The Getaway (Sam Archer 2)

by Barber, Tom

  Then he opened his eyes and looked back at the torched getaway car.

  ‘These people have done their homework,’ he said. Katic nodded in agreement as he started walking towards the burnt-out wreck. ‘And they’ve got some serious nerve. It takes a lot of balls to hold up a bank four blocks from a police station.’

  He paused, ten yards from the taxi.

  ‘But this doesn’t make sense,’ he said, pointing at the cab. ‘All that proficiency yet this? Five armoured trucks, four banks, and this is the first getaway car they’ve ever burned. In fact, this is the first one they’ve even left for us to find. Why?’

  Katic didn’t reply.

  She just pointed to the rear of the car.

  The trunk was popped open, one of the forensics detectives peering inside. Gerrard walked forward, and that sickeningly sweet smell of burnt flesh grew stronger. He grabbed the end of his tie and covered his nose and mouth, and took a look inside himself.

  A body was in there. It was a horrific sight, the kind that gave grown men nightmares.

  The corpse used to be a man. His skin and hair had been burned away, and he was red raw where his skin had scorched, stained with black, his flesh and remaining skin smouldering. An awful and agonising death, cooking like meat in an oven. No escape, just frenzy and desperation as the flames ate up the car as he tried to thrash, kick and claw his way out. Gerrard saw the stringy remains of binds around his hands and ankles and a gag tied around his head and in his mouth.

  ‘Jesus,’ Gerrard muttered, his tie still to his nose.

  ‘The driver of the cab,’ Katic said. ‘He was gagged and bound after they lifted the taxi. When they lit the interior, he couldn’t get out.’

  Gerrard glanced at what was left of the man’s hands. The fingernails were mostly still intact, and he saw black fabric and blood there from where he had scrabbled at the interior, trying to claw his way out. He’d ripped off a few of them off in his desperation. Having seen enough, Gerrard stepped back, turning and taking a deep fresh breath to clear his airways of the awful smell, releasing his tie and letting it drop back down to his shirt.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. They screwed up,’ he told Katic, who joined him. ‘The ball’s in our court. This is a homicide charge.’

  ‘Double,’ Katic corrected. Gerrard looked at her and she nodded with her head towards the front seat of the taxi.

  He stepped forward and walked around the car. A female detective from forensics was there, peering inside. Gerrard tapped her on the shoulder and she turned and nodded, moving to one side to let him see for himself.

  A second dead body was there in the front seat, behind the wheel. His torso, arms and legs had been torched by the flames, but his head was the worst mess of all.

  Half of it was missing.

  Ahead of him, some of the front windshield was smashed out, blood spattered amongst the black char.

  ‘Someone shot him up close, from the back seat. Shotgun, point-blank. One shell. No cartridge left behind,’ Katic said. Gerrard looked closer at the corpse. He saw the remains of white clothing clinging to his burnt flesh, patches of it on his legs, torso and arms. Katic had said that all the thieves had been wearing white, save for the hostage.

  So this guy was one of the four.

  ‘No prizes for guessing who it is,’ Katic added.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Gerrard said, realising who the dead man was. ‘Oh shit, shit, shit.’

  He stepped back, turning and cursing, walking away from the carcass of the vehicle and kicking over a traffic cone in frustration.

  ‘There goes our inside man,’ he said.

  Katic nodded, walking with him across the tarmac.

  ‘But we’re making progress,’ she said. ‘Our first getaway car. Two homicides. They’re getting sloppy and careless. And now we know one thing for sure about them.’

  Gerrard looked at her, his eyes narrow behind his sunglasses.

  ‘And what’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re going to need a new driver.’

  TWO

  The pub was called McCann’s. It was an Irish joint on Ditmars Boulevard, a long stretch of road which ran through the north-west Greek neighbourhood of Astoria, Queens, the last stop on the N train from Manhattan and Brooklyn. For a Monday night, the place was filling up fast. The two guys behind the bar were hard at work, serving customers, pouring draughts and shots and working the till, whilst a handful of waitresses moved out into the seating area ahead of the bar, taking orders from customers and earning their tips.

  The crowd inside was a real blend. Half of them were office workers, most of them still in shirt and tie, having come straight from the office to the bar, the other half sports fans who were avidly watching television screens mounted in various positions around the room. There was some kind of big baseball game going on, the Yankees versus the Red Sox, and fans in navy blue Yankees gear were transfixed by the action on the screens. In most cities and towns around the world, different sports teams carried the hopes and dreams of the neighbourhoods they represented, and Astoria was no different. Around these parts, the Yankees were like a religion. They were the most famous and successful baseball team in the world, and their fans liked to let everyone know it.

  Amongst the busy throng of people, a man sat alone towards the back of the pub, his forearms resting on the table in front of him, not interested in the baseball but watching the screen anyway. Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, he was in his mid-twenties, handsome, blond hair and blue eyes, healthy and in the prime of his physical life. He picked up a bottle of Budweiser from the table beside his forearm and took a long pull. The bottle was frosty and cool, and he felt the beer slide down the back of his throat, the liquid ice cold.

  The air conditioning in the pub was working flat out despite the slight drop in heat in the air, but it was still hot and humid. He took another pull from the beer, enjoying it, glancing at the bottle in his hand. A droplet of water slid down the bottle and over the logo above his thumb.

  The King of Beers, the label told him. With a taste that good, he didn’t doubt it.

  Shifting his gaze from the television, he glanced at the interior of the bar around him. It was a welcoming place. Sports memorabilia and signed jerseys were mounted on the walls around Irish flags and three-leaf clovers, typical decorations, designed to bring out patriotism and pride of heritage and make customers nostalgic enough to want to go buy a beer and talk about it. It was a typical local bar, familiar and constant, like an old friend who would always be there for you no matter what kind of day you’d had. He figured pretty much everyone in here was a local, judging by the way different groups greeted and interacted with each other. He was the only outsider.

  There was a sudden crack on the TV, and people around the bar started yelling and shouting excitedly at the screen. The blond man glanced up at the action and saw a player running base-to-base. He was a big guy but he hustled forward as fast as he could and the bar was filled with the sound of cheering from the stadium over the sound-system as the commentators called the play over the action. The Red Sox team in the field worked quickly though, as an outfielder scooped up the ball with his glove then threw it hard with impressive speed to a team-mate standing on one of the bases. The batter only made it to second. If he was thirty pounds lighter, he probably could have made third.

  Watching the action, the blond man drinking the Budweiser was baffled. Baseball seemed like the most confusing game on the planet. The scoring system, the way the pitcher worked, the batting rules. The only thing he’d ever learned about baseball was three strikes and you’re out, but then again everyone and their grandmother knew that one. It went both ways though. He’d tried explaining cricket to an American once but it had been as if he was speaking a foreign language, judging from the blank stare on the guy’s face as he laid out the rules. Both sports had a bat and a ball, but he guessed understanding how the hell to play each one depended on which side of the Atlantic you were brough
t up.

  Taking another pull from the cold beer, the man glanced around the bar again, but at the people this time, not the furnishings. He was surprised at how busy the place was for a Monday, but then again, he’d been to the city enough times to know the rules were different in the New York summer. The days were longer and the nights seemed even more so, and people made the most of every single one, no matter what day of the week it was.

  To his left by the bar, a group of four were sitting on stools, each hitting a shot and wincing from the taste as they proceeded to suck on a lemon slice. Two men, two women, all still in work-clothes but all having a good time. He watched them laughing and enjoying each other’s company, much the same as everyone else around them. He figured the bar would be something for them to look forward to, a treat for getting through the first working day of the week, the carrot at the end of the stick. He watched them enjoying themselves. If he worked in an office, he’d probably be doing the exact same thing.

  But there was one group who weren’t interacting with anyone else. They were sitting ahead of the blond man at a table near the door, up against the window with the bar’s name and an Irish flag painted on the glass. They were talking in low voices, keeping to themselves, private and quiet, casting occasional glances at the baseball on the screens.

  There were three men and a woman, all four of them dressed in a mixed combination of jeans and tracksuit tops, sportswear and casual. Two of the men had short, buzz-cut hair and thick tattooed forearms. They both looked tough, guys who worked in construction or who did something physical for a job. The third man had slightly longer hair and was skinnier, but he shared the same grim expression and disinterest in the rest of the bar around him. They had a half-filled pitcher of beer going in the middle of the table, alongside a series of empty shot glasses. Plenty of drinks but seemingly not much pleasure.

  Shifting his gaze to the right of the table, the man glanced at the fourth member of the group. The woman. Her three companions looked pretty tough, but she was the most menacing of the bunch by far. She was Hispanic, Dominican or Mexican maybe, and was wearing a tight grey t-shirt that revealed brown sinewy arms. She reached forward for a cell phone resting on the table and he saw the muscles and tendons in her forearm work, contracting and flexing as she moved her fingers and picked up the phone. There wasn’t a single ounce of body fat on her entire frame. Her dark hair was braided into tight corn-rows lining her head, her face unusually hard for a woman, unemotional, a solid jaw-line, not feminine or delicate. He also noticed that whilst the three guys were drinking the beer and shots, she was nursing a small bottle of water. Some kind of athlete, he thought, as he watched her. Whatever her sport, he figured it would involve some kind of confrontation. She looked the epitome of a woman that you did not want to mess with.

  He took another pull from his beer, and observed the foursome over the bottle, curious. Suddenly, the woman rose from her seat and started walking down the bar, headed straight towards him. He’d shifted his attention, looking up at the television again, but for a split-second he thought she was coming over to confront him. He couldn’t resist flicking his eyes to her face, and they made eye contact as she approached. Her gaze burned into his, no emotion, brown eyes that were cold and hard, accustomed to staring people down. He looked straight back as she passed him, and he heard a door behind him swing open as she entered the restroom.

  A waitress from the bar approached him from the left. The polar opposite of the Hispanic woman. She was young, early twenties, and smiled a customary smile, her face and demeanour innocent, her features soft. ‘One more, hun?’ she asked, seeing his beer was almost gone.

  The blond man nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  She stood for a moment as if she was about to speak again, then changed her mind and left. He watched her go, and drained his first beer. Considering the heat, the final pull tasted just as good as the first. Across the pub, it seemed on the television that the baseball game was reaching a climax. Fans around the bar were sitting forward in their seats as a Yankee batter stepped up to the plate, the noise quietening as people watched. The guy swung and connected first time, but he didn’t catch the ball cleanly and only made it to first.

  Suddenly, he felt someone grab his right arm. He also felt something pressed into his back. It was metal and cool, the shape unmistakeable.

  The barrel of a pistol.

  ‘Outside,’ a voice said. Female. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was.

  But he didn’t move.

  ‘Outside, pendejo,’ she said again.

  ‘I’ve got another beer coming. Give me ten minutes,’ he told her.

  She didn’t respond, grunting with indignation instead, and pulled him from the stool with surprising strength. She pushed him forward, keeping herself tight behind him, concealing the gun she’d jammed into his back. Around them, no one was paying any attention. They were too wrapped up in the game or in their own private conversations. As she pushed him through the bar, he glanced at his arm and saw her fingers curled tight around his right bicep, gripping him firmly. Up ahead, the three guys she had been sitting with watched the pair walk by as they headed for the exit, and he saw them rise as they passed, preparing to follow them outside.

  Shit.

  There was a big white guy by the entrance, the doorman, but he didn’t react when he saw the pair, watching them pass. The blond man saw the bouncer nod to the woman as they moved through the doors, a silent code. Whatever trouble she had, he’d turn a blind eye as long as she took it outside. In other places, a guy in such a position might have intervened or separated them. But in a place like this, there was an unspoken trust that the blond man understood.

  The foursome and the doorman were locals.

  He wasn’t.

  And that meant they called the shots.

  Outside on the street the woman turned left and pushed him towards the glass window of the bar, tucking the pistol into the rear waistband of her sweatpants. He turned around after she shoved him, just as her three companions appeared beside them from the exit. He had his back to the glass window, and was trapped, the four of them positioning in a semi-circle to close off any potential escape. One of the two shaved-headed guys, the biggest one of the group, spoke. He was standing directly in front of the blond man, the woman to his right, the two other guys either side of them.

  The leader.

  ‘So who the hell are you?’ the big guy said, a deep New York accent.

  ‘What?’ the blond man said.

  The guy stepped forward.

  ‘I said who the hell are you? I’ve seen you staring. You seem awful interested in our table, asshole.’

  The woman passed him the blond man’s wallet. She’d lifted it from his pocket as she pushed him outside. He flipped it open and pulled out an I.D.

  ‘Sam Archer,’ he said, reading the card. ‘You a cop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look like a cop.’

  ‘Check the I.D again. And listen to my voice. I’m English. Guys like me don’t work for the NYPD. We can’t.’

  The guy’s eyes narrowed, and he checked the I.D in his hands again.

  ‘England, huh? So what the hell are you doing here? How come we’ve never seen you before?’

  ‘I’m visiting.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No one in particular. The city.’

  ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t realise that was a crime. Is this how you treat every guy who walks in here to grab a beer?’

  The guy looked at him. He was about to speak, but the other man with the shaved head behind him spoke, an edge of concern in his voice.

  ‘Sean.’

  The big guy turned, as his friend beckoned to their right with his head. Archer looked in the same direction.

  And saw six men walking straight towards them from up the street.

  Every one of them was over six feet tall and thickly built, guys who were naturally strong and who had hit th
e weights to take that strength even further. They’d appeared out of nowhere. They took up the whole sidewalk as they approached in a line, and came to a halt five yards from the foursome from the bar. The leader of the second group was staring straight at the guy called Sean opposite him, his eyes narrowed, his face tense. They’d walked down the street with purpose, not casually, almost like they’d been waiting for the foursome to leave the bar. One thing was for sure, these weren’t just pedestrians or a gang of American football players out on the town.

  These guys oozed aggression and impending violence.

  The way the two groups lined up, it was six-on-four. Archer glanced to his right and saw the woman still had the pistol jammed in the back of her waistband. That could be a game-changer if she decided to pull it. If she did, the difference in numbers would mean shit.

  But to his surprise, she made no effort to reach for it, her hands staying by her side. She was just staring at the guy across from her, not a glimmer of intimidation in her body language, front-on, staring him down. She looked almost like she was relishing it, swaying side-to-side slowly, savouring the confrontation.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Sean told the other group. ‘Save yourself some trouble.’

  The leader on their side didn’t move. He just smiled.

  ‘And why should I do that, Farrell?’ the man said, thick Irish accent. ‘This is our pub. My family owns this bar. And to be honest, we’ve had enough of you and your wetback bitch hanging out here. You’re bringing us a shitload of trouble we don’t want.’

  As he spoke, Archer suddenly realised he was standing in line with Farrell and the three who had pulled him from the bar.

  Which meant one of the six guys opposite was staring straight down at him.

  Archer cursed inwardly.

  Shit. He thinks I’m part of their group, he thought.

  And his recent luck dictated that he was facing the biggest one of them all.

  The guy was six three and over two-twenty easily, probably a line-backer in his high-school days or a wrestler, a guy used to getting his hands on someone and slamming them around. He looked down at the smaller man, an arrogant and self-satisfied sneer on his face, looking every inch a bully. He had probably never lost a fight in his life, being the size that he was. And from the look on his face, he figured he was going to stomp this little guy across from him like he was squashing a bug. It was written all over him, that smirk of victory on his lips. He thought he’d already won.