One Way sa-5

by Tom Barber

  Vargas shook her head. ‘No, no. That’s not it. You didn’t let me finish.’

  Archer frowned, confused. ‘Did I miss something?’

  ‘You’re thinking what everyone else did. The detectives starting pushing all the mug shots of the Devaney family under Isabel’s nose but they were barking up the wrong tree. The shooters weren’t part of the Devaney crew.’

  ‘What?’ How is that possible? They were fingerprinted.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘So who were the hit team?’

  ‘A man called Mike Lombardi and three friends.’

  ‘Lombardi?’

  ‘Gino’s son.’

  Vargas paused.

  ‘Isabel’s brother.’

  ‘Wait a minute; Lombardi’s son?’

  She nodded.

  ‘He killed his whole family?’ Archer whispered, in disbelief.

  ‘The detectives conducting the interview thought the girl was muddled at first. Maybe the shock of the incident had resulted in severe trauma which was affecting her memory. But then it started to make sense, at least psychopathically. Obviously, Mike was well aware of the history between the two families. He was a part of it, for Christ’s sake. He knew that the Devaney crew would be the inevitable suspects for the massacre. If they went down, it would remove both gangs, the Devaneys and the senior Lombardis. It wouldn’t even matter if they never found the murder weapons; they had the shell casings.’

  ‘Yeah, but how the hell did they get those? That’s ironclad evidence, Vargas.’

  ‘A few weeks before the incident, some of Devaney’s crew were jumped down at the East Side Docks. Held up at gunpoint then worked over by four guys with knuckledusters and bats. Not enough to kill them but enough to put them in the hospital for a few days. Their weapons were taken. All 9mm pistols. Copper Parabellums inside.’

  ‘Ammunition that would fit into a silenced MP5,’ Archer said quietly. ‘Smart boys. They knew Devaney’s people would have prints on at least a couple of the bullets.’

  She nodded. ‘And in the resulting chaos, Mike could take control of the Lombardi gang.’

  Archer shook his head, incredulous. ‘I can’t believe it. He killed his entire family? I thought the Mob was built on blood loyalty.’

  ‘He might have the same surname, but his mother wasn’t a Lombardi, only his father. Isabel is his half-sister. He was the product of an affair twenty five years ago.’

  She sighed.

  ‘The detectives had totally overlooked him, thinking just the same as you. If Isabel had been killed, they would have tried and convicted the wrong people. But by the time the truth started to emerge, the press were already on the story of the Hamptons massacre.’

  She paused.

  ‘And some idiot at East Hampton Town PD let slip that there was a survivor.’

  ‘So that’s where you, Foster, Barlow and Carson come in.’

  She nodded. ‘We picked her up eight days ago. The press were taking a real interest in her. If Mike had seen the reports he’d have realised that he missed someone.’

  ‘He isn’t inside?’

  ‘The prosecution is building this case behind closed doors. That’s why the press screwed it up and Isabel’s gone into protection. If they hadn’t reported that she was alive, Mike and his crew would have had no idea until they were arrested. Now, he’ll know for sure that he missed her off his hit list.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘The trial is due to start next week. If Isabel makes it to the stand and testifies, Mike and his crew are going down. There’s no death penalty in New York State anymore as you know, but they slaughtered nineteen people, with a witness seeing them open fire. They’ll serve multiple life sentences, no chance of early release. And that’s if they make it past the first week of their terms. Gino Lombardi had a lot of friends, and word in those circles spreads quickly. They’ve got a lot of enemies waiting for them in the joint.’

  ‘And what happens to Isabel after she makes the stand?’

  ‘Standard procedure. She’s relocated to a new city, given a new identity. She’s only seven so she’ll be placed with a foster family. They won’t even be told who she really is, the youngest daughter of a dead Mobster.’

  ‘No relatives?’

  ‘They’re all dead apart from Mike. All of them were gunned down at the house.’

  Archer thought for a moment, this new knowledge clarifying their current situation and predicament. He thought of the little girl next door, scared and vulnerable, anonymous armed men repeatedly trying to kill her.

  ‘Jesus Christ. I knew the Mob were violent, but always thought the one thing they respected was family.’

  ‘Mike’s a different breed.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And forgive my honesty, but what happened to Isabel’s father is no great loss. Gino Lombardi was a scumbag. He ran prostitution rings, some of the girls as young as twelve, and kept many of them doped up so they couldn’t escape. His crew sold drugs and guns to kids. They’ve murdered scores of people over the years. Gino himself was a killer; he started out as an enforcer and worked his way up through the ranks until he took over the operation.’

  Archer didn’t reply. He glanced at the wound on his arm, then at the M4A1 resting by his leg, all the pieces of the story fitting together.

  ‘All this for a child.’

  Vargas nodded, looking worried. ‘All this.’

  Archer went to continue, but there was a sudden commotion from the hallway outside the apartment.

  They both looked at each other then rose quickly, grabbing their M4A1s and moving to the door.

  Across the kitchen, the sitting room door opened and Helen and Barlow appeared, Barlow aiming his USP at the main door. Archer and Vargas did the same with their assault rifles, all of them suddenly tense again, fingers on triggers and ready to fire.

  BAMBAMBAM.

  Someone pounded on the wood.

  ‘Downstairs! Dollar opportunity,’ a harsh voice the other side shouted. Neither Archer, Vargas or Barlow moved, keeping their weapons trained on the entrance. They heard whoever was outside walk off, move on to the next apartment. It sounded as if others had joined him, more than one person beating on doors and shouting.

  ‘Who wants to make some money?’ someone called from the corridor, hitting on the doors.

  His finger resting on the M4A1 trigger, looking down the sights, Archer stared at the door, puzzled.

  He turned and glanced at Vargas, who looked equally nonplussed.

  What the hell is going on? he thought.

  Before long, thirty or so of the remaining residents had wandered down to the ground floor, gathered from all of the floors and assembling in the lobby. Most of them were men but there were a couple of women. They all looked tough and rough, appearing from both stairwells, and examined the team of balaclava clad men in combat fatigues and assault rifles suspiciously but without any trace of fear. They were supposed to have been cleared out earlier after the fire alarm, but they either hadn’t heard it for some reason or most likely just didn’t give a shit. They were all dull-eyed and disinterested, hardened by life and their surroundings. The sight of the armed men in the lobby didn’t seem to faze any of them at all.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ one of them asked.

  ‘You want to make twenty grand?’ King asked, Braeten beside him.

  Castle, Spades and Bishop were behind the two men, staying silent, watching.

  All murmuring in the group of residents ceased. Someone hawked and spat on the floor. King continued.

  ‘We’re looking for a group hiding out in this building,’ he said. ‘That’s why we’re here. That’s what’s been going on. There are four, maybe five of them. One is a kid; the others are US Marshals.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, you tell us where they are or kill any one of them, you get twenty grand.’

  A few of them snorted and turned, walking back up the stairwell and disappearing out of sight, not in
terested. The response team let them go. However, a large number of them remained.

  ‘That’s what all this shooting is about?’ another man asked.

  ‘Yes. You help us out, you get rich. Simple as that.’

  Pause.

  ‘Why do you wanna kill them?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  The group seemed unsure. Several of them glanced at each other, wondering if this was a ruse.

  ‘Bullshit. This is a set up. You’re pigs.’

  ‘No. It’s not. These assholes have taken out four of my men tonight. Twenty grand for whoever locates them or gets me a body. You tag all four, you get eighty. Take it or leave it.’

  The authority in his voice and force of his personality was swaying them. The rag tag group was looking more and more interested.

  They started looking at each other.

  ‘Think about it,’ Braeten added. ‘That’s a lot of cash.’

  ‘So where’s the money?’ one of the residents asked.

  ‘You get it when you deliver.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  King held up his M4A1 sideways so they could see it. ‘Look at this. You think this hardware is cheap? Or that?’

  He pointed at the Claymores aimed at the door.

  ‘We’ve got the cash. Take it or leave it. I’m guessing no-one else is ever going to offer you eighty grand for twenty minutes of work again.’

  ‘How do we know who these people are?’ the man who’d first spoken asked.

  ‘One of them is shot in the gut,’ Braeten said. ‘Another is a kid. A seven year old girl. Like he said, there will be four or five of them.’

  ‘You got weapons?’ Bishop asked.

  Slowly but surely, interest had started to catch fire, like a single spark in a dry forest. Some of them nodded, but the front guy shook his head. Bishop pulled his sidearm from the holster on his thigh and passed it to the man, who took it. Some of the men at the back had already moved off up the stairwell, eager to get a head start. Mob fever was just starting to prickle in the air like electricity, the sparks of the fire about to turn into flames.

  ‘Twenty grand a head,’ Bishop said. ‘Follow me.’

  He stepped forward, closely followed by Castle; both men cut through the group, heading up the stairwell and setting the pace.

  There was a brief pause.

  Then members of the crowd started to follow quickly.

  Watching them go and staying where he was, King smiled. He turned to Braeten.

  ‘Good thinking. You just earned yourself a ride out of here.’

  The rest of Braeten’s crew heard this. ‘What about us?’ one of them asked.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘We aren’t staying here when this is done. No way.’

  ‘So earn it. This is all your fault. We wouldn’t be in this shit if you’d acted like professionals in the first place and hadn’t screwed up.’

  The three men looked at each other then moved to the stairwell quickly, joining the hunt. Standing beside King, Braeten watched his guys leave, his arms folded, his pistol tucked into the back of his waistband.

  ‘You’re never going to pay any of them, are you?’ he said quietly.

  King smiled. ‘Would you?’

  TWENTY FIVE

  Inside 8A, Archer and Helen were still in the kitchen. Vargas had taken Isabel back into the sitting room, trying to divert her mind and lighten her mood but also keep her away from the door. Barlow had joined her. Archer was still staring at the refrigerator-covered entrance, wondering what that knock had been about and what the hell was going. Being trapped and isolated, they had no idea. The unpredictability of the last few hours had left him on edge.

  So had the lack of back-up from outside.

  ‘Dollar opportunity,’ Helen echoed quietly. ‘What the hell were they talking about?’

  Archer shrugged, but didn’t reply. Dragging his eyes from the door, he turned to her.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Well my apartment has been half destroyed. I’ve seen three men die tonight. There are armed men currently hunting for us and we’re trapped in the building with them with no way out.’

  She forced a smile.

  ‘But apart from that, I’m fine.’

  Pause. Archer smiled too.

  ‘Sorry. Dumb question.’ Pause. ‘You said you’re a nurse?’

  She nodded. ‘I work downtown. St Luke’s. Been doing it for nineteen years.’

  He glanced down and noticed a wedding ring on her finger for the first time.

  ‘You’re married.’

  ‘I was. He left me,’ she said, looking down and twisting the ring between her thumb and forefinger. The unthinking way she did it indicated she’d done it many times before. ‘It happened almost five years ago. I should take this off. But I guess I keep hoping he’ll come back.’

  Silence.

  ‘He was a financial planner; he used to work late. One night I went to the office to surprise him and found him there with his secretary doing everything but working. Real cliche, right? Turned out he’d been having an affair with her for over a year. A few days later, he didn’t come home. Just never came back; left all his belongings. He’d quit his job and run off with her, leaving me and our son behind. The boy was only sixteen. I didn’t know how to cope.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We used to live downtown, in Chelsea. Real nice place. But once he left I couldn’t afford to pay rent and was forced out. I had to keep working at the hospital of course. The only place I found that I could afford was up here.’

  Pause. She looked at him.

  ‘I was watching you earlier. I know you saw the bottle of whiskey.’ Archer didn’t respond. ‘When you’ve got no-one and you live in a place like this, you sure as hell need something to take your mind off it. That’s why I started drinking. But I took it out on my boy. He didn’t deserve that. He hated it up here, and blamed it on me. His Dad still called and saw him every now then. He never did with me. Somehow it ended up all being my fault.’

  ‘So where’s your son?’

  ‘When he was eighteen he packed his things and left. The last time we spoke, he told me he never wanted to see me again. He said I’d ruined his life.’

  She blinked, the fear and emotion of the day threatening to overwhelm her.

  ‘He hates me.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Archer said. ‘When was the last time you called him?’

  ‘Two years. He lives in Pittsburgh. I kept trying but he wouldn’t answer so I gave up.’

  ‘When we make it out of here, try him again.’

  ‘He won’t pick up.’

  ‘I bet he will. He might even be watching this on the television and thinking about you right now. I bet he misses you as much as you miss him.’

  She paused.

  ‘When we make it out of here? You make it sound like a certainty.’

  He nodded.

  ‘We’re not dying in here. Not tonight.’

  She sniffed, and wiped her eyes. ‘You seem so sure.’ Pause. ‘It shouldn’t take something like this to make me call him.’

  ‘If there’s anything positive to come out of this, maybe that’s what it is.’

  There was a pause; the police lights down below continued to flash through the curtains. The lighting in the apartment was low. They could hear murmuring from next door, but other than that the room was quiet.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Peter.’

  He went to reply but stopped. She noticed.

  ‘What?’

  Archer didn’t move.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He’d frozen.

  ‘Listen.’

  Helen paused.

  She heard something too.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  Two floors down, the main group was almost twenty strong, men with money and violence on their minds. They were moving down 6, smashing their way into eve
ry apartment, searching for the group, kicking doors open and rampaging through rooms like a whirlwind of violence. They were armed with an assortment of handguns and knives; several had bats. A couple of them would only need their bare hands. On the 5th floor, two of them had stumbled upon the smoky scene of the first exchange between the balaclava-clad men and the group they were hunting. One of them had stolen Foster’s.44 and his badge which he was carrying almost as a cruel irony. His buddy had taken the Glock.

  Pockets of them were searching the rooms, trying to get the jump on each other and find the group first, working at an increasingly frenzied pace, determined to get their hands on the money and more than willing to kill for it.

  A deadly, fired-up mob, working their way up the building floor by floor.

  Apartment by apartment.

  Upstairs, Archer and Helen were listening, trying to make sense of what they were hearing. Faint noise was coming from below, what sounded like thudding, thumping and shouting.

  It was getting increasingly louder.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Helen said quietly.

  The door to the sitting room opened. Vargas appeared, Isabel holding her hand. ‘What’s that noise?’

  Suddenly, Archer realised what it was. The two women saw it dawn on his face. ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We need to move! Now!’

  He raced into the sitting room, followed by the others. Carson was on the couch, doped up, still staring at the ceiling with his mouth open. Slinging the M4A1 over his shoulder, Archer ran over to him, and reached behind him to pull him up, the wounded Marshal limp from the drugs in his bloodstream.

  ‘Barlow, help me out,’ Archer said. ‘We need to move upstairs now!’

  Barlow didn’t respond.

  ‘Barlow? Let’s go. There’re people com-’

  He turned. Across the room, Barlow still had his pistol in his hand.

  But it was aimed at Vargas, Helen and Isabel.

  TWENTY SIX

  Archer didn’t react at first. Disbelief accounted for that.

  Then his hand slid for the USP in his belt.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Barlow said, swinging his pistol towards him. ‘Toss it to the carpet. And the rifle. Now. One move from you Vargas and he dies.’