by Tom Barber
‘And he tracked her down. That’s what this is about.’ Hendricks looked up at the tenement block. ‘Is he inside?’
‘No idea.’
Hendricks shook his head. ‘This level of organisation. Premeditation. Weapons. Tactics. They had no idea this would end up in this particular building, yet they were able to react almost immediately with that kind of firepower and entry. These are some seriously dangerous people.’
Neither Shepherd nor Dalton responded.
‘So where are our guys right now?’ Hendricks asked.
They looked up at the building. ‘We don’t know,’ Dalton said. ‘We don’t even know if they’re still alive.’
He stared at the smashed windows on the south side 8th floor apartment, smoke still drifting out and up.
‘But if they are, I pray to God those men don’t know where they are either.’
Inside the laundry room, the remaining members of the group were sitting by the south-side wall, Archer and Vargas on the outside ready to protect Helen, Carson and Isabel between them. All of them were sooty and covered in nicks, cuts and scratches, battered and bruised. However, they were still alive. Considering what they were up against and what they’d been through, that was a hell of an achievement.
Archer and Vargas had dragged a protective shield of the heavy washers and dryers in front of them to offer some kind of barricade in case the response team found them. Their exit point was a fire door leading to the south stairwell to their immediate left inside their barrier, which could only be opened this side. There was another door across the room, connected to the main 6th floor corridor. If the enemy came, that would be their point of entry. The west and north side of the walls were lined with grille-covered chutes at intervals, under which large baskets would have been placed once upon a time to catch the laundry. It was an ancient design, almost a relic. God only knew how long it had been since this building was renovated. After all the gunfire and explosions tonight, the solution would probably be a wrecking ball.
Carson was starting to groan, filling the quiet. Helen knelt down to check and comfort him. She looked up at Archer and Vargas, concerned.
‘The heroin is wearing off,’ she said. ‘He needed to be out of here an hour ago.’
‘What do we do? Should we dope him up again?’ Vargas said, looking at Archer.
He went to speak but stopped, hearing something.
There was a clanging from the chute they’d come down on the other side of the room. Archer and Vargas looked over their barrier of old machines.
A black shape suddenly dropped down into the room.
It bounced on the floor and rolled towards them.
A grenade.
THIRTY
Archer and Vargas reacted within that initial half-second, diving back for cover, taking Isabel down with them.
Their makeshift barrier saved their lives as the grenade exploded.
The sound was deafening, taking all of their senses and smashing them to pieces. The blast destroyed some of the washers, shrapnel and chunks of metal flying through the air, a few machines knocked over, others closer to the blast completely totalled.
Archer had covered Isabel’s ears with his hands so his had been unprotected and the effect was catastrophic. It felt like the grenade had gone off inside his head.
Suddenly, everything was silent, like an interlude.
Releasing the girl’s ears and seeing her move, confirming she was OK, Archer shook his head to try and clear it, the room as quiet as a church in prayer. The air was thick with dust and smoke, stinging his eyes. He’d dropped his M4A1 in the blast and saw it a few feet away, beside some rubble and pieces of washer. It was lying by the wall.
I need that, he thought.
He staggered to his feet, stumbling and falling back, wet liquid on his face. It felt like water; maybe a pipe had ruptured in the explosion.
He touched his cheek and his hand came away red.
Not water.
A grenade, Sam.
They know we’re here.
They’re coming.
Reeling, he made it to the wall and scooped up his M4A1. He turned and tried to aim at the doorway, falling into a wrecked dryer, blinking dust from his eyes, swaying as his brain frantically tried to recalibrate. Beside him, Vargas was still gathering her senses, trying to get to her feet but only having managing to get to her hands and knees. He saw a trickle of blood coming from her ear.
Through the haze, two figures suddenly appeared in the main doorway, looming out of the smoke and dust. Archer went to fire but stopped when he saw a small figure to his right, standing still, staring at the two men.
Isabel.
He’d turned his back for a second and she’d gone. She was disorientated, and had stepped out from behind their protective barrier, walking right into the enemy’s firing line.
The two men saw her. They had black assault rifles in their hands, inevitably full magazines inside, enough ammo to take on a squad of cops, let alone an unprotected seven year old child. Two figures from a nightmare, black masks over their faces, guns in their hands.
That’s it.
It’s over.
She’s gone.
The two men stared at the girl. They lifted their rifles.
Then aimed them directly at Archer
They opened fire and noise in the room came back. Archer had already flung himself down as the bullets tore into the wall and machines, spraying more pieces of metal and chalk into the air. Vargas swung her M4A1 forward and started to fire back through the gloom. Her aim was poor, her senses still affected by the blast, but it was enough to force the two men to duck behind the door in the hallway and buy Archer several vital seconds.
As Vargas kept her barrage up, he moved out from behind his cover and ran across the room, grabbing Isabel, scooping her up and taking her back with him, her screaming lost in the gunfire and smoke as Vargas emptied a magazine into the doorway, adrenaline speeding up the return of her faculties as she fought the muzzle climb, shell casings spraying out of the ejection port.
Pushing Isabel behind him, Archer took over the counter-firing as Vargas reloaded fast, slapping another clip into the weapon. The two guys on the other side of the door did their best to return fire, but they didn’t have a chance to engage them properly as Archer kept up the onslaught, keeping them pinned down.
His mag clicked dry, Vargas taking over as the two men at the doorway fired a burst back. Pulling the empty clip from the weapon, he grabbed his last one from his pocket but turned as he did so to make sure Isabel was still behind him.
Then he saw Helen.
She was leaning against the wall, staring straight ahead, the noise and terror of the gunfight lost on her. If it wasn’t for the thick piece of metal jutting out of her chest, she would have looked serene, as if she was taking a moment to absorb it all and watch the fight, like a spectator at Wimbledon.
As Vargas kept up her fire on the door, Archer moved over to Helen, his eyes stinging from the dust. She stared back vacantly, the light gone from her eyes, strands of hair hanging down either side of her smoke-stained face. He looked down at the piece of metal; it was white, a piece of destroyed washer from the grenade blast.
It had pierced right through her, pinning her to the wall.
She was gone.
Grabbing Carson and dragging him towards the fire escape, Archer pushed the bar down with his elbow and kicked the door open. Vargas squeezed off two more bursts then scooped up Isabel and quickly followed them through the fire exit.
Just as they left, two more grenades were tossed inside from the other side of the room.
Vargas saw them early and slammed the door shut behind them, protecting them as they took cover in the stairwell.
Outside, everyone on the street heard the explosions and savage gunfight unfold. It was happening this side of the building, so they could see the muzzle flashes from the 6th floor windows, the reports of the weapons echoing in the street.<
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Suddenly there was another explosion and more windows smashed out. As people recoiled, ducking down, Shepherd cursed, his patience at an end. He turned and kicked a car out of frustration, feeling totally helpless. Any NYPD officer or detective in peril made him anxious, but that concern went to a whole new level when it was one of his own people, someone under his command depending on him to come up with a solution. He looked up at the building, more smoke coming from the 6th floor, and pictured Archer somewhere inside.
Just hold on, Arch, he thought. Wherever you are. We’re coming for you.
Hendricks was standing beside him, his face dark, watching the apartment block. The gunfire ended abruptly, but the echoes from the shots and the explosions were still reverberating in people’s ears, reporters behind the public barriers giving rapid updates, as shocked as everyone else at the speed of events. Hendricks looked over at Dalton and the Marshals team. They’d switched their attention from the apartment building and were now poring over the I-Pads, crowded round and peering at the screens.
It looked as if a frontal assault was imminent.
He glanced over at the lobby, Claymores and an anti-tank rocket echoing in his mind. If they had that kind of protection for the roof, God only knew what they had waiting for them behind that door. No way was the Marshals task force getting in without many more, or even all of them, going down.
They needed to find another way to end this.
He turned to Shepherd. ‘Remind me, who’s the girl?’
‘She’s a State witness. According to Dalton, she’s due in a matter of days. She makes the stand, she buries her brother and the team who killed her entire family.’
‘Where are they based?’
‘Walker Street. The family own a bar down there.’ Shepherd looked at Hendricks. ‘What are you thinking?’
Hendricks didn’t reply. He turned and stalked through the crowd instead, moving towards his car.
He ripped open the door and moments later was speeding downtown, dialling a number on his cell phone.
He needed an exact address.
Arriving on the 12th floor, Archer staggered down the corridor, Carson once again over his shoulders, his blood leaking over Archer’s once white t-shirt and joining the black smoke stains. Vargas was right behind him, holding Isabel’s hand, her M4A1 in the other. On the way up they’d ducked into the corridor on 7, hearing running footsteps coming from above, and had just managed to avoid two gunmen sprinting down the stairwell. Once they’d passed, Archer and Vargas moved on as quickly as they could, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the laundry room.
12 was as far as Archer’s legs would take him, his body still recovering from the grenade explosion.
An apartment a third of the way down the corridor was open, on the east side so away from any potential sniper fire. Without even checking it first Archer ducked inside, followed by Vargas and Isabel; there was no one here.
They collapsed into the room, Vargas quickly shutting the door then locking it. Dumping Carson down heavily onto the floor, Archer did the same as before with the refrigerator, unplugging and dragging it into place as a barrier. This time it was much more of an effort, almost Herculean; he was exhausted. When it was in position, the door secured, they stepped back, sucking clean air into their lungs. As he breathed in, Archer suddenly felt a searing pain. He looked down and saw some glass had hit him in the lower left of his torso, slicing through his t-shirt. He stared at it for a few moments, then glanced at Vargas. She hadn’t seen it. Then he made eye contact with Isabel. She had.
He pulled it out, coughing from the pain, and tossed it to one side with a clink, holding his M4A1 with one hand and cradling the wound with the other.
Downstairs, the gunmen were in the laundry room. Their boots crunched on the debris, their M4A1s sweeping the now empty space. King and Diamonds had been the two men trying to force their way in, but the man and woman had held them off, despite three grenades. King walked forward slowly through the smoke and saw a woman slumped against the wall.
She was dead, impaled. She had a chunk of metal the size of a man’s forearm jutting out of her chest, her eyes blank and staring straight ahead. He had no idea who she was.
Spades and Knight reappeared from the south stairwell, panting.
‘And?’
‘We lost them.’
King stayed still for a moment. Then he raised his weapon and unleashed a burst into the dead woman in frustration and fury, blood and shell casings spraying into the air.
THIRTY ONE
Josh and Marquez had just entered the south building on West 133rd. It was an office building, not an apartment block. They were intending to talk to the night security or whoever was behind the front desk, but there was no-one there. The pair of detectives looked around.
The place was empty.
‘Where the hell is the guard?’ Marquez said.
‘Maybe he’s off tonight. It’s a Sunday.’
‘Then why is the building still open?’
‘Perhaps he’s outside or upstairs watching the show.’
Marquez frowned and didn’t reply. Josh walked around the desk and looked down at several monitors. He glanced up and made eye contact with her.
‘Security cameras are down.’
Stepping around the desk and re-joining her, the two of them walked forward, heading for the stairwell at the end of the lobby. Using the stairs was slower but the noise of the elevator could alert someone in the building that they had company. If there actually was someone here.
As Josh pushed back the door to the stairwell, Marquez drew her Sig Sauer, pulling back the slide and glancing over at the abandoned front desk.
Something was wrong.
Someone was here.
She knew it.
Inside a bar called Lombardis on Walker Street in Little Italy, a group of men were watching a hockey game on a television mounted above the long liquor shelf behind the bar. They each had a drink going and had been for some time, relaxed, secure on their own territory but each carrying a pistol on his person nevertheless.
On the screen, the Rangers were taking on the Penguins at the Garden and the game was squared at 2–2, the players skating fast around the ice, the puck flying back and forth, a quick flash of black on the white ice. There were several screens behind the bar; the one on the far right was flicked onto NY ONE, which was covering some kind of situation at a tenement block uptown in Harlem. No-one aside from one man paid any attention to it. Put a hockey game on alongside the news in here and there was only ever going to be one winner.
Sitting at the bar, Mike Lombardi drained his whiskey, watching the news report. Twenty five years old, tough and compact with swarthy looks passed down to him from his Milanese great-grandparents, he was still getting used to the fact that he was now head of his own New York crime family.
He’d always been an outsider. His mother had been a waitress who used to work in this bar; one night she caught his father Gino’s eye. Gino had been married at the time and once his wife had found out the girl was pregnant and that it was his, she’d come down here and given her one hell of a beating, to within an inch of her life. Apparently there’d been plenty of people around that night, but none of them had intervened, not when it was Gino’s wife dishing out the punishment. His mother had been hospitalised but despite Gino’s wife’s best efforts, Mike had been born six months later. In the space between the beating and his birth, Gino’s wife never let up. Although she never assaulted his mother again, she spent every spare moment making her life a misery, to the point that his mother soon quit working at the bar, frightened that the woman would assault her again or possibly order some kind of move against her.
Once Mike had been born, things still didn’t improve. Although his father was a feared man, the word bastard had echoed in Mike’s ears as a kid, both he and his mother ostracised, no-one wanting to get on the wrong side of Gino’s wife. Mike lived with his mother whilst
he was growing up, but had started to come down here when he was old enough, working tirelessly to impress his father and trying to gain his attention and respect. Gino had always acknowledged Mike as his son, but as Mike grew older, ironically out of all of Gino’s kids he began to most resemble his father in looks and temperament. He was the second youngest of six and although he was clearly the least favoured, that had started to change with time. When others saw Gino’s acceptance and growing fondness for his youngest son, they’d followed suit and life had started to become a little easier during Mike’s teenage years.
Gino had encouraged the boy’s interest in the family business, despite his wife’s intense dislike of him. To her, he was a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity. As Mike approached manhood, his dogged persistence had paid off. Unlike his half-siblings who grew up spoilt and lazy, Mike was a worker. In the last few years, he’d seen in the older man’s eyes that he’d more than gained his respect. Gino was increasingly and pleasantly surprised by his bastard son; Mike had started out working the racketeering in the area and had risen to where he was in charge of controlling shipments coming in through the East Side Docks, paying off guys who worked there and the Union, and ensuring the cops, Coastguard or US Customs never got wise to anything in the freight containers.
However, it had all been part of a plan, years in the making. All the insults and abuse Mike had received as a kid had left some deep scars; a boiling hatred had grown inside him, like a steaming pressure cooker always on the verge of exploding. Mike was only half related to every member of this family. The only person in the world he truly cared for, his mother, had already passed on. He’d never shaken the hatred that had festered within him since he was a child, or forgotten the insults and the way his mother was treated, his father never going out of his way to put a stop to it which he could have done in an instant. Looking at the world through a man’s eyes, Mike realised his position as Gino’s son gave him a major advantage.
