Beside him, right on cue, he heard a snort and saw the guy beside him taking a quick upper from a key. He had a small open bag on his lap, full of shitty low grade powder, and the end of the key was dusty white. They all normally did some before a job, getting psyched and pumped up. Today, Braeten was giving it a miss.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Save it for later.’
The guy ignored him and did another, snorting the cocaine and recoiling as it hit his sinuses.
‘Asshole. I said cut it out.’
‘Relax.’
Braeten swallowed down his anger and looked up at the apartment across the street, focusing on the task at hand.
He saw the shutters move again. He swallowed in anticipation, tightening his grip on the pistol by his thigh.
I know you’re in there, he thought.
And he also knew they’d be coming out soon.
THREE
Eleven blocks uptown, Archer and Josh walked out of the gym on West 100th, the doors sliding apart, the dance music and cool air conditioning replaced by musky city heat and the sound of traffic.
Checking the time again, Josh patted Archer on the shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Archer nodded. ‘Take it easy.’
Watching Josh head across the street towards his car, Archer stayed where he was for a moment, enjoying the scenery around him. From where he was standing, facing south, he could see the long path of Central Park West, heading all the way down towards the low West 60 Streets. The sun was sinking towards the horizon but the air was still charged with warmth, the concrete absorbing all the heat from the day and releasing it back into the air come dusk and nightfall. Archer had changed out of his gym gear and was wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt under a red flannel shirt, a pair of black and white Converse sneakers on his feet, a bag slung over his shoulder containing his workout clothes.
Sliding a set of sunglasses over his nose, he made a decision. At the time it seemed so inconsequential.
Later, his thoughts on that would change.
He decided to take a walk. He crossed the street and headed south, Central Park to his immediate left, vehicles passing each way to his right. Feeling the last of the sun for the day on him, he smiled, rolling his sleeves up towards his elbows. He was a sucker for warm weather and was one of those people who could get a tan in a couple of hours. He was already sporting a bronze tone that many would pay damn good money for, but the walk was for more than just soaking up some rays. He’d been using every opportunity he’d had lately to build strength both in his right leg and also his lungs. He felt pretty good, full of oxygenated blood from his workout, but tired. Being bedridden with pneumonia and on crutches for so long had until very recently left him feeling weak and feeble, two words that no-one would ever normally associate with him. Like most people his age he took his robust health and stamina for granted; having had it taken from him for a brief period, he was more than grateful to have it back. Just as the thought crossed his mind, some dust caught in his throat and he coughed again.
Well, almost back.
He hadn’t been a detective in New York for long, less than a year in fact. He’d arrived here at the beginning of last summer, having just left the task force of the ARU, a senior counter terrorist police team in London. His mother was English but his father was American and had been a cop here himself when Archer was a kid. Although both of them were now gone, Archer had always been curious about what it would be like to work for the NYPD, whether it would match up to all those stories he’d heard as a boy. Last May, he’d packed his bags to find out once and for all, and with a stroke of good luck and timing, his old boss Cobb and the head of the Counter Terrorism Bureau, Jim Franklin, had worked out a deal. An NYPD detective had headed across the Atlantic to the ARU, serving as an extra set of eyes and tripwire for the Department. In return, Archer had joined the NYPD as a 3rd Grade Detective once he passed the training programme in Georgia.
Almost a year into the experience, it had definitely been a journey. Looking at the Park to his left, his mind was filled with memories. Some of them were more pleasant than others. He’d collected a fair few scars and broken several bones since he’d first signed up for police training ten years ago, not to mention coming face to face with suicide bombers, bank robbers, Special Forces soldiers and Neo-Nazi terrorists to name but a few. His personal life had been equally turbulent, his parents long gone and no woman in his life staying for long, unable to adjust to his work patterns and the fact that right now his job always came first. The only real family he had left was a sister who lived in DC and she lived a structured and regular existence as a lawyer. It was certainly a long way and very different life from his, which seemed to be just the way she liked it. At only twenty eight years old, Sam Archer had definitely been through his share, more than a lot of men his age.
However, despite the toll it had taken on his personal life and the injuries he’d sustained, he loved his job; he knew without a doubt that it was what he was meant to do. Being aware of that gave him comfort during times when things weren’t so easy, when he felt a loneliness that he found hard to shake. Out here, he’d started a new life but it was one that sometimes felt isolated. He’d had a good thing going at the ARU, working with his best friend Chalky and a score of other men and women he’d do almost anything for.
Leaving all that behind was proving harder than he thought it would be.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t complain. He worked in a Bureau which many police officers in New York would give their front teeth to join. He was almost back to his peak physical fitness, having survived ordeals that by all accounts should have killed him. All that personal stuff could wait. Life was pretty damn good.
He wandered on and glanced at a street sign to his right. West 91st. He loved the Upper West Side. Apart from the convenient fact that you could walk all the way down Park West to Columbus Circle totally uninterrupted aside from one street crossing, every neighbourhood in New York had its own personality and up here it was one of relaxed affluence. You didn’t live in these parts unless you were doing seriously well in life. There was no frantic hustle as there was in Midtown, none of the suited bustling or jostling that surrounded you in the Financial District, no claustrophobic mayhem like in Chinatown. If Manhattan was a sports game, this part of the city would be the time-out zone. It was an idyllic place to take a stroll; with the setting sun bathing the area in an orange glow, it was too good not to stop to take a seat and make the most of the last warmth of the day. Archer glanced at his Casio. 5:47 pm. He was in no rush. Anyway, he could hop on a train to Queens and get home in half an hour. Shower, grab some dinner, then get a good night’s sleep before the big day tomorrow.
There was a hot dog stand just ahead to his left. He approached it and ordered a can of Sprite that came straight from the ice box. Paying the man and thanking him, he took a seat on an empty bench and laid his bag beside him, his back to Central Park.
In front of him, the streets were busy without being crowded. People were walking past in each direction, all of them relaxed, talking with companions, enjoying the last few hours of Sunday 24th March. He saw different ethnicities and clothes, guys in t-shirts, women wearing summer dresses three months ahead of time. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head, then pulled the ring on the cold can and took a long refreshing drink, leaning back.
Tomorrow he’d be doing field work for the first time this year. His recovery should have taken longer but he’d worked as hard as he could, fighting his way back to full fitness and shaving a couple of weeks off the expected timeline. The thought of getting back out there gave his stomach another jolt of nervous energy but he grinned to himself.