by Tom Barber
Opening a bottle of water and taking a drink, he watched as Josh slapped an extra plate on each side of the barbell, slid on the clips, then moved around to the bench and lay back. He unracked the bar as if there was nothing on it and started pushing out repetitions, each one controlled and smooth. Archer stayed where he was, watching; Josh didn’t need a spot. He’d recently recovered from an injury himself, a gunshot wound to his arm. Josh had always looked as if he’d started life with a barbell in his crib but the bullet he’d taken had forced him to lay off the iron for a while. He’d been hitting it ferociously since he got the green light from the doctor six weeks ago and now looked even bigger than he had before he took the round.
Josh’s recovery was ahead of Archer’s, so he’d already been working on the street for six weeks, but truth be told it didn’t feel right unless Archer was beside him. He was almost as keen for his partner to return as the man was himself. Archer had been off his feet once before when he’d broken his ankle a couple of years ago, at the end of an operation back in the UK when he was a cop in the Armed Response Unit, the premier counter-terrorist task force in London. Back then every day off duty had felt like a week, tedious and boring as hell. This time around had been no different.
Finishing his set, Josh racked the barbell and sat up. Archer suddenly felt a cough coming on and hacked a few times, a deep chesty noise that came straight from the lungs and resonated around the gym, the last remnants of his chest infection. Physical exertion still brought it out every now and then.
A personal trainer nearby paused to look over but Josh caught his eye. The man turned back to his client.
‘The cough still bothering you?’ Josh asked.
Archer shrugged. ‘Not like it used to. How’s the arm, Popeye?’
Josh looked down. There was a white scar from the 9mm round, a small silver crescent moon. ‘Pretty good,’ he said, flexing his considerable bicep. Archer rolled his eyes and coughed again. The trainer looked over again, and this time couldn’t bite his tongue.
‘C’mon man, this is a gym, not the infirmary,’ he said. ‘Don’t come here sick.’
Another look from Josh sent him a clear message. Archer wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt as Josh rose from the bench and walked over to sit beside him, drinking from his own bottle of water. The two men watched the activity in the gym. Behind them the late afternoon sun poured in through the windows, warming their backs and lighting up the room with a golden glow.
‘So is Chalky coming back any time soon?’ Josh asked.
Archer grinned. ‘I hope not, for both our sakes. I think once a year is enough.’
Chalky was Archer’s best friend and an old police teammate in London at the Armed Response Unit. When Archer’s ankle was fresh on the mend from the break in December, his friend had shown up on New Year’s Eve, unannounced and totally out of the blue. Having never been to the States, he’d insisted on Archer and Josh showing him the city that weekend and they’d ended up partying for almost 72 hours straight.
With Archer’s ankle newly immobilised in a cast, Chalky, by means known only to himself, had got his hands on a wheelchair which he’d used to ferry Archer around the bars in the Village. The leader of their five-man detail at the Bureau, Sergeant Matt Shepherd, had been keeping close tabs on the pair’s recovery, insisting they eat well, rest up and slowly build their strength. Both of them had agreed they would never mention that particular New Year’s weekend to him. Fortunately for the sake of their health and Josh’s marriage, Chalky’s trip had been a brief one and he’d returned to the UK, threatening to return in the not too distant future. Nevertheless, both men were sad to see him go. He was definitely a one-off.
Archer smiled, thinking of his friend and those three days of mayhem. Beside him, Josh drained his water then looked at the bottle.
‘Big day tomorrow.’
Archer nodded. ‘I’m nervous. Is that bad?’
‘No. No way. Nerves keep us focused. How long has it been, three months?’
Archer nodded. ‘Feels like three years.’
He drank some more water as Josh checked his watch.
‘Shit, I need to go pick up the kids,’ he said. ‘Their movie will be ending soon.’
‘Which one was it?’
‘The new Disney film. Something about a fish. I expect I’m going to hear all about it; ask me again tomorrow and I’ll recite the plot.’
Archer grinned, but felt another cough building. He noted the snarky personal trainer watching him, waiting for it to happen.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Not far downtown, a tall, grey-haired man peered out of a window through a small gap in a set of shutters. He was on the 3 floor of an apartment building on Central Park West, just off West 89 Street. He scanned the area below for anything suspect with a practised and experienced eye.
Activity in the street was routine, cars passing each way, pedestrians enjoying the warm weather, many of them wandering in and out of the Park.
He searched for anyone who seemed suspicious, anyone who looked nervous or out of place. There were always tell-tale signs if you knew what to look out for.
But there was nothing.
Everything seemed fine.
His name was John Foster. Fifty five years old, he was a Chief Deputy US Marshal for the United States Department of Justice. Foster was built like an oak door, six foot four and with the sinewy but thick muscle that only a lifetime of physical activity gives a person. Born and bred in Oklahoma, Foster had grown up on a busy farm and consequently had developed two things: an impeccable work ethic, and a desire to see the world outside of Shawnee. His father had served in the 101 Airborne during the Second World War and his stories from his time in Normandy had painted a picture of a world far beyond the State borders of Oklahoma.
They’d had a direct effect; before his time working for the Department of Justice, Foster had served in the US Army for twenty two years, completing tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, Bosnia and in Gulf One and Two, the Middle Eastern heat giving him a baked leanness that he’d never lost, even since he mustered out. He’d entered the Army as a twenty two year old Private and left a forty four year old Major. He’d been shot almost as many times as he’d been divorced and he was one of the best and most respected guys the DOJ had at their disposal.
The US Marshals service was the oldest Federal law enforcement office in the United States, created way back in 1789. With almost five thousand employees spread out across the country, the Marshals performed a variety of vital tasks, such as hunting down and apprehending wanted fugitives, transporting Federal prisoners, protecting endangered witnesses and managing assets seized from criminal enterprises. Their success rate was outstanding; in 2012, they captured over thirty six thousand Federal fugitives and cleared over thirty nine thousand felony warrants. In eleven years, Foster had either on his own, or with a squad, apprehended over 4,000 criminals on the run, most of them armed and extremely dangerous. Add the captures to his time in the Army and it was one hell of a résumé Foster had.
However, the clock on his career was ticking. Mandatory retirement age for a Federal Marshal was fifty seven. Well aware that he was twenty two months away from that particular milestone, Foster knew many guys his age in the Service were either already retired or very much looking forward to it, a chance to put their feet up and go on long vacations, finally fully enjoy a life outside work and reap the rewards of their well-padded pension funds. But Foster would never willingly retire, not until they packed up his desk for him and marched him out of the DOJ Headquarters or lowered him into the ground inside a wooden box. He’d spent his life facing off against an enemy, from his early days in the school yard in Shawnee, through the plains of the Middle East, all the way to the last eleven years as a US Marshal.
It was the reason he was looking through this particular window in this particular apartment on this particular evening. He didn’t know how to live any other way, something h
is trio of ex-wives had never known how to deal with.
Relax wasn’t a word in John Foster’s dictionary.
Neither was surrender.
As a Chief Deputy, Foster led a small team that had a damn good reputation as a direct consequence of the work they’d done for the DOJ. He insisted on the highest of standards; he expected his two guys to maintain peak physical fitness, never smoke and carry two handguns with them at all times, including off duty. Hits had been ordered on Federal Marshals in the past and Foster knew there wasn’t an agent in the Service who could ever be certain their name wasn’t on a similar list. The Marshal issue sidearm is a Glock 22 or 23 handgun, a dependable modern pistol with seventeen rounds in the magazine, but that was Foster’s back up. He was old school and liked the old school weapons. He carried a Smith and Wesson .44 six shooter in a shoulder holster that was more field cannon than handgun, but it matched his personality to a tee. If people were guns, Foster would be the .44 Magnum; seasoned, resilient, tough as a cactus in the desert and just as prickly. The younger Marshals preferred the semi-automatics, citing the increased quantity of ammunition and rate of fire as the reason why, but Foster couldn’t be swayed. .44 Magnums didn’t jam and also packed some serious firepower; he was fairly sure he could put down a charging rhino with the handgun if he had to.
Turning from the shutters, he opened a bottle of water and took a sip. Staying hydrated in the field was important, although too much fluid intake meant bathroom breaks and moments of vulnerability. Given his days in the military and on long patrols, Foster had it down to a science. He could sip on water all day and only have to use the bathroom once in the evening, a skill which was especially vital for witness protection. Turning his back for just one instant was an opportunity for someone to get to the target. Foster knew the kind of people they were dealing with on this particular operation.
They were the type who would only need seconds to get the job done.
The 3 floor Central Park-facing apartment he was standing in had been hired out by the DOJ. He looked at the four other people in the room with him, each keeping themselves occupied. Two of them were his men, US Deputy Marshals Jack Carson and Jared Barlow. Carson was sitting at the kitchen table facing Foster, Barlow across the room to the left and opening up a brown bag of fast food he’d just picked up from down the street. Both of them had a shoulder holster holding a Glock and a pancake holster on their right hip carrying a Heckler and Koch USP and two spare clips.
Foster had worked with Carson for five years and Barlow for four. Being together much of the time meant he’d got to know the two men as if they were family; he knew them inside out. Like any family, they shared some similarities and many differences. Both men were in their early thirties and now unmarried, both were dark-featured, handsome guys and both were pretty damn good at what they did. However, their temperaments were polar opposites, just like the positive and negative signs on a battery. Carson was a light-hearted guy, never slow to crack a joke or a smile, able to lighten the mood on any occasion no matter how serious. Barlow had a much sourer disposition and complained like a landlord with late rent, but Foster didn’t suffer fools. He wouldn’t have had him around unless he could get shit done which is why he was on his team.
Nevertheless, Foster had pulled Barlow to one side about a month ago and told him his attitude needed to change; interestingly, the talk seemed to have had an effect. On this operation he’d been much better, even making a few jokes which had been followed by periods of complete silence, Foster and Carson staring at him, stunned. The jokes hadn’t been funny but hell, for him it was a start.
The trio had either chased down on their own or assisted on 998 warrants and had protected 17 State witnesses from some of the most dangerous people not only in the United States, but also from abroad. Many of the people the Marshals service guarded were involved in the drug trade in some capacity, and the cartels they were betraying would go to hideously violent lengths to ensure their silence. Foster, Carson and Barlow were all in impressive physical shape; they knew how each other thought and how they would each react to a situation, like an NFL quarterback who could pass a ball to his wide receivers without even looking. Hesitation equalled death in their world. Foster couldn’t work with someone he couldn’t totally rely on. For that reason alone, he’d let Barlow complain as he so often liked to do before he’d sorted out his act. He’d stick with a guy he could trust implicitly over someone he didn’t know well ten times out of ten, even if the guy in question could be a pain in the ass.
As the thought crossed his mind, he flicked his eyes over to the third member of his group. She was female, twenty seven years old, with black hair, brown eyes and tanned light brown skin. She was carrying one handgun, not two.
Her name was Deputy Marshal Alice Vargas.
On operations like this, Foster, Carson and Barlow always worked as a three and none of them felt any real empathy towards the newcomer. When he’d been presented with this case, Foster had flat out refused to take on an extra Marshal; to work on a job of this nature you needed to know and trust the team beside you one hundred per cent. One mistake or lapse in judgement could get everyone killed and none of them felt like being saddled with extra weight, especially a hundred and eighteen pound inexperienced woman still in her twenties.
After doing some digging around, Foster had discovered she was also fresh out of the Marshals Academy, which he really wasn’t happy with; not on a task like this. It’s too soon for her, he told his superior, Deputy Supervisor James Dalton. He’d been vehement in his opposition. Many people would have viewed Foster’s attitude as abrasive and unnecessarily hostile but he’d spent his entire adult life either in the army being shot at or chasing down some of the most wanted criminals in the country. It didn’t encourage the warm and fuzzy approach and he sure as hell wasn’t going to risk people’s lives by sparing this girl’s feelings. Trust and experience were like solid gold in these parts.
Hurt feelings could recover. Hurt physical bodies, not so much.
He’d aired his concerns and displeasure at Vargas joining his team when he’d been assigned the case but he’d been told bluntly to shut up and put up. Given the person they were protecting, Dalton felt a female presence was mandatory and ordered Foster to deal with it and ask no further questions.
He shifted his gaze from Vargas and looked over at the last member of the group. She was a seven year old girl named Jennifer who was sitting at the table playing with Carson and Vargas, her feet hanging down from the chair and swinging as she concentrated. Spending prolonged time with some witnesses was like having a tooth gradually pulled, but Foster had spent the last eight days with the girl and had been surprised to find it wasn’t the chore he expected. Some people were born more resilient than others and despite being a kid, the girl certainly had that strength of spirit in spades. She didn’t whine, she didn’t complain and she’d adjusted to her new situation quickly. She was only upset occasionally, and that was where Vargas stepped in, comforting her and distracting her, calming the child down.
He watched her playing, using some kind of make-up as she painted Carson’s face with a brush. She seemed happy enough. I wonder what’s going on under the surface though, he thought. Foster had witnessed post-traumatic stress disorder a number of times. He’d suffered a bout of it himself after his first tour in the Gulf in ’91, and was something that had taken all of his mental strength to defeat. He’d learned early how dangerous and unforgettably gruesome life could be on the frontline and he knew a number of soldiers, some of them good friends of his, who’d returned from combat and never shaken that thousand-yard stare, a look only people who’d witnessed some terrible things possessed.
He recognised the tell-tale signs; often they could be delayed, triggered by the strangest of things, but so far the disorder hadn’t seemed to have manifested itself in the girl. Children’s imaginations meant they could often filter things in a way adults couldn’t, protecting them and cushi
oning them from the brutal realities of life. Foster had four kids himself, all boys, who were grown up now and living their own lives. He liked children; they were innocent. Having spent most of his life engaged with people who represented the worst side of human nature, he found a child’s perspective of the world refreshing. Untainted. Honest.
As the thought crossed his mind, his eyes narrowed. The same couldn’t be said for the people hunting her.
She’d been placed in protective custody as a standard precaution, but particular measures were being taken on this operation considering who she was. There was bound to be a large street bounty on her head and there would be people out there right now trying to claim it. However, Foster had the upper hand. He, his team and the girl could be in any city in the United States and the five boroughs of New York City alone covered 468 square miles, with over eight million people living in them. It was conceivable that the men after the child had guessed Foster wouldn’t want to travel too far and would go to ground, remaining in their own back yard. However, Manhattan was a big place, full of tall buildings and apartment complexes with a sea of people, not to mention the possibility that they could be hiding out somewhere in The Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn or Staten Island. A concrete maze of potential hiding places. One small girl amongst eight million people; a true needle in a haystack. If you knew what you were doing, it was pretty easy to hide out in New York.
If you were as experienced as Foster, you could just disappear.
Across the room, sitting in his chair, Barlow had finished some fries and was now eating a burger out of a greasy wrapper, his leg jiggling out of boredom and pent-up energy, not enjoying being cooped up inside. They were all dressed in casual clothes, jeans, t-shirts and shirts to cover the holsters on their hips and around their shoulders. Vargas was sitting beside the child and talking with her while she worked on Carson. Something she said made the girl giggle. Even though he didn’t know or fully trust her, Foster had to admit that having the woman as part of his team for the last eight days had been helpful. She’d struck up a real rapport with the child in a way neither he nor Barlow or Carson could have done. She was also in charge of the girl’s medication; Jennifer was epileptic and needed to take some tablets each morning and night, a process Vargas ensured happened right on schedule.
