by Tom Barber
‘Jesus Christ, where the hell is the ambulance?’ he said.
Marquez didn’t reply, staring at the phone in her hand. Archer turned to look at her.
‘Lisa?’
Suddenly she thrust the cell at Archer, leapt down the step and took off towards their car.
‘Warn Shepherd and Hendricks!’ she shouted at him, ripping open the driver’s door to the Ford.
Archer watched in astonishment as she fired the engine and took off down the street, passing an ambulance coming in the opposite direction as she roared out onto Central Park West and disappeared out of sight.
‘What’s wrong?’ Isabel asked, seeing her go.
‘I don’t know,’ Archer said, looking down at the phone Marquez had virtually thrown at him. On the screen was an open text message, a series of names and addresses.
Then he saw why Marquez had bolted. The first address was Josh’s.
Then Marquez’s.
Then Shepherd’s, and Hendricks’.
And finally, his.
It wasn’t Lisa’s cell.
One of the gunmen who’d just escaped had dropped it.
TWENTY ONE
Like many other cities in the United States, New York was adapting its approach to prostitution. In the past, those who were paid for sex were viewed as criminals but the outlook had changed, those in authority starting to realise the bleak, dangerous lives these people led, most of them with little chance of escape. Operation Losing Proposition had been the Department’s first major step in trying to strike a balance, seeking to target the johns rather than the girls; arrests had been plentiful, including some of the providers, but it was a step in the right direction.
Another was Covenant Housing, nationwide secure hostel-like shelters where residents could be admitted for a thirty day rehabilitation program with the intention of getting them off the street and into a safer life. Located in Midtown on 42nd Street, the New York branch was one of the main refuges for victims of the sex industry and that Friday night, three of the project’s employees were working together at the front desk when the front door opened and a man in jeans, jacket and a sweater wandered in.
The moment he entered the building, all conversation ceased, the three of them recognising the look on the new arrival’s face. The vacancy and despair that was so familiar was clearly visible, his face pale, his head buzz-shaved. Women weren’t the only sex being trafficked and sold on the street. The man was slightly built, around five ten and a hundred and sixty pounds, someone who without a lot of confidence would be easily controlled.
He shuffled towards the front desk, the female shift leader walking forward to meet him. There was a pause.
‘I’ve got nowhere else to go,’ he said eventually, staring at the counter.
She nodded, putting her hand on his back reassuringly.
‘It’s OK,’ she told him. ‘We have space.’
More than a hundred blocks uptown, the car carrying the four armed Prizraki had stopped at their next address, that of L Marquez on 120th Street. The journey had been a frustrating ride, hindered by one of their tyres being blown out in the shootout on 76th Street, but they’d still managed to make it up there fast, knowing the cops would be onto them.
Staying where he was inside their car, Marat gritted his teeth and clutched his shoulder, feeling a searing pain coursing through his body, blood staining his hands. The bullet was still in there and grinding against the bone. He swore at his stupidity as he sweated and bled out; not only had he got shot but he’d dropped his cell phone, which meant those cops who’d shown up would have it by now.
He should have tossed it down a storm drain or deleted the message as soon as he’d memorised it; his desire for bloodlust and revenge had made him sloppy and he knew that could cost them dearly. He wasn’t planning on telling the other guys or Bashev though; as a newly-promoted right-hand man, it wouldn’t exactly build trust and respect and he had no desire to end up in a coffin with his wrists broken for his carelessness.
Taking his hand away from the gunshot wound, he swore crudely in his native tongue as he pulled the empty magazine from his UMP and reloaded awkwardly with a spare from his pocket. Loading a round, he looked out of the window and saw the other three guys reappear, moving out of the apartment building, glancing quickly around them as they climbed back into the car, their weapons concealed under their jackets.
‘You check it out?’ he asked.
Nemkov nodded. ‘Looks like a woman and kid live there. The bitch wasn’t home. And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘Photos in the sitting room of her in NYPD uniform. I think she’s a cop too. Or someone who lives there is.’
Marat stared at him for a moment and thought back to the photos of the man inside the house they’d just left. The police had shown up unusually fast.
‘Is this a set up?’ Sivic asked from the back seat.
Ignoring him, Marat thought back to the addresses he’d memorised; if they were all cops that could be a serious issue. Valentin was a reliable man, so maybe cops had been the ones responsible for their guys disappearing. It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘We skip #3 and go straight to #4,’ he said. ‘If a cop lives there too, we head back to the Beach and figure this out.’
‘Where the hell is Valentin?’
‘Call him and tell him to meet us there.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘I look like I can use my hands at the moment?’ he retorted, clutching the wound to his shoulder with his right and holding his gun in the left.
‘You gonna bleed to death?’ Nemkov asked.
‘No, but you will if you don’t start the car.’
A beat later, Nemkov switched on the engine and checked for any movement behind them as he pulled out onto the street.
‘Who lives at this next place?’ Ilya asked.
Gritting his teeth from the pain and with his anger increasing, Marat forced his mind to focus.
‘Some asshole called Hendricks.’
The Midtown Covenant Housing centre had three floors, eight rooms on each. Six of them had bunk beds, the other two rooms were for single occupants, those who for psychological or post-traumatic stress reasons couldn’t sleep in a room unless they were alone.
As most of the occupants were women, putting the man in the single room was the only option and fortunately tonight there was one spare. Having signed him in and taken what details they could get out of him, the female employee led him to the room.
‘Here we are,’ she said, opening up.
The man walked inside slowly, looking around and then turned to face the woman, crossing his arms in a defensive gesture which she was used to. These people had spent their entire lives trying to protect themselves and ward off abuse; you didn’t just drop the habit.
‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked.
The man didn’t reply. She smiled.
‘I bet you’re hungry.’
‘I guess.’
‘I’ll go out and get you some food. What would you like?’
Pause.
‘McDonalds would be good.’
‘OK. There’s one just down the street. You wait here and I’ll be right back.’
Smiling at him, she closed the door and headed off down the corridor.
The moment she shut the door, the man’s expression changed.
Moving fast, he pulled his cell phone and called his partner, who was on the street in their black van. He answered before the second ring.
‘I’m inside,’ he told him. ‘The one booking me in just left to get me food. Fat bitch, grey hair, grey dress.’
‘OK. I’ll let you know when she’s coming back. Start searching.’
Hanging up, the slight man tucked the phone into his pocket then drew his silenced FN.45 pistol from the back of his belt, loading a round into the chamber. Pulling off his jacket and draping it over his arm to cover the handgun, he moved to the door an
d eased it open, checking to make sure the woman had left.
She had.
He stalked down the corridor, moving to the first bedroom he came to and pushed it open, his fingers curled around the grip of the pistol hidden under his jacket.
A black girl was in there alone and turned to look as the door was opened. The man glanced at her then after quickly scanning the rest of the room, pulled the door shut behind him before the woman had a chance to speak, moving on to the next.
April Evans was alone, abandoned and scared with very little money and no friends left to call. This was the only major housing centre for prostitutes in Manhattan, the one place they could come to for shelter.
There was more than a high chance that she was in here somewhere.
Inside the Ford speeding uptown from the Upper West Side into Spanish Harlem, the sound of a ringing phone filled the car, Marquez willing Shepherd to answer. Right now his cell was engaged, which she prayed was Archer warning him and getting there ahead of her.
Moments later she tried again and this time she got through.
‘Lisa?’ Shepherd said, still down on Rivington Street. ‘Where the hell did you all go? I need you here.’
‘Sir, you need to get to your house right now!’
‘What’s going on?’
‘There are people targeting us. They shot Josh’s wife.’
‘What?’
‘We made it just in time; looks as if they were intending to kill her and the kids. One of them dropped his cell. All of our addresses were on it!’
Before she’d finished talking, Marquez could already hear the sound of Shepherd calling for Hendricks, followed by the sound of a car door being opened and slammed shut.
‘Who the hell are they?’ he asked, the engine in the background firing.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But we were all on that list. You were number 3, then Sergeant Hendricks, then Archer.’
‘My family’s at Jake’s having dinner. Where are you?’
‘Pulling up outside my place!’ she said, screeching to a halt.
‘Marquez, wait for back-up! That’s an order!’
Ignoring him and jamming on the handbrake, she pushed open the Ford’s door and ran towards the building, opening the entrance and sprinting up the stairs with her pistol drawn. On nights she had to work late like tonight, she called her sister and asked her to look after her daughter until she got home.
She just prayed to God that tonight was one of the nights she’d taken her back to her own place.
TWENTY TWO
The Shepherd and Hendricks families went back a long way. Matt and Jake had ridden a squad car together as rookies when they’d first joined the NYPD and had been the closest of friends ever since, Shepherd’s cool and calm manner a perfect foil for Hendricks’ more explosive personality, two different approaches to life and police-work that complemented each other perfectly.
Their wives were also good friends and that night had just arrived back at the Hendricks’ house just across the Hudson River in Hoboken from a school play that both the Hendricks girls had performed in. They were all having dinner together before the Shepherd family headed back to their place twenty minutes away.
In the kitchen, Melissa Hendricks was putting some final preparations to dinner, Beth Shepherd behind her straining some vegetables over the sink as she glanced at the news headlines on the television mounted on the wall beside her, the kids next door watching TV. The two women had been friends for over fifteen years and like their husbands, their temperaments were very different, Beth calm and placid while Melissa was more like a Spartan mother, as strong, determined and resilient as her husband but also as kind as anyone you could ever hope to meet unless you crossed her.
Finishing mixing the sauce, Melissa felt for her cell phone then realised it was next door in the hall, tucked inside her jacket pocket. She wanted to call her husband and see what time he was finishing work, hoping they weren’t going to be delayed so he and Matt could eat with their families. Although it was his day off, Jake had headed out earlier saying he wouldn’t be long, and she hadn’t heard from him since; no doubt he’d been caught up in something yet again. It was a pattern she’d become very familiar with over the years.
Moving the saucepan off the heat then wiping her hands on a towel, she walked through to the hall and picked up the house phone.
Dialling her husband’s number, she glanced idly out of the window as she lifted the receiver to her ear, hoping to see him or Matt show up even as she made the call.
On the third floor of the Covenant Housing building in Midtown, a red-headed prostitute was sitting on the bed trying to work up the courage to leave the bedroom and go down the corridor to talk to the other residents. She could hear some quiet laughter filtering down the hallway, a sound she hadn’t heard in a long time.
It almost made her smile.
She looked down at her hands and saw they were shaking. She’d come here tonight after fleeing her patch; she knew her pimp and his friends would be out there looking for her. If he found her he’d break her arm again; he liked to beat the shit out of the girls in front of the others as a deterrent. She’d seen him half-kill several.
She took a shaky breath, tears brimming in her eyes. The people downstairs had told her she was safe here for at least a month which is when she had to leave. It had taken all her courage to run and now she knew she had to dig even deeper to come up with some sort of plan.
Along with the laughter coming from down the corridor, she could hear the sounds of the city through the window, the echoes of horns, the hum of activity that hid so many secrets.
She took another steadying breath, reminding herself of the positives of her current situation.
In here she was safe.
Twenty seven more days that he couldn’t get to her.
The house phone to her ear, Melissa sighed. Jake’s cell was engaged.
However, a moment later the ring tone of her own cell phone suddenly echoed from her jacket on a hook across the hall. She smiled, knowing it would be him.
Hanging up the main line, she glanced out of the window as she started to walk across the hall.
What she saw caused her to stop dead in her tracks.
On the 3rd and final corridor of the Covenant Housing, the man with the silenced pistol had cleared floors 1 and 2, looking into all the bedrooms and scanning the occupants. There was no sign of the missing red-haired bitch, just a load of other whores and some rent-boys, the usual type, down-trodden and desperate.
As he checked another room, the occupants turning to look at him, his cell phone rang. Seeing she wasn’t inside, he shut the door and walked on to the next room, taking the call, his face cold and emotionless.
‘Yeah?’
‘Found her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘The fat bitch is coming back. Finish up and get out. I’m on 41st.’
Hanging up, he approached the last two rooms, one of which was a communal, the other a single.
As they’d parked on the street outside the Hendricks house, Marat and the other three men had already seen movement inside. Unlike the Blake and Marquez residences, this place wasn’t empty and there were no cops around.
They were in business.
Without another word, Ilya, Nemkov and Sivic had stepped out of their vehicle, quickly concealing their reloaded suppressed sub-machine guns under their jackets, leaving Marat alone in the car watching as he continued to try and staunch the bleeding from his shoulder. The three armed men had made their way up to the front of the Hendricks house, hearing noise inside, kids talking and a television.
Now kneeling by the porch, Nemkov turned to the other two men and nodded, all of them withdrawing their UMPs from under their jackets. Silently stepping up to the front door, Nemkov aimed his fully loaded weapon at the lock and half-depressed the trigger.
But then two things happened almost simultaneously. A teenage boy appeared from around t
he side of the house carrying a sports bag, stopping dead in his tracks the moment he saw the three armed men.
And a split-second later they all heard a familiar sound from the other side of the front door.
The red-headed prostitute inside the Covenant Housing had just risen to go introduce herself to the others when the door to her room was suddenly pushed open, startling her.
A shaved-headed man stood in the doorway and stepped forward, staring directly at her, withdrawing a pistol from under his jacket.
As they made eye contact she took a step back, whimpering in fright.
Right outside the Hendricks’ front door, Nemkov froze, having registered the sound that had just come from the other side of the wood.
It was a pump-action shotgun.
And it was being loaded.
TWENTY THREE
A split-second later he was pounded backwards as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a horse, punching him down the steps in a bloody spray, the centre of the wooden door exploding into thousands of splinters and screws as the door and the man both took the shotgun shell.
Before the other two armed men had time to react, Melissa Hendricks racked the pump and fired at the armed figure on the right, through where the front door had been. The edge of the porch took most of the blast, the woodwork exploding as it ate the shell, but the man received the follow-through and was blown off his feet, hit in the chest, another one down.
The shotgun was a CZ USA Model 612 Home Defence weapon, her gun, not her husband’s, twelve gauge with six shell capacity and designed to prevent home invasions. She’d seen three armed men get out of a car and approach her house as she’d glanced out of the window. She didn’t waste a second wondering who they were or why they were here. No calls to Jake, no dialling for help. It wasn’t the first time people had come looking for trouble.
