by Tom Barber
She’d stepped out earlier to collect some things from CVS to entertain the kid and the girl was now using whatever Vargas had picked up on Carson, giving him a makeover. Across the table, he had his eyes closed, patiently waiting as she applied makeup to his face, her brow furrowed in concentration. Foster shook his head and hid a smile; Carson looked ridiculous, the small powdery brush catching in the stubble on his cheeks, glitter around his eyes. However, it was keeping the child occupied so he didn’t intrude or say anything. Considering everything she’d been through in the past few weeks, any moment she was happy was a good one.
He shot his cuff and checked his Tag. 1745. They were due to drive to a safe house in Spokane, Virginia shortly, getting the girl out of the city. They’d only been in New York for the past three days but despite it being a great place to go to ground, Foster had a bad feeling in his gut which life and experience had taught him to never ignore. He was looking forward to getting out of Manhattan; it was probably safe here, but it was claustrophobic and was also the stomping ground of the men who would be hunting the girl. According to official protocol, Foster and his team were scheduled to head to a DOJ place in Baltimore tonight but Foster was calling an audible and taking the girl to a safe house no-one other than he knew about. Aside from the fact there had been leaks inside the Service before and people had been killed as a result, this was the first time in his career that Foster had protected a child; it was making him extra cautious. He often did this, going off grid with a witness.
That was why he was so good at his job. That was why he’d survived for so long.
Apart from Carson and Barlow, he didn’t trust anybody.
In a car on the Park-side of the street below, two men sat side by side in the front seats in silence, facing uptown. Dressed in baggy jeans and loose tops, they were both armed with steel handguns, held low against their thighs, full magazines slotted into the base of each weapon.
The guy behind the wheel was lean, brown-skinned and tall, with thick blond dreadlocks hanging down his back and over his shoulders. He was currently the lead suspect in three city homicides without sufficient evidence to charge, and had committed almost a dozen others that the NYPD had no idea he was connected to.
He was the leader. His name was Braeten.
He didn’t view himself as a murderer per se. He was more of a problem solver, willing to do work that others couldn’t either out of fear, or for moral reasons. He didn’t suffer from either, so if you wanted someone gone, he and his four other guys would make it happen for the right price. He’d been hired by a variety of clients in the past; city gangs, the Mob, cartels. Even a businessman who was screwing some guy’s wife and wanted her husband out of the picture for good. New York was a city built on competition, money and greed, which meant there would always be a call for teams like Braeten’s. Somewhere in the five boroughs, there was always someone who wanted someone else killed.
That was where Braeten and his crew came in.
He’d have preferred to get this particular job done indoors, out of sight and at close quarters. Manhattan was always crawling with cops and the people they were dealing with here were trained professionals, armed and more than prepared. They also needed surprise on their side; trying to force entry against this group wouldn’t work. They’d be ready for that. Also, they’d be checking the street constantly. If Braeten and his crew walked into the apartment building they might as well ring ahead and schedule an appointment.
He’d settled on an ambush in the street. Not ideal, but the best they could do given the circumstances and timescale. They’d have to get it done hard and fast, and be gone before the pigs showed up. Eye witnesses would be plentiful but Braeten was planning to lay low and get out of New York for a while anyway. He could certainly afford it now after the down-payment he’d received for this gig.
He glanced at the pistol in his hand, resting against his thigh. He’d wanted some heavier fire power, something automatic like an Uzi or an assault rifle, but he’d only been called twenty four hours ago which had left him little time to sufficiently prepare. Even from a short distance, handguns required aim and precision; considering three of his team were prolific cocaine abusers, they’d have to get up close and personal to be accurate. Normally, that wasn’t a problem, the killings taking place in tight proximity, often with a blade or a bat or a length of wire. This time, however, it could well be.
Beside him, right on cue, he heard a snort and saw the guy beside him taking a quick upper from a key. He had a small open bag on his lap, full of shitty low grade powder, and the end of the key was dusty white. They all normally did some before a job, getting psyched and pumped up. Today, Braeten was giving it a miss.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Save it for later.’
The guy ignored him and did another, snorting the cocaine and recoiling as it hit his sinuses.
‘Asshole. I said cut it out.’
‘Relax.’
Braeten swallowed down his anger and looked up at the apartment across the street, focusing on the task at hand.
He saw the shutters move again. He swallowed in anticipation, tightening his grip on the pistol by his thigh.
I know you’re in there, he thought.
And he also knew they’d be coming out soon.
THREE
Eleven blocks uptown, Archer and Josh walked out of the gym on West 100, the doors sliding apart, the dance music and cool air conditioning replaced by musky city heat and the sound of traffic.
Checking the time again, Josh patted Archer on the shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Archer nodded. ‘Take it easy.’
Watching Josh head across the street towards his car, Archer stayed where he was for a moment, enjoying the scenery around him. From where he was standing, facing south, he could see the long path of Central Park West, heading all the way down towards the low West 60 Streets. The sun was sinking towards the horizon but the air was still charged with warmth, the concrete absorbing all the heat from the day and releasing it back into the air come dusk and nightfall. Archer had changed out of his gym gear and was wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt under a red flannel shirt, a pair of black and white Converse sneakers on his feet, a bag slung over his shoulder containing his workout clothes.
Sliding a set of sunglasses over his nose, he made a decision. At the time it seemed so inconsequential.
Later, his thoughts on that would change.
He decided to take a walk. He crossed the street and headed south, Central Park to his immediate left, vehicles passing each way to his right. Feeling the last of the sun for the day on him, he smiled, rolling his sleeves up towards his elbows. He was a sucker for warm weather and was one of those people who could get a tan in a couple of hours. He was already sporting a bronze tone that many would pay damn good money for, but the walk was for more than just soaking up some rays. He’d been using every opportunity he’d had lately to build strength both in his right leg and also his lungs. He felt pretty good, full of oxygenated blood from his workout, but tired. Being bedridden with pneumonia and on crutches for so long had until very recently left him feeling weak and feeble, two words that no-one would ever normally associate with him. Like most people his age he took his robust health and stamina for granted; having had it taken from him for a brief period, he was more than grateful to have it back. Just as the thought crossed his mind, some dust caught in his throat and he coughed again.
Well, almost back.
He hadn’t been a detective in New York for long, less than a year in fact. He’d arrived here at the beginning of last summer, having just left the task force of the ARU, a senior counter terrorist police team in London. His mother was English but his father was American and had been a cop here himself when Archer was a kid. Although both of them were now gone, Archer had always been curious about what it would be like to work for the NYPD, whether it would match up to all those stories he’d heard as a boy. Last May, he’d packed his bags to find ou
t once and for all, and with a stroke of good luck and timing, his old boss Cobb and the head of the Counter Terrorism Bureau, Jim Franklin, had worked out a deal. An NYPD detective had headed across the Atlantic to the ARU, serving as an extra set of eyes and tripwire for the Department. In return, Archer had joined the NYPD as a 3 Grade Detective once he passed the training programme in Georgia.
Almost a year into the experience, it had definitely been a journey. Looking at the Park to his left, his mind was filled with memories. Some of them were more pleasant than others. He’d collected a fair few scars and broken several bones since he’d first signed up for police training ten years ago, not to mention coming face to face with suicide bombers, bank robbers, Special Forces soldiers and Neo-Nazi terrorists to name but a few. His personal life had been equally turbulent, his parents long gone and no woman in his life staying for long, unable to adjust to his work patterns and the fact that right now his job always came first. The only real family he had left was a sister who lived in DC and she lived a structured and regular existence as a lawyer. It was certainly a long way and very different life from his, which seemed to be just the way she liked it. At only twenty eight years old, Sam Archer had definitely been through his share, more than a lot of men his age.
However, despite the toll it had taken on his personal life and the injuries he’d sustained, he loved his job; he knew without a doubt that it was what he was meant to do. Being aware of that gave him comfort during times when things weren’t so easy, when he felt a loneliness that he found hard to shake. Out here, he’d started a new life but it was one that sometimes felt isolated. He’d had a good thing going at the ARU, working with his best friend Chalky and a score of other men and women he’d do almost anything for.
Leaving all that behind was proving harder than he thought it would be.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t complain. He worked in a Bureau which many police officers in New York would give their front teeth to join. He was almost back to his peak physical fitness, having survived ordeals that by all accounts should have killed him. All that personal stuff could wait. Life was pretty damn good.
He wandered on and glanced at a street sign to his right. West 91st. He loved the Upper West Side. Apart from the convenient fact that you could walk all the way down Park West to Columbus Circle totally uninterrupted aside from one street crossing, every neighbourhood in New York had its own personality and up here it was one of relaxed affluence. You didn’t live in these parts unless you were doing seriously well in life. There was no frantic hustle as there was in Midtown, none of the suited bustling or jostling that surrounded you in the Financial District, no claustrophobic mayhem like in Chinatown. If Manhattan was a sports game, this part of the city would be the time-out zone. It was an idyllic place to take a stroll; with the setting sun bathing the area in an orange glow, it was too good not to stop to take a seat and make the most of the last warmth of the day. Archer glanced at his Casio. 5:47 pm. He was in no rush. Anyway, he could hop on a train to Queens and get home in half an hour. Shower, grab some dinner, then get a good night’s sleep before the big day tomorrow.
There was a hot dog stand just ahead to his left. He approached it and ordered a can of Sprite that came straight from the ice box. Paying the man and thanking him, he took a seat on an empty bench and laid his bag beside him, his back to Central Park.
In front of him, the streets were busy without being crowded. People were walking past in each direction, all of them relaxed, talking with companions, enjoying the last few hours of Sunday 24 March. He saw different ethnicities and clothes, guys in t-shirts, women wearing summer dresses three months ahead of time. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head, then pulled the ring on the cold can and took a long refreshing drink, leaning back.
Tomorrow he’d be doing field work for the first time this year. His recovery should have taken longer but he’d worked as hard as he could, fighting his way back to full fitness and shaving a couple of weeks off the expected timeline. The thought of getting back out there gave his stomach another jolt of nervous energy but he grinned to himself.
Damn, he’d missed that feeling.
Finally, I’m back, he thought.
Up in the 3 floor apartment across the street, Foster used his forefinger to part the shutters a fraction and look out of the window again.
Down below, activity still looked routine. Cars were parked on either side of the road, traffic moving both ways past them, people using the sidewalks, the atmosphere just about as relaxed as a Sunday afternoon in a city could be. He noticed that a young blond guy had just taken a seat on a bench across the street near a Sabrett hot dog stand. The man looked chilled out and was drinking a soda. He had a bag beside him which Foster focused on, watching to see if the guy had his hand hovering near the zip. Examining the loose body language, he realised the guy wasn’t a threat. If he was waiting for Foster and his team to bring out the girl, there’d be signs of tension or anticipation.
Shifting his attention from the man, he scanned the rest of the street one last time. It looked safe.
He turned from the window. ‘Time to go.’
His team nodded. Barlow rolled up the wrapper from his burger, tossing it in the trash, then rose and pulled a shirt over his t-shirt, covering the Glock and holster around his shoulders and the USP, cuffs and Marshal’s badge on his hip. Vargas started clearing up all the stuff on the table, pulling on her own shirt and helping Jennifer down.
Foster looked at Carson, who rose from his chair. He had make-up and fairy dust all over his face; the girl had given him a complete makeover. He looked like a Disney princess with hormonal problems. Carson saw the expression on Foster’s face and didn’t need to qualify for Mensa to interpret it.
‘I’ll go wash my face.’
‘Good idea.’
In the car ten feet from the hot dog stand, the two guys watching the apartment had just seen the shutters flicker again. Braeten glanced at the time on the dashboard clock.
5:50 pm.
‘Get ready.’
The man beside him nodded and took one last hit of coke. As he sealed the bag and stuffed it in his pocket, Braeten took out his cell phone with his free hand and dialled a number. Trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder, he pulled the slide on his handgun back, loading a round into the chamber. Beside him, the other man did the same, his leg jiggling with cocaine-fuelled anticipation, getting fired up.
The call connected.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘They’ll be out any minute.’
FOUR
Everyone has instincts.
Most are there for our survival, like anticipating danger. Others are more superficial, like hearing a phone ring and knowing who’s calling before you pick it up. Many can’t be explained, like sensing when you are being watched.
But being a cop for almost a decade sharpens these instincts.
Very often they make the difference between life and death.
And that meant despite being totally relaxed, Archer saw the gun in the man’s hand before anyone else on the street.
The guy carrying it looked about nineteen or twenty, Hispanic, dressed in baggy jeans with a stringy white vest hanging off his shoulders. He’d just stepped out of a car on Archer’s side of the street, about fifteen feet away, and was headed across the road in a break in the traffic. The man’s hand was tucked against the side of his thigh.
The black handgun was nestled by his hamstring against the baggy jeans.
Above the pistol, the man’s wiry arm was tense, the sinews and muscles pronounced and hardened. His body was pumped full of adrenaline and probably something else. Beside him was another guy wearing the same kind of jeans, brown-skinned with thick blond dreadlocks and wearing a grey t-shirt instead of a vest. He’d climbed out on the driver’s side, slamming the door. Archer couldn’t see a gun in his hand but he made out the tell-tale shape in the back of the waistband of his jeans.
They were walking with inten
t and purpose, moving fast across the road.
Someone was about to get killed.
In that split-second, Archer flicked his eyes ahead of the pair. On the other side of the street was a black 4x4 Tahoe pulled up to the kerb, facing downtown. Three men, a woman and a small child were climbing into the car. All five were dressed similarly in casual clothes but didn’t have the look of a family. One of the men was older, a big guy with short-cut grey hair, and the other two were about twenty years younger with dark looks but no family resemblance. The woman had a light-brown complexion and long black hair. The child was a little girl, maybe six or seven.
She was being helped into the car. It seemed the two younger men would be sitting either side of her, one of them already around the road side of the car and reaching for the handle. The woman was on the kerb-side, climbing into the front passenger seat.
The grey-haired guy was reaching for the handle of the driver’s seat, this side of the vehicle.
Archer was already on his feet, leaving his gym bag and drink on the bench. He reached to his hip instinctively but all his hand met was shirt fabric and jean. Shit; he’d left his Department issue Sig Sauer P226 at home with his badge. He always liked to be prepared but hadn’t thought he’d need a pistol for the gym.
