by Tom Barber
The man looked at him. ‘We find her. We kill her. We leave.’
‘We?’
‘My team. You can stay here and figure it out with the NYPD. This is your mess. We’re just passing through.’
Before Braeten could reply, the leader turned to two of his men.
‘Find her.’
The pair nodded and made their way to the south stairwell.
They started moving up the steps, looking through the sights of their M4A1s as they disappeared out of sight.
SIXTEEN
Upstairs, three of the group were still trying the phones, Archer and Foster with their cells, Vargas with the land line, frustrated and confused in equal measure. Barlow had made a good point; the gunmen who’d ambushed them had to be street thugs. How the hell would they be able to kill all cell phone signal?
Realising it was futile, Archer tucked his phone back into his pocket then looked out of the window again. He checked the sky but the chopper was gone, the sound of the rotors having disappeared into the night. Shepherd had been trying to warn him of something when he was cut off mid-sentence.
But what?
Turning, he walked across the room and opened the sitting room door, making sure the barricade was still in place and that he couldn’t hear any sound of movement in the corridor outside. He glanced over at Foster, who was standing beside Carson.
‘Did you get a look at the chopper?’ he asked.
Foster shook his head.
‘Must be our guys though,’ Barlow said. ‘They’ll be here any second.’
‘So why would the phone lines go down?’
‘Could be ESU?’ Barlow suggested. ‘They did it to stop the gunmen communicating?’
‘Did Dalton say it was one of yours?’
‘Didn’t have a chance,’ Foster said. ‘He’d only just called before the line went dead.’
Cursing quietly, he tried redialling Dalton. No reception.
Something about this wasn’t right.
He put the phone back in his pocket, then turned his attention to the group, who were looking at him.
‘Listen. Right now we-’
There was a sudden, tiny smash of glass.
Foster was thumped back as a bullet hit him in the forehead, blood sprayed all over the wall behind him.
As Jennifer screamed, everyone in the room recoiled in shock. Foster dropped to the floor, dead before he got there.
‘Get down!’ Archer shouted, the group throwing themselves to the floor, Vargas covering Jennifer as they all stared in shock at Foster’s body.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Vargas said. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’
Eighty yards away in the office building downtown, the man in the t-shirt and jeans watched through the scope of his rifle, snuggled in close to the stock. He’d taken out the grey-haired Marshal and could see the back of his head blown across the wall. The others had hit the deck and were out of sight. He was sitting at a desk, tucked in behind a VSS Vintorez, a gas-operated silenced Russian weapon which had a ten round magazine and was the shooter the Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces, used on their operations. The weapon consisted of three main parts and could be transported easily in the special briefcase, making it easy to conceal and carry. His prints were all over both the weapon and the case, but he would be taking them with him and would take the necessary disposal precautions later. He’d fired through an open window and with both sub-sonic ammunition and a fat black suppressor on the rifle no-one on the street would have heard the shot.
The window of the apartment he’d fired into was still intact, just a small bullet hole in the pane. Keeping the scope on the tenement block window, the sniper pushed a pressel switch laid on the desk beside his left hand. It was connected to an earpiece tucked in place over his left ear and a small Velcro tactical microphone around his neck.
‘5 floor, south east side,’ he said. ‘Move!’
Releasing the switch, he kept the scope on the window. He focused the crosshairs on a guy lying on the couch, looking dazed, bloodied towels on his torso. He must have been the asshole tagged on the street in the gunfight.
The sniper hated Feds.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Against the wall, the window above him, Archer stared at Foster. He was slumped against the wall, his eyes blank and lifeless, half his head on the wall behind him, the rivulets of blood sliding down. The bullet had hit him between the eyes and killed him instantly.
Then he suddenly realised Carson would be in the firing line. He dove forward and dragged the doped-up injured Marshal off the couch to the ground by his feet.
A split-second later, there was another smash of glass and a whump of feathers and fabric from the couch as a round hit where his head had just been lying.
Jennifer screamed again as the group kept as low as they could.
The two men who’d just left the lobby sprinted up the south stairwell, responding to the radio call from Joker, their sniper. Their handles tonight were Queen and Clubs. Using their real names would be more than foolish considering anyone nearby who had the skill could pick up their radio chatter, so the ten-man team had each been assigned call signs. Considering most of them were prolific gamblers, chess pieces and card suits had seemed apt.
They ran up the stairs to the 5 floor and turned out of the stairwell, coming to a halt outside 5B. Queen aimed his M4A1 at the lock and gave it a quick trigger pull, the metal and wood blowing apart and splintering, totally destroyed from the burst of assault rifle fire. Looking through the foresights of their weapons, the two men tried to kick back the door but there was something blocking the way. Clubs stepped back and rammed his shoulder into it. It wouldn’t give. He tried twice more, Queen aiming down his M4A1, ready to shoot anyone inside.
The third time Clubs rammed into the door, it suddenly gave way, followed by a smash as something fell over the other side.
Forcing the door back, the two men moved into the apartment cautiously, looking through the sights of their assault rifles.
They entered straight into a kitchen with a table and two chairs ahead beside a set of windows, the curtains drawn back. The weight blocking the door from the other side had been a refrigerator; tipping it over had knocked out some of the contents, and milk was seeping onto the floor in a widening pool.
There was some blood there too, a faint but definite smear on the wooden floor.
Both a clue and confirmation.
The two men worked their way into the apartment quietly, tracing the apartment with their weapons, the underside of their boots leaving prints in the widening puddle of milk.
To the left was a bathroom. The door was open.
To the right was what had to be the sitting room.
The door was closed.
Clubs looked at Queen and nodded.
Both men aimed their weapons at the doorframe and stepped towards it.
Inside the bathroom, Archer had Carson’s USP in his hand, his back against the wall. He’d heard the lock being blown off the door and had scrambled through the kitchen, diving into the bathroom as whoever was the other side smashed the refrigerator out of the way.
Risking a look from the slightest of angles, he saw two men in combat fatigues and balaclavas with black assault rifles moving quietly towards the sitting room door, their backs to him.
They sure as hell weren’t US Marshals or ESU.
He stepped out from behind the door, raising his weapon, ready to drop them both.
Then a floorboard creaked under his foot.
The other two men’s senses were on a hair trigger. They wheeled round but Archer had already ducked back into the bathroom, taking cover behind the wall.
The space where he’d been standing a second earlier was torn apart by assault rifle fire. The bullets ripped into the wall above the bathtub, shredding and fragmenting the tiling into pieces, showering Archer with dust and debris as he stayed low behind the wall.
Queen and Clubs
continued to fire down on the bathroom, their barrage ripping it to pieces as they advanced.
Behind them, the door to the sitting room suddenly opened and a dark-haired woman rolled out low, a pistol in her hands. Clubs saw her first but she had the drop and shot him twice in the chest, the force knocking him back and killing him instantly as he landed in the puddle of milk beside the refrigerator.
Queen spun around with his M4A1 as the woman rolled back behind the door for cover.
He fired, but his mag clicked dry.
‘Shit!’
In that split-second, Archer was already moving in on the guy. He couldn’t have fired from the bathroom in case he hit Vargas, so he ran out and launched himself at the man. Tying up, Archer nailed him with a head butt which crunched into the man’s nose, causing him to drop his assault rifle, the weapon clattering to the deck. They hit the wall and then the floor, rolling over the dead gunman’s limp legs. The man was powerful and was going for Archer’s groin and eyes.
Freeing one of his hands, he pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt. Archer caught his wrist but the man was stronger, the knife moving towards his neck. Archer forced the man’s hand to one side, the blade slicing into his arm, hot white pain shooting through him.
Vargas was aiming at the two men but couldn’t get a clear shot without risking hitting Archer, so she ran over and smashed her Glock into the back of the gunmen’s head, pistol-whipping him as hard as she could. The guy rode the impact but it stunned him momentarily, allowing Archer to push him up and up kick him in the jaw. Vargas quickly stepped back, aiming her weapon, but then there was another smash at the window. A bullet skimmed her and hit the gunman in the back of his head, killing him instantly, spraying a small amount of blood and whatever else into the air. As she dropped down, the dead man slumped onto the floor beside Archer. The sniper sure as hell wasn’t protecting them; he’d killed his own guy trying to hit Vargas.
Neither of them waited an extra second. Staying as low as possible and out of sight of the sniper, Archer grabbed the man’s assault rifle from the floor as Vargas crawled over to the man she’d shot and did the same. The gunfire would have reverberated around the building. They didn’t know who the hell these guys were or how many there were, and they didn’t want to hang around to find out.
‘Who the hell are they?’ Vargas hissed.
‘I don’t know. We need to get out of here right now!’
Each gunman had two spare clips in the vest on his uniform which they stuffed into their pockets. Then Archer crawled over to the kitchen windows, reaching up to pull the curtains shut as Vargas stayed low and went back into the sitting room, the M4A1 in her right hand. Barlow had already drawn the curtains in there.
Suddenly, there were two more smashes of glass as two more holes appeared in the fabric, everyone jumping.
The sniper was trying his luck.
As they all stayed down, Vargas reached for Jennifer with her free hand and headed back for the front door as Helen and Barlow followed right behind her, dragging Carson between them.
‘Let’s move!’
Eighty yards away, Joker cursed, searching with the crosshairs. He’d seen Patterson go down, taking two to the chest. He’d had a clear shot at the woman, but the bitch had moved at the last second and he’d hit Markowski instead. Now they’d drawn the curtains and he couldn’t see shit.
He pushed his pressel.
‘All of you, 5th floor, south side. Get over there! Two men down!’
Archer was the first out of the apartment, Carson’s USP in the back of his jeans, the M4A1 in his shoulder, a fresh mag slapped into the base. He was covered in dust, dried blood and specks of tile from the bathroom walls, but at least he knew the weapon fired.
He moved to the left into the stairwell and cleared it, up and down. Behind him, Carson was being carried by Barlow and Helen, Vargas holding Jennifer’s hand, her USP in her other and the other stolen M4A1 slung across her shoulders. Up above, Archer heard running footsteps from much higher up, heading down fast.
Back up was coming.
‘Let’s go!’ he whispered.
They needed to get as far from 5 as they could without meeting the guys on their way down. They made it up another three floors, arriving on 8, the footsteps from above getting closer and closer, only five or six flights away and counting. Archer desperately checked the 8 floor corridor as the others caught up. He was thinking about the sharpshooter who’d killed Foster. He was on the south side and therefore wouldn’t be able to see them from the north, west or east. They needed to get into a room down the hall away from his line of sight. He went to move forward but then heard shouting and noise echoing from the other stairwell.
Meanwhile, the running feet in this stairwell were almost upon them.
In moments, they were going to be trapped from both sides.
They had seconds.
Archer saw the door to the apartment to the left of the stairwell was open, on the south-west corner. It was the opposite apartment to Helen’s, the other side of the stairwell, facing the Hudson but also downtown and the sniper. They had no choice. He raced forward, pushing open 8A, and checked inside, sweeping left and right. The layout of this apartment was the same as Helen’s, but it was empty and by the grace of God the curtains were already drawn across the windows. The group piled in behind him and he quickly shut the door as soon as they were all inside.
As he and Vargas dragged the refrigerator across as a makeshift barricade, Barlow and Helen carried Carson into the next room and placed him the couch. Breathing hard and backing up from the door, Vargas unslung her M4A1 and aimed it at the wood, Archer already doing the same.
Both of them heard shouting and footsteps sprinting down the stairwell, passing where they’d been seconds ago.
They made it.
Just.
SEVENTEEN
Helen and Jennifer stayed where they were inside the sitting room, scared, disorientated and tense. Helen had her arm around the child protectively, holding her close, both of them staying away from the curtain-covered window. Across the room, Carson was on the couch, totally out of it.
Barlow and Vargas were in the kitchen, standing near the bathroom door, keeping their weapons aimed at the refrigerator covering the entrance. On the opposite side, Archer was crouching in the doorway of the sitting room, his new M4A1 locked in his shoulder, waiting for someone to try and force their way in.
He heard the sound of voices and running feet echoing from the stairwell but no-one seemed to be on this corridor.
Realising he had some blood on his face from when his attacker had taken the sniper round, Archer wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt and glanced behind him. Jennifer was sniffing and crying, Helen doing her best to comfort her and try to keep her quiet. When it became clear no one was about to burst in, Archer, Barlow and Vargas relaxed very slightly, taking some deep breaths, letting the change to their situation fully sink in now Foster was dead.
Suddenly, things were looking a hell of a lot worse.
Vargas lowered her stolen assault rifle then strode across the kitchen and stepped behind Archer into the sitting room. Checking the safety, she placed the M4A1 to one side then dropped down, Jennifer breaking from Helen’s protective grasp and rushing forward to hug her.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK,’ she said, as Jennifer clung to her like a small koala bear. Barlow also moved inside the room, keeping his pistol in his hand and moving over to the couch to check on Carson. Archer rose and leant against the doorjamb, keeping an eye on the entrance to the apartment, his newly-acquired M4A1 in his hands. He watched the door like a sentry, waiting for the lock to be blown off at any moment, wondering just what the hell was going on.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Barlow said, pacing. ‘Foster’s gone. They killed him. How did that just happen?’
No-one responded. Jennifer sniffed and sobbed in the quiet.
‘Jesus. Who the hell are these guys?’
‘Who
ever they are, the chopper must have brought them,’ Vargas said, looking up from comforting the girl. ‘And they’ve got a sniper. We underestimated this. Them.’
Archer glanced down at the M4A1 in his hands instead. It was in flawless condition. Black and compact with an adjustable strap, the weapon was high-tech and savage, not the kind of thing a street thug could get his hands on without some serious cash. He thought back to the two intruders, the way they’d moved, their equipment, how quickly they’d followed up the sniper fire.
‘Are they military?’ Helen asked, echoing the thoughts in his mind. No-one replied, because no-one knew.
Not hearing anything from the corridor, Archer laid his M4A1 to one side, ensuring the safety was on and that Vargas had charge of Jennifer. He walked across the room and joined Helen beside Carson. This time they hadn’t bothered to lay any towels or blankets over the furniture. By the looks of the rest of the apartment, the bloodstains would blend right in with the décor.
‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘Better than the rest of us,’ Helen said. Carson’s eyes were open but were seeing something somewhere else, totally oblivious to his surroundings. Thankfully the gunfire and Foster’s sudden death hadn’t turned things sour; since he’d been a cop Archer had encountered more than a couple of heroin users and knew any negative outside stimulus could turn a good trip into a nightmare like the flick of a switch. If he started screaming from hallucinations, they wouldn’t stay hidden for long.
Archer turned his attention to Helen. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
‘Hey,’ Vargas said. Archer turned. ‘Your arm.’
He glanced down at his bicep and saw a growing bloodstain on the right sleeve of his red and white flannel shirt. He remembered the man cutting him with the knife, just before Vargas had pistol-whipped him and he took the sniper round in the back of the head. Suddenly aware of the wound and as if almost on cue, it started to throb. Giving Jennifer one last reassuring hug, Vargas rose and scooped up her M4A1.
