The apartment was still for a few moments.
Then the front door eased forward and Archer exhaled as he stepped out from his hiding place behind it. It had been close, razor-thin; he’d only just made it behind the door before the two men entered the room. When they’d stopped on their way out and come back, he’d been on the verge of kicking back the door and firing, trying to drop them both before they had a chance to react, his heart thumping so loud he was convinced they might hear it.
Now alone, he looked down at the pack in his left hand.
They were in business.
He glanced over at the comatose man on the couch, the guy completely unaware of what had just happened, completely out of it. Thanks buddy. When he woke up he was going to be pissed off when he found his stash was gone but at least he wouldn’t be in handcuffs and a jail cell, which is exactly where he would be if Archer didn’t have other priorities. Edging round the open door, Archer checked either side of the corridor cautiously, making sure the two guys had gone, his finger on the trigger of the USP.
It was empty.
Satisfied, he slipped out of the room and quickly moved along the hallway, heading back to Helen’s apartment and Carson, the leather pack of dope clutched in his left hand.
THIRTEEN
A few moments later, there was a quick knock on the door of 5B and a murmured name. Foster pulled it open, and Archer slid back into the room, relaxing slightly as the door closed behind him.
‘Success?’ Foster asked.
Archer nodded, holding up the pack. As the big Deputy Marshal pushed the refrigerator back into position, Archer walked into the sitting room and handed the pack to Helen, as Vargas and Barlow watched with grim curiosity.
She unzipped it and looked at the equipment inside. There was a rusty spoon, several foil packets and some spare tubing.
She shuddered.
‘I’ll get the first aid kit,’ she said. ‘Just do him a favour and get a clean spoon from the kitchen.’
Down on the street, Shepherd approached the man in the suit who’d been arguing with Hobbs, as Josh finished filling Marquez in on the situation. He had black hair, smartly cut, and looked in his late thirties, standing beside a colleague as the two of them examined a tablet screen resting on the back of his car. Without knowing anything about him, Shepherd was ninety nine per cent sure the man was a Federal agent; his spat with Hobbs had all but confirmed it, as did the current activity behind him. A series of other 4x4 Tahoes had just drawn up, the barriers and crowd moved out of the way so they could pass and get inside the cordon. A group of tough-looking men and women had piled out of the vehicles immediately, moving to the back of the 4x4s and pulling on bulletproof vests then loading Remington shotguns and AR-15 assault rifles. The vests had lettering printed on them.
United States Marshals.
Now this man’s argument with Hobbs made total sense.
‘Not now,’ the guy in the suit said without looking up, as he sensed Shepherd approach.
‘One of my men is in the building. He’s with your group.’
The man paused; he glanced up at him. ‘The cop?’
‘Archer. He’s one of my detectives.’
‘Foster told me what he did on the street. We owe him one.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s a good man.’
The suited man examined Shepherd for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and offered his hand.
‘I’m James Dalton. Chief Deputy Marshal. The team inside are one of mine.’
‘Sergeant Matt Shepherd,’ he said, shaking Dalton’s hand. Shepherd indicated to the pair who’d just joined him. ‘These are two of my detectives, Blake and Marquez. We’re with the Counter Terrorism Bureau.’
Dalton nodded a greeting to them.
‘Sorry about the drama,’ he said, motioning with his head to Hobbs, who noticed the gesture and glared at him. He and several of his ESU men were gathered by their truck, huddled around a screen and talking quietly, mirroring Dalton and his squad.
‘What’s the problem?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Our two helicopters are tied up on the outskirts of Long Island on an operation and won’t be here for another hour. He found out and figured he’s taking over. He seems to think this is his fight.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘He doesn’t know who we have inside there,’ Dalton said, jabbing a forefinger at the tenement block. ‘And we have jurisdiction. This is a Federal situation. He can sit and watch. That’s it.’
‘You New York-based?’ Josh asked.
Dalton nodded. ‘Pearl Street.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Marquez asked.
Dalton pointed at the tablet in his hand, tilting it so the trio could see. They all peered closer and saw blue and white schematics for the building.
It was a layout of the 5th floor, pulled from city files. Dalton expanded it with his thumb and forefinger, pointing at a rectangular south-side room.
It was separated into three portions; a bathroom to the left of the door, a kitchen in the middle and a sitting room to the right.
‘Our team are in here,’ he said, pointing at the sitting room. ‘5B, near the south stairwell. Four Marshals, a child, your detective and the woman who rents the apartment. They’ve barricaded themselves in as best they can but the situation is pretty fragile. The door isn’t substantial. It’s thin wood and the only thing they could use to block it is an old refrigerator. Someone finds out they’re in there, it won’t take them long to get in.’
‘Archer said one of your Marshals was shot in the stomach,’ Josh said.
Dalton nodded. ‘Carson. The slug was from a.45. We’ll get him out of there ASAP.’
‘Do we have any idea how many residents are still inside?’ Marquez asked.
Dalton shrugged. ‘Can’t say for sure. I think most of them got out.’
‘They could be an issue. Potential casualties.’
‘My task force is clinical,’ Dalton said, indicating to the group of Marshals assembling behind him. ‘And this time, we’re not going to be taken by surprise.’
‘OK, so let’s get in there right now,’ Shepherd said.
Dalton nodded. ‘You read my mind.’
Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he whistled and beckoned the team to join him. They all hustled over, fully prepared and ready to go. Doing a quick headcount, Shepherd made fifteen of them, stern-faced and determined, people who had colleagues trapped inside and would make damn sure they made it out in one piece. He’d had experience with the Marshals service before and they didn’t screw around, especially if their own people were in danger. The four thugs holding the lobby would be no match for this team.
He glanced over his shoulder at Hobbs, who was looking at the group with narrowed eyes. Turning the tablet, Dalton laid it on the front of his car, tilting it up so the gathered team could see.
‘Right, listen up,’ he called. ‘Here’s the situation.’
He started his brief but then heard something that made him pause.
The noise was faint, yet increasing in volume.
Seeing him halt, Shepherd frowned, then turned his head. He also heard the sound.
It was getting closer.
Other people on the street started to look up. Dalton realised what was happening. Swinging from his group of Marshals, he stalked towards Hobbs standing by the ESU truck.
‘You son of a bitch!’
Eighty yards downtown, an office building elevator dinged on the 13th floor. The man in the black t-shirt and blue jeans with the briefcase stepped out, looking left and right, making sure he was alone. The lights were off, the place deserted, a dark stillness filling the offices that would be a distant memory tomorrow morning.
He walked through the aisles, eventually arriving by the windows facing uptown. The tenement building was straight ahead, less than a hundred yards away. The street to the right was packed with squad and Federal vehicles along with a crowd of cops, detectives and curious bystanders.