A silenced rifle was laid on a table, pointed at an open window.
It had been abandoned, but she caught a hint of aftershave in the air.
Someone had just been here.
Reaching to her pocket, she grabbed her phone and started scrolling for Josh’s number, her Sig Sauer in her other hand.
But the pistol pushed into the back of her neck made her freeze.
Vargas crept down into the basement. There was a hum from the boilers, the air much warmer, the corridor wider to accommodate the machinery. Sweeping either side with her M4A1, she heard the beeping get increasingly louder the further she headed along the corridor.
She stepped forward quietly.
The beeping got even louder.
Up ahead, a large puddle of water had settled on the tiles, water dripping from an old leaky pipe running across the ceiling. The severed cords of the phone lines were dangling in the water, a death trap, beside a fire axe that had been dumped there. Just before the water, to her right, was a metal box with a glass panel that had equipment or wires inside. A maintenance map of the building was beside it, stuck to the wall. Just above the box was the intercom.
It was taped down, the light turned green.
Beside it was something else, beeping monotonously.
The digital receiver for a detonator.
She froze, then glanced up. C4 had been packed all around the joists above her head. She looked to her left and saw it had also been pushed into the corners of the ceiling.
Plastic explosive.
Enough to blow the entire building.
Her blood ran cold when she realised what was going to happen.
It was almost as cold as the steel of the gun that was pressed into the back of her neck.
FORTY FIVE
‘Drop the weapon,’ a familiar voice said.
She didn’t move, staring at the wall in front of her.
‘Drop it.’
She let it fall to the ground, still facing the receiver. She didn’t need to turn to recognise who was holding the weapon. His name was Denton, Calvin’s old partner, a Sergeant in SRT and a creep. He’d made a move once, and after she’d rejected him and kicked his ass that lust had been transformed into pure hostility.
Facing the wall, she sensed him lean in close.
‘I knew you’d come down eventually,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Inquisitive bitch.’
She felt his other hand touch her lower back.
It slid lower and she tensed.
‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking I might have some fun before I pull the trigger.’
She suddenly coughed, momentarily loosening the gun from the back of her neck as her head jerked down. She deflected his arm, twisted and kicked him as hard as she could in the groin, driving her shin upwards like she was taking a goal kick. He recoiled as he took the blow, dropping the gun and yelping in pain. She swung her M4A1 around but he recovered enough to grab it and wrench the weapon out of her hands, the assault rifle clattering to the floor as he slammed her up against the wall.
He had about eighty pounds on her and he knew what he was doing. He wrestled her to the ground, using his superior strength and size advantage, and started strangling her. She smashed the heel of her palm up into his nose desperately, which loosened his hands. Pinned under him, she frantically scrabbled for anything within reach that she could use as a weapon; she cut her hand on some glass from the smashed phone-line panel.
Ignoring the pain, she grabbed the shard and slashed it across his face. He immediately recoiled and released her, shouting in pain. She hit him again with the heel of her palm, this time breaking his nose, and managed to roll away as he rocked back, clutching his face. She scrambled to her feet and reached for the pistol on her hip. Wiping blood out of his eyes and lurching to his feet, Denton saw the puddle of water behind her with the ruptured cord from the severed phone lines hanging in it.
He lunged forward and kicked her back, the force knocking her into the water.
There was a whump. The force of the electric shock threw Vargas back against the wall. She dropped in a limp heap, collapsing to the ground just out of the puddle.
Denton spat blood out of his mouth and wiped it out of his eyes then reached for his M4A1.
Scooping up the rifle, he buried the stock in his shoulder, pulled the slide and aimed at her head.
Suddenly he was thrown forward as a burst of assault rifle fire hit him in the back, the muzzle flash lighting up the dark basement. Seeing the man fall, Archer ran down the corridor past him and dropped down by Vargas, who was lying motionless on the floor. He felt her neck for a pulse.
There was none.
Quickly laying the M4A1 to one side, he started CPR, constantly checking either side of him. Under his hands, Vargas jerked lifelessly with each push on her sternum, her body limp, her weapon dropped to the side.
‘C’mon, Vargas,’ he said.
He pushed harder, willing her to come back.
‘C’mon!’
He breathed into her mouth and continued the CPR.
Suddenly a figure appeared from the north stairwell, one of the original gang members who’d ambushed Foster and his team on the street. He had a gun in his hand.
Archer swept up his M4A1 fast and pulled the trigger. Click.
It was empty.
Dropping the rifle, he threw himself to one side as the other man fired, hitting the air where Archer’s head had just been. Archer had already pulled Carson’s USP from his belt and fired from his back, putting two rounds in the guy’s sternum a half inch apart.
Archer pushed himself back to Vargas as the dead man hit the ground, pressing with even more force, continuing the compressions rhythmically and firmly.
‘C’mon, Alice.’
He pushed but she wasn’t responding.
She was limp.
‘Stay with me.’
He pushed hard.
‘Let’s go, Vargas.’
Nothing.
He pushed.
Nothing.
He pushed.
Nothing.
‘Let’s go Vargas!’ he shouted, pushing even harder.
She suddenly took a huge breath, her eyes wide with panic, and started scrabbling, gasping, coughing and whimpering. Archer grabbed her and held her close, giving her time to recover and realise where she was.
Sucking in air, her chest heaving, she hugged him, looking over his shoulder at the darkly lit corridor, her eyes wide in panic, gripping onto him like they were floating out at sea and she couldn’t swim.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK. He’s gone. I’m here.’
She panted for breath, clutching him close.
Suddenly, another of the gang members appeared from the south stairwell. He had a pistol in his hands. Archer had his back to the man and didn’t see him. Still holding Archer, Vargas desperately whipped her Glock from the holster on her hip and fired a split-second before the gunman. She hit him in the leg then fired again and hit him in the chest. He collapsed to the floor and was still.
She tried to keep the Glock up but it fell from her fingers and she clung onto Archer with both arms, sucking in deep breaths, recovering from the electric shock. As she did so, he turned and checked over his shoulder. The guy she’d shot was dead.
They sat there in the basement, her chest heaving, both of them bloodied, bruised and beaten up.
And above them, the detonator kept flashing, hooked up to the C4 that would demolish the building at any moment.
FORTY SIX
Downtown on West 30th Street, Shepherd car’s swept into the estate, Hendricks having just quickly shown the guard on the front gate his badge.
As they sped into the compound, the two Sergeants saw the rotors of an NYPD Agusta A119 helicopter already whirring at full speed; Hendricks had ordered it to be ready and waiting, the vessel flying over from the NYPD’s helicopter base in Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn.