by Tom Barber
The two men with guns were halfway across the street.
Then the guy on the right suddenly raised his pistol as the dreadlocked man drew his.
‘Look out!’ Archer shouted.
The group at the car heard him and turned; they reacted fast. They all ducked for cover save for one of the younger men, the guy climbing into the backseat, who was the road side of the car and had nothing to protect him. He swung round to face the threat, but it was already too late.
The sinewy gunman in the white vest fired. The round hit the man in the torso and knocked him back; he thudded into the Tahoe and slumped to the road.
The gunman fired twice more erratically, working the trigger fast, smashing two windows on the car. The gunshots echoed around the street; people started running for cover, many of them screaming, the peace and quiet of the neighbourhood suddenly shattered.
As traffic screeched to a halt around him, Archer ran towards the two gunmen. They’d heard his shout and swung round, raising their pistols. Archer veered to the right and threw himself behind a car that had just stopped his side of the road, his sunglasses falling off his head to the ground. As he went down, he saw one of the two gunmen suddenly get punched off his feet, blood spraying into the air as a huge gunshot echoed around the street.
He pitched back to the concrete, dead, his weapon spilling out of his hand and clattering onto the road.
Archer looked over the front of the car and saw the grey-haired man holding a large six-shooter in his hand, kneeling by the front of the Tahoe. The other gunman, the guy with blond dreadlocks, had already gone for cover behind a pulled-up car and the grey-haired man fired twice more, just missing him and blowing out a front tyre on the car he’d taken refuge behind, the driver ducking down in terror.
Scrambling to his feet, Archer started running across the road, making a beeline towards the man by the car who’d been shot. He saw the guy with the .44 swing it in his direction, pointing the weapon straight at him. Archer stopped in his tracks, putting his hands up, and shouted NYPD. After a moment’s pause, he took a chance and moved forward, keeping his hands up, desperate to get to the wounded man and help him. The grey-haired man didn’t fire, possibly because he could see Archer wasn’t carrying, probably because the guy with dreadlocks had just fired back. He shifted his aim back in the direction of the immediate threat and squeezed off another round, the huge crack echoing around the surrounding buildings over the screams.
Archer arrived by the gunshot victim. He had dark hair, freshly wetted, and looked in his early thirties; bizarrely, Archer noticed he had some kind of glitter or dust on his neck and collar. Both his hands were clutching his torso, blood staining his shirt and soaking through his fingers, his eyes wide with shock, his breathing ragged as the sounds of screams filled the street. The dark-haired woman and the other younger man had already bundled the girl into the car, pushing her to the floor and jumping in after her, one on each side, keeping her low and forming a protective shield either side.
The grey-haired man who’d killed the gunman in the vest squeezed off another round then moved over to join Archer and the wounded man, keeping his weapon trained on the car providing cover for the man with dreadlocks. He had short, buzz cut grey hair and had the lean, sinewy toughness that screamed ex-military.
He glanced at the wounded man quickly, assessing his condition. ‘Hang on, Carson,’ he said. ‘That’s an order.’ Suddenly there were more gunshots and one of the windows above them smashed, showering the trio with glass.
‘Shit!’
Archer turned and saw three more men with guns had appeared from downtown, moving up the middle of the street. Each was carrying a pistol and had appeared out of nowhere. They were all dressed in jeans and dirty tops like the other two, part of the same crew. This wasn’t a car-jacking.
This was an orchestrated ambush.
The grey-haired man raised his Smith and Wesson and fired back, forcing the advancing trio to take cover, the deafening echo of the weapon firing filling the street. By now, every member of the public was hiding behind something or lying as low as they could on the ground as bullets hit cars, the echoes of the shots reverberating off the buildings.
Archer tore open the back door of the Tahoe; the man and woman reached over and grabbed the wounded man, hauling him across their seat by his collar. The girl in the footwell still had her hands over her ears and looked up in terror at the wounded man as he was dragged in beside her. More gunfire smashed the remaining intact window above them and the group jerked down instinctively, the little girl screaming.
Archer slammed the door. The grey-haired man had maintained his fire, pinning down the gunmen whilst climbing into the driver’s seat. Squeezing off a sixth round, he ducked in and fired the engine, pulling his door shut. On the road side of the car, Archer was already unprotected. Once the Tahoe left, he’d be target practice for the quartet of gunmen. The grey-haired man saw the situation.
‘Get in!’ he shouted.
Archer didn’t need to be told twice, racing around the car and jumping into the front passenger seat. Before he’d shut his door, the grey-haired man beside him floored it, the tyres squealing as the Tahoe jerked forwards. They pulled a fast U-turn in the middle of the street and took off uptown. Dragging his door shut and staying low, bullets smashing into the rear windshield and riddling the 4x4, Archer sneaked a glance behind them and saw the trio of gunmen piling into a car, the man with long blond dreadlocks moving out from his cover and racing to join them.
They were already giving chase before their doors had shut.
FIVE
The grey-haired guy drove like a wheelman. He weaved in and out of traffic, torching his way uptown, streets and landmarks flashing past on both sides. The gunfire had smashed out two windows and put holes in all the others, and wind whistled through the car as they burned up the Upper West Side. The Tahoe was a big vehicle but he handled it expertly, avoiding other cars by a hair’s breadth. West 94, 96, 98. West 100.
Archer checked behind them and could see the pursuing car keeping pace, the four guys visible inside. Their driver was nowhere near as proficient as the man beside Archer and they smashed into vehicles as they forced their way through, unaware and uncaring of anyone in their way. However, they were staying with them.
‘Who the hell are you?’ the grey-haired man shouted at Archer, putting his foot down.
‘NYPD.’
‘Show me a badge!’
‘Watch the road!’ Archer shouted, pointing.
The grey-haired man swerved around a truck emerging from a side street and accelerated forward, pushing the horn and cutting a red light, pedestrians leaping back as the car scorched past just inches from them. They were now in the triple digits; he cut a hard left down Cathedral Parkway and then turned right onto Amsterdam Avenue, the streets ticking past, West 104, West 106, 108, 110. ‘Hang in there, Carson!’ the grey-haired man shouted, his giant hands wrapped tightly around the wheel as they raced on, approaching Harlem. Archer twisted in his seat and saw the wounded man, Carson, in the back. He was lying across the third man and dark-haired woman, blood all over his hands and staining his white t-shirt. He’d been shot in the stomach and his body was contorted in pain, his eyes as wide as saucers as he stared up at the interior of the roof.
They roared on up the street, the streets flashing by, moving further and further uptown. There was a screech of tyres as the pursuing car kept up behind them, right on their tail. They couldn’t shake them.
Suddenly there was a Bam and a wheeze as one of the Tahoe’s tyres blew out, a gunshot echoing in the street. The grey-haired man fought with the wheel but the car starting drifting unresponsively to the left. There was another Bam as another tyre was hit and they slammed hard into a fire hydrant, throwing everyone in the car forward, Carson coughing in pain and the little girl yelping in the rear footwell.
The ruptured hydrant started spraying water into the air and onto the front of the vehicle,
people around them on the street stopping momentarily, shocked at the sudden crash.
The grey-haired man tried the ignition frantically but the 4x4 wouldn’t start. They were stuck.
‘Shit!’
There was the screech of the pursuing car pulling up.
‘Everybody out!’ the grey-haired man shouted, pushing open his door. Archer climbed over to the driver’s side, diving out after him and crouching down behind the 4x4. He saw the driver pull a second weapon from a pancake holster on his belt, a Glock. As the man and woman in the back started to manoeuvre themselves, the child and Carson out of the wrecked Tahoe, their driver started to fire over the bonnet, the four gunmen diving down behind their own car as passers-by screamed and ran for cover. The uninjured younger man drew his own pistol and joined the grey-haired guy firing from behind the 4x4. The woman pulled the child and then Carson out of the car who was clutching his belly, his face twisted in agony. The four gunmen were gathered behind their vehicle, the Glock fire smashing out the windows, shell casings rattling and bouncing onto the concrete. The street around them started to clear as drivers braked hard and reversed fast, pedestrians flat on the ground or scrabbling for safety behind any form of cover.
The enemy gunmen started to return fire, the pace of it increasing dramatically, bullets ripping into the Tahoe and forcing them all down behind it, spraying them with smashed glass as the remaining pieces of window were destroyed. One of the gunmen had an assault rifle.
As bullets smashed into the car, tearing it to pieces, the group sheltering behind it looked at each other. They were pinned down, one of them was already hit and the Tahoe wasn’t going to last long under that kind of firepower. If they stayed where they were, the enemy assault rifle would shred them apart like a wood-chipper.
Their only option was to retreat.
Turning, Archer saw there was a tall tenement building behind them, just past the corner of West 135. The grey-haired man squeezed off two rounds, then looked over his shoulder and saw the block too.
‘Fall back!’ he shouted, jerking his head at the entrance of the building. ‘Get inside!’
Staying low behind the vehicle, Archer grabbed Carson under his armpits and pulled him backwards towards the door as the other two men rose and fired at their pursuers, pinning them down behind the other car.
The dark-haired woman scooped up the small girl and followed Archer quickly, who’d made it to the entrance. Pushing the handle down with his elbow, Archer kicked the door back and dragged Carson inside, the gunfight in front of them intensifying as their attackers saw what they were doing and tried to take them out before they had a chance to get inside the building.
The grey-haired man returned rapid fire with the Glock, then snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. Seeing the door behind them was open, he shouted to the uninjured man beside him.
‘Barlow, move!’
The two men edged back, keeping up their fire, and stumbled inside, bullets kicking up brick dust around the entrance as they fell into the large lobby. The grey-haired guy recovered quickly, rolling to his feet, then reached forward and twisted the lock. The moment he did, one of the windows next to the door was blown out, causing him to recoil, the glass spraying into the air and cutting his face.
Behind him, there was an elevator in the middle of the large lobby. Archer was desperately pushing the button but nothing was happening.
‘Shit!’
He knew they didn’t have long. The dark-haired woman saw the elevator wasn’t coming, and without a word she pulled open a door on the left and ran into a stairwell. Archer bent down and hoisted Carson into a fireman’s carry, then moved to the stairs and followed the woman as she took the lead, holding the girl’s hand who was running alongside her. As they headed up the flights, Archer heard thumping at the door in the lobby as the gunmen tried to force their way in. The pounding was matching the speed of his heart rate; although he was just about back to full fitness, he was carrying a grown man on his shoulders up a flight of stairs, having just come from a strenuous workout at the gym and been in the midst of a savage gunfight with no weapon.
Another burst of adrenaline kicked in and he followed the woman and child, the other two men bringing up the rear, Carson’s weight draped across his shoulders.
They’d just made it to 5 when they heard the door downstairs give way and smash open. The dark-haired woman immediately ducked through the open door to the floor and ran down the corridor, still holding the girl’s hand tightly. She came to a halt outside a random apartment and knocked frantically, looking back at the way she’d come.
No-one opened up.
She turned and desperately pounded on another door across the hall. At the same time, a door behind Archer opened, on the south-east corner of the building. A middle-aged, comely-looking woman looked out, having heard the commotion. She looked shocked when she saw Carson lying across Archer’s shoulders, clearly wounded and in bad shape.
The dark-haired woman saw her and immediately ran back to where she was standing, pushing her way inside the apartment past the female resident without waiting for an invitation. The other woman didn’t try to stop her and stood back, confused but not objecting, still staring at Carson. Hearing feet pounding up the stairwell, Archer glanced quickly back from where they’d just come and saw with relief that they hadn’t left a blood trail. Most of Carson’s blood was on his shirt, or now on him, warm and wet on his front and side.
He and the other two men didn’t waste a second, following the woman and child into the apartment. The moment they were all inside, the grey-haired man quickly pushed the door shut behind him and locked it.
Seconds later, two of the gunmen appeared on the 5 floor corridor, panting, each holding a pistol, their eyes and movements jerky and hyped up. They checked up the stairwell and down the corridor but there was no sign of the group. They’d disappeared.
‘Shit!’ one of them said, kicking the wall.
Behind them, Braeten and the man with the AK-47 raced into view. Taking some deep breaths, Braeten stood and stared down the corridor. It had a door at the front, but it had been jammed open with a wedge, revealing the length of hallway all the way to another stairwell on the other side of the building. There was music and noise coming from some of the apartments, the residents unaware of what was happening.
‘Did they go down here?’ Braeten asked.
‘I don’t know. Just missed them. Could be up a level.’
‘I’ll check it,’ the man with the AK47 said, pushing the magazine release catch and reaching into a bag across his shoulders. He pulled out a fresh clip and slapped it into the weapon, pulling the cocking handle.
‘When the hell did you get that?’ Braeten asked, looking at the rifle.
‘This morning.’
‘Good. Go put it to use.’
The other three turned and ran back into the stairwell, heading up to the next floor. Watching them go, Braeten pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialled a number, looking down the 5 floor corridor. Two Broadway-side doors had opened, residents peering out after hearing the commotion, but they shut quickly when they saw the man with blond dreadlocks and the pistol in his hand. He saw that none of them were the Marshals. Besides, they’d be hiding, not opening doors and peering out.
Turning, Braeten moved into the stairwell, waiting for the call to connect. This wasn’t good. Hawking and spitting, he cursed, pissed off and thirsty for blood. What just went down was a disaster. He never left contracts unfulfilled; a reliable reputation was essential in his line of work. And considering the clients he had, failure meant he could easily be joining those he’d been assigned to kill.
He headed back down the stairs, deciding to check the 4 floor.
Wherever they were hiding, the group would probably be thinking they’d got away and were safe.
But this was only just getting started.
SIX
Inside the apartment to the immediate right of the stairwell
, the group were standing back from the door, all of them breathing hard from exertion and anxiety as they stared at the wooden frame, listening, waiting. Three handguns were trained on the wood; if someone tried to get in, it would be the last thing they ever did.
They waited.
No-one came.
Momentarily satisfied the gunmen weren’t about to burst in, Archer tore his gaze from the door and looked behind him. The wounded man, Carson, was flat on his back on the floor and writhing in agony, his head in the dark-haired woman’s lap who had one hand on his brow and the other holding her pistol, aimed at the door. Blood was spread all over the front of Carson’s white t-shirt, his eyes screwed tight, his teeth gritted together as shock wore off and pain kicked in. Standing beside them were the small girl and the unwounded man from the car. The man was watching the door whilst the girl watched Carson, her face pale, tears in her eyes. The owner of the apartment was a middle-aged slightly faded blonde. She was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a grey, long-sleeved t-shirt with the logo of some baseball team on the front. She was standing to one side, staring at the group who’d invaded her space but particularly at the wounded man bleeding out on her floor.
However, she wasn’t making a fuss or more importantly, any noise.
To Archer’s right, the grey-haired man reloaded his .44 with another six shells. Tucking the empty copper casings into his pocket quietly, he flicked the cylinder into place then pulled a black badge from his belt and showed it to the homeowner. Archer instantly recognised the steel star surrounded by a circle.
This man was a US Marshal.
‘Is there a room we can use?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded, staying silent. He turned to the dark-haired woman. ‘Vargas, get the girl.’ He shifted his attention to the uninjured man. ‘Barlow, watch the door.’ Both of them nodded. Easing Carson’s head off her lap and carefully lowering it to the floor, the woman called Vargas rose and took the child’s hand as the grey-haired man holstered his .44 and bent down, gripping Carson’s armpits.
