‘OK. How about we take it all off your hands for free?’

  The farmer looked at him, to see if he was joking.

  He wasn’t.

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  He suddenly realised the woman had her hand behind her back.

  She whipped it round and the farmer found himself looking down the end of a silenced pistol.

  She pulled the trigger. The back of the farmer's head blew apart, spraying blood and brains into the air in a mist and he collapsed to the ground with a thud, sinking slightly into the mud. Drexler gave him two more rounds for good measure as Wicks stepped past the body and grabbed a wheeled dolly placed beside the canisters.

  Stepping past the dead man, Drexler walked up to the first tank of pesticide. She tipped it onto its side and Wicks slid the dolly underneath, loading it up.

  TWENTY ONEIn the bedroom at the house off Ditmars, silence had followed Josh’s revelation that despite finding the third bomber the last vial was still missing. A race that had been looking set to close was now wide open again.

  Shepherd had sent him out to call Rach with fresh orders, to find out who went into that café with the dead bomber and broke his neck. Inside the bedroom the medic applied a final butterfly stitch to the cut on Dr Kruger’s right cheekbone, then clicked her case shut.

  She rose and turned to Shepherd. ‘All done. He should be fine. Maybe a mild concussion, but no lasting damage.’

  She passed Kruger a small capsule full of paracetamol.

  ‘Take two of these every four hours for the headache and keep your heart-rate down.’

  ‘Easier said than done today,’ Jorgensen said, as Kruger took the capsule.

  The woman turned and left the room, leaving them alone.

  ‘Why did they do this?’ Marquez asked Kruger, pointing to the damage to his face. ‘Did you talk back to them?’

  Kruger shrugged. ‘Guess they didn’t like me. The leader struck me as a bully. Literally.’

  ‘So what went on this morning?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘The door was shut,’ Kruger said. ‘But they all left pretty early. I heard them arguing in the kitchen last night after they’d given me a beating. Something had happened.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I think one of their guys jumped ship. They kept saying where the hell is he? Then two of them got into a big argument.’

  ‘You catch a name?’

  Kruger shook his head. ‘Afraid not. But like I said, I heard them step out early this morning. Two of them got back about a
n hour ago, the fat boy and the kid. They were about to kill me just before you showed up.’

  He suddenly paused.

  ‘Wait. Did you locate the other vials?’

  ‘We got one,’ Shepherd said. ‘But we missed another. It was released in a clothing store by the Seaport. We’re still trying to locate the fifth.’

  ‘How many dead?’

  Pause.

  ’Fifty nine.’

  Kruger stared at him for a moment. Then he rose to his feet, wincing as blood started circulating through his lower body for the first time in eighteen hours.

  ‘We need to talk to Peter right away. Where is he?’

  Shepherd licked his lips.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some more bad news. Dr Flood is dead.’

  Pause. Kruger looked stunned.

  ‘When he found the virus was gone this morning he committed suicide,’ Shepherd continued. ‘He stepped off the roof of your lab building.’

  ‘You were there?’

  Across the room, Archer nodded. Kruger saw this.

  ‘Did he say anything?’ he asked.

  ‘You need to get out of New York,’ Archer recited. ‘Thousands of people are going to die.’

  Kruger bowed his head. The team gave him a moment. All things considered, this guy was having a pretty bad day.

  They’d wait until later to tell him about Dr Tibbs.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ Shepherd said.

  ‘Peter was a great friend of mine. He was the one who brought me here from Cape Town.’

  Behind them, Josh suddenly ducked his head in through the door again. He looked straight at Shepherd.

  ‘Sir, you need to come take a look at this.’

  Shepherd turned and moved to the doorway. Archer followed him out as Marquez and Jorgensen stayed with the South African doctor to ask him some more questions.

  The two men walked into the kitchen, joining Josh who was standing over one of the dead bodies, the man Archer had shot with the Mossberg. A CSU investigator was snapping photographs of the wounding on the dead man’s chest. As the camera flashed, Josh pointed down at the body.

  ‘Check it out.’

  The guy’s shirt had been pulled open, revealing the catastrophic damage caused by the shotgun shell. But that wasn’t what Josh was pointing at. The man had several black tattoos on his torso, including a prominent one on his flabby right pectoral. The inking was instantly familiar.

  A Swastika.

  ‘What the hell?’ Archer said. ‘He was a neo-Nazi?’

  The CSU photographer overheard the question and nodded. ‘Correct. I’ve run into members of this crew before.’

  He pointed at a smaller tattoo on the dead guy’s stomach.

  It was an SS, printed in slanted font.

  ‘They're a white-power group spread across the country. They call themselves The Stuttgart Soldiers. That’s what the SS stands for.’ He then jabbed a finger down the corridor at the man Marquez had taken down. ‘His buddy has the same tattoo on his arm.’

  Staring at the Swastika tattoo on the man’s chest, Shepherd pulled his cell phone and dialled Briefing Room 5 at the Bureau. He pushed the button for loudspeaker and held the phone in his palm so everyone could hear.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Rach, I need you to check something out for me.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I’m at the house off Ditmars. The men in possession of the virus were members of a neo-Nazi group called The Stuttgart Soldiers. Run a search and tell me what you find. You’re on speaker.’

  There was a pause. Archer, Josh and the CSU investigator could hear computer keys being tapped at speed. In the silence, they all examined the dead man’s tattoos.

  ‘The Stuttgart Soldiers. Founded in 2002. An estimated eight thousand members across the United States. They have chapters in New York, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Texas, Portland, Arizona and California. Leader of the New York group is a man called Kyle Gunnar. 36 years old, single. He lives in Astoria too.’

  ‘Send me his address.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He ended the call and turned to the CSU investigator, pointing at the dead neo-Nazi at their feet.

  ‘Does he have any ID?’

  The man shook his head. ‘None we can find. He doesn’t have a wallet or any passport or driving licence. The kid down the hall doesn’t either.’

  Jorgensen and Marquez had just walked out of the bedroom with Dr Kruger. He stared down at the dead neo-Nazi lying on the kitchen floor, his face expressionless. In the meantime, Shepherd spoke to Jorgensen and Marquez. ‘Take the doc back to the Bureau. Maddy Flood is already over there. Get him some food and make him comfortable.’

  They both nodded. ‘Yes sir.’

  Then Shepherd turned to Josh and Archer.

  ‘You two, with me. We’re going to pay Kyle Gunnar a visit.’

  Gunnar lived about five minutes away, up past Astoria Boulevard on 43rd Street. The trio went in Shepherd’s car. Turning right, Shepherd pulled to a stop thirty yards from the address and killed the engine. Looking down both sidewalks, Archer saw a few passers-by but other than that it was quiet, a polar opposite from the mayhem in Manhattan earlier in the day.

  ‘He lives on the top floor. Apartment 3,’ Shepherd said, all three men looking at the front door of the house.

  ‘Mossbergs?’ Josh asked.

  ‘Leave them here. He’s one man. Pistols only. And zip up your coats.’

  They did so, covering up the NYPD lettering on their bulletproof vests. Then the three men stepped out of the car and shut the doors behind them.

  They headed briskly down the street. Archer was the first to the steps leading to the building. He walked quickly and quietly up to the door then tried the handle. In his previous life as a member of the ARU task-force he’d lost count of how many times he’d done this. And scores of times he’d seen guys prep a breaching round in a shotgun or a hoist up a ram only to find the door in question was already unlocked.

  This one was open too.

  He twisted the knob, pushing it back silently and the three men entered the building. There was only one flight of stairs, straight ahead, and they moved up them silently taking care to walk slowly and not announce their presence, keeping their footfalls soft to avoid any loud creaking on the wooden stairwell.

  On the first floor, the entrance to Apartment 3 was immediately to the left.

  The door was ajar.

  Does he lock anything? Archer thought, pulling his Sig and flicking off the safety.

  Pushing back the door, he moved into the apartment followed closely by the other two. Looking through the sights of the pistol, he stepped into a kitchen. It was immaculately tidy, the pots and pans put away, no dishes in the sink, the white-tiled floor clean and shiny. There was one door to the left and one to the right. Once again, the door to the left was open. The room was dark and looked as if nobody was inside. Nevertheless, Josh turned and moved to check it out. Never assume anything. They didn't want to turn their backs and discover it was occupied after all.

  There was noise coming from the room to the right. It sounded like a television and the quiet murmur of conversation. Archer and Shepherd moved towards it, both pulling open their jackets to reveal their NYPD vests. No need for stealth anymore. They were already inside the apartment.

  Standing side by side, Shepherd watched as Archer grasped the handle and twisted it.

  As soon as the door fell back, the two men saw Gunnar. And they instantly realised why he was so relaxed about his security.

  The man was absolutely enormous. He was over six foot five and built like a brick shithouse, comfortably over two-fifty and closer to three hundred pounds. Shirtless, he was facing the far wall when the two men entered. Archer saw a thick black Swastika tattoo covering the majority of his back. He also had two words printed in bold lettering above the symbol across his barn-door wide shoulders.

  DON’T TREAD.

  Gunnar turned, calmly and sl
owly, having heard the two men enter. He was built like a strong man or super-heavyweight bodybuilder, more tattoos spread over the front of his muscular torso. His head was shaved and his jaw looked as if it had been chiselled out of rock.

  He looked down at the two intruders, expressionless.

  ‘NYPD. Show me some hands,’ Shepherd ordered, his pistol on the man.

  Gunnar wasn’t the only person in the room. A dark-haired woman was sitting on a couch to his right. Dressed in a white vest and panties, her hair dirty and unwashed, she turned and saw the two men, her make-up smudged around her eyes.

  ‘Pigs!’ she screamed, flying up from the couch and rushing towards them.

  Josh suddenly stepped into the bedroom, having cleared the room next door. He torso-wrapped the woman, using her momentum to take her forwards and pin her against the wall. She was thrashing and swearing, trying to heel kick him as he kept her trapped to the wall with one arm, holstering his side-arm and pulling some cuffs from his hip with the other.

  Watching this, Gunnar smiled, his hands up in the air.

  ‘Baby, relax. It’s OK.’

  ‘Get your hands off me, pig!’ she screamed again.

  Archer and Shepherd kept their pistols on Gunnar, who dwarfed both of them. There was a pause, a momentary standoff even though only one side was armed.

  This was going to go one of two ways and that depended on what Gunnar did next.

  ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ he asked.

  Archer couldn’t conceal his surprise. Gunnar’s voice was incongruously cultured for a man of his size and appearance. He sounded like a Harvard grad.

  ‘We need you to come with us,’ Shepherd said.

  ‘Concerning?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Gunnar nodded. ‘Very well.’ Frowning, he looked past them at the woman, who was still thrashing and hollering as Josh tried to drag her hands into the cuffs. ‘Baby, please. Relax.’ Then he turned to Shepherd, offering his hands.

  ‘Front or back?’

  ‘Back,’ Shepherd said.

  Gunnar nodded, turning and presenting his wrists for the cuffs. Archer stepped forward carefully, holstering his weapon and making sure that Shepherd had his Sig on the man the entire time. He pulled a set of steel cuffs from a pouch above the holster for the Sig. He clicked one side onto Gunnar’s left wrist, which was as thick as the business end of a baseball bat. Up close, Gunnar was even more intimidating, towering over Archer. His back was like a damn mountain.