‘What would that be?’ Barlow asked. ‘Aspirin?’
‘Not here. Outside. I saw some gear down the hallway when we were clearing the corridor,’ Archer said, looking at Foster and ignoring Barlow.
‘What do you mean, gear?’
Pause.
‘Heroin.’
‘What?’ Vargas said.
‘Heroin. We could give it to him. It’ll take away the pain.’
‘Are you crazy?’ Vargas said. ‘We can’t dose him up with heroin.’
Archer motioned at Carson.
‘Helen’s right. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t just stand here and watch him go through that without trying to do something. Plus, he’s making a hell of a lot of noise. These guys will be searching for us. We’re near the stairwell; they walk past, they’re going to hear him.’
Vargas stared at him, then shook her head. She looked at Foster, who thought for a moment.
‘Where did you see this?’ he asked Archer.
‘Down the corridor on this floor, alongside the elevator. One of the apartments was open. There was a guy laid out on the couch, a pack on the table beside him. I saw what it was.’
‘You’re sure it was heroin?’
‘I’m a cop. I’m sure.’
‘There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom,’ Helen said, seemingly on board. ‘There’re two clean syringes inside.’
Archer nodded, looking at Foster. ‘Decision time. He’s your man.’
There was a pause. Carson’s hacks and grunts of pain filled it.
Foster relented. ‘OK. Let’s do it.’
Down on the street, Josh had just arrived. He was still in his gym clothes, having burnt fifty one blocks uptown as if they were five. The moment Archer had started to explain what had happened, Josh had grabbed his badge and gun and raced out of his apartment, Michelle totally confused and watching him go. He’d fired up the engine to his Ford and sped up here, parking as close as he could get which was on 133rd by City College.
Dressed in a pair of black sweats and a white t-shirt, the holster of his pistol clipped to his hip, he approached the barriers, pushing his way through the crowd. An NYPD officer tried to block him but Josh showed him his badge and the man stood back, letting him past with a nod. Tucking the Counter Terrorism badge back into its home beside the holster, he joined a mass of other officers and detectives, staring up at the tall building. There was a ring of blue and white squad cars acting as a makeshift cordon in front of them all, also acting as a front-side barrier.
This neighbourhood, Hamilton Heights, was not considered safe by any means. New Yorker knowledge decreed that 125th to 145th in Harlem was up there with the roughest spots in Manhattan, and this building was right in the middle of that area. Using a vehicle as cover, Josh examined the run-down tenement block. There looked to be about twenty or so floors. Many of the windows were half-open, shutters or blinds either concealing lights or half-revealing them depending on your point of view. Each apartment had a small concrete balcony, a few with laundry drying on them, most with air-conditioning units. Archer had said he and the group were on the 5th floor, south side. He tried to pick out which apartment contained the Marshals, the child and his friend.
In front of him, scores of officers in uniform were leaning over the front of the cop cars hastily pulled up across the street, the first responders. They were armed with handguns and shotguns, all of them aimed at the front of the building. He noticed many of the vehicles had smashed windows and bullet holes punched in the sides, shell casings and empty shotgun shells beside the officers on the road.
He looked over at the main door of the building; the windows beside it had been blown out and there was substantial damage to the brickwork around the entrance. He caught a brief glimpse of a figure inside, but it was gone in an instant. Archer had mentioned there’d been a stand-off and that the men who ambushed the Marshals weren’t giving in. There must have been a hell of a fire-fight.
An ambulance was parked behind him to his left, two medics treating a cop, loading the man up on a gurney and feeding him oxygen through a mask. It appeared he’d been shot in the leg. Behind them, beyond the blue wooden barriers, were scores of what had to be occupants of the building, passing on statements and witness reports of what they’d seen inside. Archer said the four shooters used the fire alarm to try and get all the residents out of the building; there were a significant number here, many half-dressed and being given NYPD coats or jackets to wear. A lot of them looked rough and tough as hell, ranting at cops and detectives, lots of four letter words being used, furious at being turfed out of their apartment block on a Sunday night. This was a definitely dangerous part of the city; the look of many of the people standing there reinforced that fact.
Watching them, he remembered Archer mentioning there were still some people inside who’d ignored the alarm. Despite the number of residents out here, the building they’d vacated was by no means empty. ESU had arrived in their black and white truck, parked inside the wooden barriers beside the ambulance. They were the NYPD’s SWAT team, trained and equipped for this kind of situation. The officers were already in their gear and standing in a group, looking up at the building and talking in low voices, keeping to themselves.
Stepping his way past people and heading downtown, Josh came to a halt in the middle of the cross street, facing the south side of the building which was thirty five or so yards away. Three cop cars were pulled across the street and would protect him from any sudden gunfire from the lobby. Looking up, he reached for his phone to call Archer but heard someone shout his name somewhere behind him. He turned and saw two familiar faces stepping out of a car pulled up to the kerb beyond the barriers. Matt Shepherd and Lisa Marquez had just arrived.
Shepherd was Sergeant of his and Archer’s Counter-Terrorism detail, a family man who’d been in the Department for almost fifteen years. Beside him was Marquez, a Latina 3rd Grade Detective in her early thirties who was as dependable as the sun going down each night. Both of them were in jeans and loose tops, Shepherd a blue shirt, Marquez a cropped t-shirt; they were off duty today, but he saw both had their side-arm and badge with them. Once Archer had filled him in on the situation, Josh had immediately called his boss and then Marquez, asking them to meet him up here, saying Archer was in deep shit but saving the specifics. They were supposed to be a five-man team, but since the departure of Marquez’s old partner Jorgensen a few months ago, they’d managed as a four until Shepherd was satisfied he’d identified a suitable replacement. They worked well together as a team, and Shepherd was determined not to upset the balance.
Josh walked over, greeting the pair quickly, then the trio looked up at the tall tenement building.
‘What’s the situation?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Archer and a group of US Marshals are inside on the 5th floor. There’s an armed gang hunting them. They’re trying to get to a witness the Marshals are protecting.’
The two newcomers looked over at the Tahoe rammed into the fire hydrant, water erupting up like a geyser onto the street. As they watched, someone must have killed the pressure somehow as the flow of water suddenly stopped, the plume of water dying away to a trickle.
‘What the hell happened?’ Marquez asked.
‘A group of gunmen jumped the Marshals as they were getting into their car on West 89th and Central Park West,’ Josh said, pointing downtown. ‘Foster, the lead Marshal, fired back and killed one. They managed to escape but were chased up here. Their tyres were shot out and they crashed. They had to retreat into the building.’
‘And Archer?’
‘He was passing by when it went down. You know what his luck’s like.’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, did he do something in a past life? He only just got fit again.’
Pause.
‘Is he armed?’