‘So? Are we all on the same page? Do you understand the consequences if that girl leaves this building alive?’
None of them responded.
‘So what the hell are you waiting for? Get upstairs and find them!’
As they headed off, he pushed down the pressel.
‘Everyone, get your shit together,’ he ordered. ‘Search every apartment room by room; I don’t care if it takes all night. Pull your fingers out of your asses and find these people. Don’t come back down here until you do.’
King released the switch, cursing again. He was left alone with the four gunmen he’d hired for the ambush on the street. They’d all listened to the exchange between King and his men, picking up on what had happened, but none of them said a word. The man armed with the AK-47 was cautiously peering out of the shattered hole where a glass pane on the front door had been, his concerns not on finding the girl, but on figuring out an escape and getting out of here alive. It looked like most of the NYPD were outside. He had no idea how the hell he was going to get out, and the cocaine up his nose wasn’t exactly helping him think clearly.
‘We’re running out of time,’ he said. ‘The pigs are gonna try to get in again soon.’
Furious, King went to reply but Braeten suddenly cut him off.
‘Hold on a second,’ he said sharply.
‘What?’ King spat back. ‘Your brain finally switched on?’
Turning to him, Braeten smiled, ignoring the slight.
Something Bishop just said had given him an idea.
‘I know how we can find her.’
‘What?’
‘I know how we can find the girl.’
TWENTY FOUR
The same as before, Archer and Vargas were back in the bathroom, but this time it was three floors higher and Vargas who was being patched up. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, watching Archer examine the wound to her leg.
He was kneeling on the step up to the bath, both their M4A1s within arm’s reach, the safety on each weapon clicked on. There was a sliver of metal in her thigh, jutting out of her jeans, a circle of red around the wound. It wasn’t in deep enough from what he could see to be overly concerning, but it was enough to hurt like hell.
He examined it up close. The shard was white and about the length of his index finger.
‘I think it’s a piece of balcony door,’ he said. ‘Must have come from the grenade blast.’
She didn’t reply; he looked up and saw she was staring over his head, her mind elsewhere.
‘Hey? You good?’
She snapped out of it. ‘Huh?’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
‘I’m going to have to cut a hole in your jeans.’
‘Go for it.’
Taking the scissors and a wad of gauze from a first aid kit he’d found under the basin, he snipped at the fabric, further exposing the wound. Placing the scissors to one side, he took hold of the shrapnel and looked up at her.
‘Ready?’
She nodded. A split-second later, he pulled the metal out and she exhaled sharply. Tossing the piece of shrapnel to one side, he staunched the immediate flow of blood with the gauze, keeping pressure on the wound. After a moment or two he lifted the pad and poured a small amount of antiseptic over the affected area, Vargas’s body tensing from the stinging pain. It needed to be cleaned, but he hoped she’d had a tetanus shot nonetheless. He then placed another wad of gauze over the wound, wrapping a strip from his old shirt around her thigh to hold the padding in place. He cinched and knotted it. Once it was done, he leant back and wiped antiseptic off his hands with the remains of his shirt, studying his handiwork. It sure as hell wasn’t going to qualify him for a medical career, but it would do for now. Her hair hanging down, Vargas checked out his work then looked up and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Guess that makes us even.’
‘No problem.’
He thought back to the battle upstairs and how she’d acquired the injury. She’d done brilliantly. She was conservative with her ammo, not panicking in the face of a full-on attack and had kept her cool, thinking fast when she’d jumped to the next balcony. She’d also taken out one of the gunmen without hesitation; everything she’d done had been faultless, decisive and extremely impressive. More to her than meets the eye, he’d thought earlier. That was for damn sure.
‘You were great up there,’ he told her.
‘You too.’
‘I can see why you’ve got that badge on your hip.’
There was a pause.
‘Did you know that the Marshals service has never lost a witness under protection?’ she said.
‘I didn’t. And that’s not going to change tonight.’
They made eye contact and shared a moment. ‘No. It isn’t,’ she said, sharing his determination.
He rose, picked up his M4A1 and moved into the kitchen, Vargas staying where she was on the edge of the bathtub. He walked up to the refrigerator rammed up against the door and stood still, listening intently for any sounds of movement in the corridor outside the apartment.
It was quiet.
He headed back into the bathroom and re-joined her, placing his rifle to one side but within reach. He leant against the basin, enjoying the moment’s respite and her company. Alone together, a barricade across the door, one could almost forget the predicament they were in. Almost.
‘So how long have you been a Marshal?’ he asked.
‘Not long.’ She noticed the way he was looking at her; he had another question on his lips. ‘What?’
‘Right now. You and me. This stays here. What is this about?’
She didn’t react.
He pressed her. ‘You can trust me, Vargas. Who’s the little girl?’
She didn’t reply but her manner had changed slightly. He got the impression she was just about willing to open up and offer him something. He pushed forward, seizing the opportunity. Foster had been like a brick wall the last time he’d asked this.
‘Is her real name Jennifer?’
Silence.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s Isabel.’
He nodded. She was ready to talk.
‘What did she see, Vargas?’ he asked. ‘Tell me.’
*
‘You know much about New York family crime?’ Vargas asked.
Archer shook his head. ‘I’m Counter Terrorism. Our focus is elsewhere.’
‘You’ve heard about the Five Families and the Mob stories from back in the day though?’
‘I saw The Godfather.’
‘There’re a few of these families still operating like that, especially downtown. Times may have changed but crime sure as hell hasn’t. In the last ten years, two dominant gangs have emerged in Tribeca: the Lombardis and the Devaneys. Italian versus Irish. They may have only come to full prominence in the last decade, but their feud goes back much further than that. This isn’t any Montague and Capulet shit, either. These are rough, nasty people who’ll go to any lengths to get what they want. They’ve put scores of each other into the ground and to the bottom of the bay over the years, fighting for control and power.’
She paused.
‘Three weeks ago, the head of the Lombardis, Gino, had a family gathering at his holiday place up in the Hamptons. It was a get-together to celebrate his fifty eighth birthday. Everyone was there apart from one of his kids who couldn’t make it. A hit team showed up and wasted the entire group. Machine-gunned the lot. The total body count was nineteen; men, women and children. It was the worst massacre ever recorded in the area. They hadn’t even had a single homicide around there for almost a decade.’
‘The trigger men?’
‘Four sets of footprints in the sand.’
‘How did they do it?’
‘They came in from the bay. Silenced weapons; sub-machine guns. MP5s, judging from the ballistics reports. They went right inside the villa too; there were bullet holes and shell casings all over the sitting room, kitchen and upstairs. The windows were intact, meaning they had their backs to them when they fired. The shooters were clever. They waited until lunchtime, when everyone was gathered inside the house, walked up and opened fire from the doorway to the veranda.’