His mag clicked dry, Vargas taking over as the two men at the doorway fired a burst back. Pulling the empty clip from the weapon, he grabbed his last one from his pocket but turned as he did so to make sure Isabel was still behind him.
Then he saw Helen.
She was leaning against the wall, staring straight ahead, the noise and terror of the gunfight lost on her. If it wasn’t for the thick piece of metal jutting out of her chest, she would have looked serene, as if she was taking a moment to absorb it all and watch the fight, like a spectator at Wimbledon.
As Vargas kept up her fire on the door, Archer moved over to Helen, his eyes stinging from the dust. She stared back vacantly, the light gone from her eyes, strands of hair hanging down either side of her smoke-stained face. He looked down at the piece of metal; it was white, a piece of destroyed washer from the grenade blast.
It had pierced right through her, pinning her to the wall.
She was gone.
Grabbing Carson and dragging him towards the fire escape, Archer pushed the bar down with his elbow and kicked the door open. Vargas squeezed off two more bursts then scooped up Isabel and quickly followed them through the fire exit.
Just as they left, two more grenades were tossed inside from the other side of the room.
Vargas saw them early and slammed the door shut behind them, protecting them as they took cover in the stairwell.
Outside, everyone on the street heard the explosions and savage gunfight unfold. It was happening this side of the building, so they could see the muzzle flashes from the 6th floor windows, the reports of the weapons echoing in the street.
Suddenly there was another explosion and more windows smashed out. As people recoiled, ducking down, Shepherd cursed, his patience at an end. He turned and kicked a car out of frustration, feeling totally helpless. Any NYPD officer or detective in peril made him anxious, but that concern went to a whole new level when it was one of his own people, someone under his command depending on him to come up with a solution. He looked up at the building, more smoke coming from the 6th floor, and pictured Archer somewhere inside.
Just hold on, Arch, he thought. Wherever you are. We’re coming for you.
Hendricks was standing beside him, his face dark, watching the apartment block. The gunfire ended abruptly, but the echoes from the shots and the explosions were still reverberating in people’s ears, reporters behind the public barriers giving rapid updates, as shocked as everyone else at the speed of events. Hendricks looked over at Dalton and the Marshals team. They’d switched their attention from the apartment building and were now poring over the I-Pads, crowded round and peering at the screens.
It looked as if a frontal assault was imminent.
He glanced over at the lobby, Claymores and an anti-tank rocket echoing in his mind. If they had that kind of protection for the roof, God only knew what they had waiting for them behind that door. No way was the Marshals task force getting in without many more, or even all of them, going down.
They needed to find another way to end this.
He turned to Shepherd. ‘Remind me, who’s the girl?’
‘She’s a State witness. According to Dalton, she’s due in a matter of days. She makes the stand, she buries her brother and the team who killed her entire family.’
‘Where are they based?’
‘Walker Street. The family own a bar down there.’ Shepherd looked at Hendricks. ‘What are you thinking?’
Hendricks didn’t reply. He turned and stalked through the crowd instead, moving towards his car.
He ripped open the door and moments later was speeding downtown, dialling a number on his cell phone.
He needed an exact address.
Arriving on the 12th floor, Archer staggered down the corridor, Carson once again over his shoulders, his blood leaking over Archer’s once white t-shirt and joining the black smoke stains. Vargas was right behind him, holding Isabel’s hand, her M4A1 in the other. On the way up they’d ducked into the corridor on 7, hearing running footsteps coming from above, and had just managed to avoid two gunmen sprinting down the stairwell. Once they’d passed, Archer and Vargas moved on as quickly as they could, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the laundry room.
12 was as far as Archer’s legs would take him, his body still recovering from the grenade explosion.
An apartment a third of the way down the corridor was open, on the east side so away from any potential sniper fire. Without even checking it first Archer ducked inside, followed by Vargas and Isabel; there was no one here.
They collapsed into the room, Vargas quickly shutting the door then locking it. Dumping Carson down heavily onto the floor, Archer did the same as before with the refrigerator, unplugging and dragging it into place as a barrier. This time it was much more of an effort, almost Herculean; he was exhausted. When it was in position, the door secured, they stepped back, sucking clean air into their lungs. As he breathed in, Archer suddenly felt a searing pain. He looked down and saw some glass had hit him in the lower left of his torso, slicing through his t-shirt. He stared at it for a few moments, then glanced at Vargas. She hadn’t seen it. Then he made eye contact with Isabel. She had.
He pulled it out, coughing from the pain, and tossed it to one side with a clink, holding his M4A1 with one hand and cradling the wound with the other.
Downstairs, the gunmen were in the laundry room. Their boots crunched on the debris, their M4A1s sweeping the now empty space. King and Diamonds had been the two men trying to force their way in, but the man and woman had held them off, despite three grenades. King walked forward slowly through the smoke and saw a woman slumped against the wall.
She was dead, impaled. She had a chunk of metal the size of a man’s forearm jutting out of her chest, her eyes blank and staring straight ahead. He had no idea who she was.
Spades and Knight reappeared from the south stairwell, panting.
‘And?’
‘We lost them.’
King stayed still for a moment. Then he raised his weapon and unleashed a burst into the dead woman in frustration and fury, blood and shell casings spraying into the air.
THIRTY ONE
Josh and Marquez had just entered the south building on West 133rd. It was an office building, not an apartment block. They were intending to talk to the night security or whoever was behind the front desk, but there was no-one there. The pair of detectives looked around.
The place was empty.
‘Where the hell is the guard?’ Marquez said.
‘Maybe he’s off tonight. It’s a Sunday.’
‘Then why is the building still open?’
‘Perhaps he’s outside or upstairs watching the show.’
Marquez frowned and didn’t reply. Josh walked around the desk and looked down at several monitors. He glanced up and made eye contact with her.
‘Security cameras are down.’
Stepping around the desk and re-joining her, the two of them walked forward, heading for the stairwell at the end of the lobby. Using the stairs was slower but the noise of the elevator could alert someone in the building that they had company. If there actually was someone here.
As Josh pushed back the door to the stairwell, Marquez drew her Sig Sauer, pulling back the slide and glancing over at the abandoned front desk.
Something was wrong.
Someone was here.
She knew it.
Inside a bar called Lombardis on Walker Street in Little Italy, a group of men were watching a hockey game on a television mounted above the long liquor shelf behind the bar. They each had a drink going and had been for some time, relaxed, secure on their own territory but each carrying a pistol on his person nevertheless.