‘No, sir. He came straight from the gym.’
‘The enemy?’
‘There are four left. Three handguns and an AK-47. I called CSU; the man who Foster killed is already at the lab being dusted for prints and background checked. But there’s another problem.’
‘What’s that?’ Shepherd asked.
‘As I said, one of the Marshals was shot in the gut. Archer said it’s bad. The gunmen are controlling the lobby and there’s no other exit. He’s running out of time.’
‘Shit.’
‘So who’s running the show down here?’ Marquez asked, casting her eyes down to the street. ‘Let’s figure out an entry and get in there.’
Josh went to reply but something interrupted him. Behind the trio, a loud argument had broken out between two men by the ESU truck. One of them was in a dark suit and blue tie, the other an ESU Lieutenant in navy-blue fatigues. Josh had seen the ESU man before on an operation around Christmas; his name was Hobbs. He’d also seen him a lot calmer.
They were face to face, their argument causing people to turn and stare.
‘Don’t forget where you are!’ Hobbs said to the other man, jabbing his finger at him.
‘Don’t forget who the hell is in there!’ the other man fired back.
‘This is our turf, asshole! Your team caused a daylight gun fight in one of our safest neighbourhoods.’
‘I’m sorry, did they start this?’
‘We’re calling the shots here.’
‘Like hell you are! This is a Federal situation. So make yourself useful; go get me a donut.’
That lit the keg. Hobbs stepped forward but one of his officers held him back, people from both sides intervening as the two men glared at each other. Cursing, Hobbs turned and stalked away as Shepherd, Josh and Marquez watched it all unfold.
The man in the suit pulled his cell phone, shaking his head, then dialled a number as he walked away.
‘Well that was cute,’ Marquez said.
Behind the detectives, emergency services and assembled police cars crowded together thirty yards from the tenement block, officers were containing the public and gathered news teams behind a series of hastily-erected wooden barriers. The stand-off was still volatile, and more gunfire could erupt at any moment.
Amongst the throng of people, a man in a black shirt and blue jeans stood still, looking up at the building. He was light-haired and tanned with a nondescript face, blending in with the crowd. Like everyone else down there, he was watching the situation unfold with interest, listening to the conversations and rumours being passed around.
Turning, he pushed his way through the gathered mass of people and headed south, a briefcase in his hand. Crossing the street, he walked downtown on the sidewalk for several minutes, police and detective cars racing past the other way, people passing him in the opposite direction as they walked towards the scene, curious, wanting to see what was happening.
He arrived at an office building about eighty yards from the apartment building, on West 133rd. The man glanced over his shoulder, then pushed his way through the revolving doors and walked inside.
TWELVE
Inside the tenement block, Archer eased the apartment door shut behind him then moved down the 5th floor corridor quickly, his back to the wall, checking left and right constantly, with Carson’s USP in his hand.
All of a sudden the stretch of corridor seemed a hell of a lot longer than it had with Foster watching his back.
John had been coming with him but had just received a call from his superior, Dalton, and been forced to hold up. Vargas and Barlow weren’t going anywhere, staying with Jennifer who was the priority and guarding Carson as Helen did her best to comfort him and keep him quiet. He needed pain relief and he needed it now. This couldn’t wait.
It meant Archer was momentarily on his own.
Keeping the USP trained on the end of the corridor, he worked his way along the hall, passing the closed apartment doors either side. Moving past the elevator, he finally arrived by the room with the unconscious guy on the couch and ducked inside, relieved to be out of the hallway. He stood motionless for a second, listening, then stepped further into the room.
The man slumped on the cushions was still out cold, his head lolled to one side, his eyes shut. He was a black guy, wearing a string vest, and was painfully thin. A needle was jutting out of his arm, a tourniquet wrapped around his lower bicep. Given that the door had been left open, Archer figured a buddy of his had heard the alarm and left, probably unable to wake the guy on the couch and then just leaving him behind. He’d encountered heavy drug users before on raids, but most of the time the doors in front of such activity were closed. Helen’s voice echoed in his mind. What do you think this is, the Waldorf?
Archer stared at the unconscious man for a moment then switched his attention to the table. There was an open leather pack, a junkie kit. He saw several packets of foil tucked inside. He reached forward and picked one up, opening it and finding crumbly dark brown powder inside. It was heroin; this guy had just scored. Unlike the movies, he didn’t need to taste it to know. No way was he putting that horrible shit in his mouth. He closed the foil ball, tucking it back into the leather case. He picked the pack up and headed to the door to get the hell out of here.
Then he heard footsteps and voices coming from the north stairwell.
‘They must have ducked down one of these floors,’ Braeten said, arriving on the 5th floor and walking down the corridor. The man armed with the AK-47 was beside him.
‘Why so sure?’
‘I heard them going up the stairs. One of them is shot and they’ve got the kid. They couldn’t have gone too far up, but they’d have gone as high as they could.’
‘How can you know?’
‘Common sense. If they were on 1 or 2, they’d know we’d find them quickly.’
They stopped outside an apartment beside the elevator. 5H. Unlike the rest of the corridor, the door was open. Looking inside, they noticed the legs of someone laid out on the couch. Frowning, Braeten moved inside, training his pistol on the body as he approached. His companion followed him in, doing the same but with the Kalashnikov. When they got closer, they saw it was just a junkie, passed out on the couch, his head lolled to the side, his mouth open. Braeten nudged him with his sneaker but the guy didn’t react. The other man looked around the rest of the place, and saw there was no one else here.
‘Want to search the next one?’ he asked.
‘We do that, we’ll be here till next week,’ Braeten said, looking around the room. He glanced at a clock on the wall, considering his next move. He shook his head. ‘We need to stay on the front door for the moment. This was just a hunch. We’re expecting company any minute.’
The other man nodded and went to walk out of the room.
But as they moved to the door, there was a noise from the bathroom. Both men swung round.
To their right, the bathroom door was closed.
Stepping back, they aimed their weapons at the wood, easing their way forward. The man with the AK-47 settled into the weapon as Braeten took the lead, creeping towards the frame.
He kicked the door back as hard as he could.
The room was empty.
Braeten stepped forward and swept the shower curtain to one side, but there was no-one in the bathtub. They heard the sound again, a rattling and humming. It was the old pipes, water flowing through them and the metal jangling and clanging in protest as it did so, an old system on its last legs.
Seeing there was no-one there, Braeten lowered his weapon and exhaled.
‘Screw this. Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The two men turned and walked back out through the room into the corridor and towards the north stairwell, heading down the stairs.