She was shielding Isabel, who had her head buried in her shoulder. Sensing it was quiet, she lifted her head an inch, opening her eyes.
Standing together, silently, the wind ruffled their clothing and hair.
‘Are we safe?’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ Vargas said. ‘We’re safe.’
She looked up at Archer, who was staring ahead across the roof.
‘Archer.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Sam?’
Then she looked down and saw the spreading blood stain on his shirt.
The next thing he knew he was falling. He didn’t even feel the ground as he hit it but it felt comfortable when he got there.
He lay down and rested for the first time all day. It felt good, finally, after leaving the gym all those hours ago. Now he was looking up at the night sky. He couldn’t see any stars; apparently you couldn’t in New York from all the city lights.
He saw Vargas above him, kneeling, saying something, her jet black hair hanging down over her face. He examined the cuts, nicks and dirt on her cheeks and upper body; to him, they made her seem even more beautiful. She was saying something but he couldn’t hear.
As he stared up at her and realised what was happening, her voice from earlier suddenly echoed in his mind.
Is that enough for you?
Flat on his back, she and Isabel finally safe, their eyes met. As hers welled with tears, he smiled one last time.
Is that enough for you?
It is for me.
FIFTY ONE
Almost a month later, Matt Shepherd was sitting at his desk inside the Counter Terrorism Bureau on Vernon Boulevard in Queens, lost in thought and momentarily alone.
It was a Saturday morning, sun streaming in through the windows of the Department. Dressed in the Bureau-issue navy blue polo shirt and a pair of jeans, he leaned back in his seat, a cup of coffee in his hands. He had a copy of The New York Post on the desk and was looking at the top story. The last funeral for a member of the ESU team who’d died on the roof that day had just taken place. The photo was from the service. Beside it, in a linked report, was the news that the city had decided to completely renovate the Harlem apartment building on West 135th. It had only taken twenty years or so.
Shepherd stared at the paper, his mind reliving the events of that night twenty seven days ago, his emotions mixed. After they’d seen the three enemy gunmen get taken out by a sudden explosion, the pilot of the chopper carrying Shepherd and Hendricks had immediately moved in, followed shortly afterwards by more back up. The NYPD’S Bomb Disposal Team had dealt with the C4 rigged up in the bottom of the building, as well as the sea of Claymore anti-personnel mines set up by the door. Vargas’ call to Dalton had saved more than just the Marshal rescue task force’s lives; the disposal specialist said if they’d gone off, the Claymores would have killed scores of cops and detectives further back on the street. They secured the weapons and unlocked the door.
Finally, for the first time that evening, the NYPD and Marshal teams could get inside. They’d found bodies littered all over the building, some of them identified as the renegade cops, many of them not. Including the sniper Marquez and Josh had found, there’d been seventeen men involved in the plot to murder Vargas: a five-man hit-team, a ten man response team, a sniper and a drug-running pilot who’d been killed when his chopper went down beside the Hudson. Every single one of the response team and the sharpshooter were current members of the Miami-Dade PD Special Response Team, an entire unit of dirty cops. This had caused a great deal of consternation and some very awkward questions being asked from the top.
The Miami press had wanted answers for what had happened, especially details of what the stand-off inside the building was about. After review and conversation with the Florida Police Commissioner, it was decided to give them what they wanted. It would be impossible to conceal what had happened; it had all played out in full view anyway, so the decision was taken to tackle it head on and give them the facts. A press conference conducted by the heads of the Miami Dade Police Department named all twelve disgraced officers, as well as revealing their involvements in corruption and the stolen and illegal funds in their auxiliary bank accounts that were being seized as a result of an undercover officer’s diligent work. A major review was underway, involving the Senate, the highest ranks of the Department, ACU and Internal Affairs, law-abiding officers who’d interacted with the team shocked at the extent of the corruption that had been going on under their noses for so long. Extra safeguards and extensive background checks were already in place to ensure something like that could never happen again.
He sensed someone approach and turned. Josh walked over to his desk, joining him, holding a foam cup of tea. He was dressed in the same outfit as Shepherd, his pistol and badge on his hip.
‘Morning sir.’
‘Morning.’
‘Everything alright?’
‘Yeah. I guess. All things considered.’
Josh saw the paper on the desk. He tapped it. ‘Did you see page 4?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘I did.’
With the case against Mike Lombardi and his crew ironclad, one of his men had come forward two days before trial and said he’d testify against the others in exchange for a reduced sentence in a secure facility out of the State. Called Luca, he’d taken to the stand with two black eyes and a broken nose. Rumour had it an NYPD Sergeant and close friend of Shepherd’s had been responsible, but there was no proof. Luca was so desperate to escape serious time, he let it go. Shepherd had watched from the back of the court and listened as Luca gave his testimony.
Apparently, Lombardi had been looking for a chance to make his move for a while. It had needed meticulous planning, no witnesses, no-one left alive to talk. The East Hampton gathering had been the perfect opportunity. As family, Mike had been invited to the party but had politely declined, setting up an alibi and secretly arranging with three of his most trusted men, with the promise of significant financial reward and roles in his new organisation, to take out the entire group. He’d already sounded these guys out about a potential takeover; all of them were on board.
It was time for the old guard to move on.
The job couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Gino’s villa was pretty secluded, located beside the beach. They’d come in from the water and walked right into the house, Gino and the family pleasantly surprised to see them. Each man was carrying a gift, parcels wrapped under their arms.
They’d walked in and then opened fire.
Hosing the entire group had taken just over a minute. The first ten had gone down before they even knew what was happening; Mike had fired through the package and dropped five of them himself. They were armed with silenced sub-machine guns packed with ammunition from weapons they’d lifted from some of Devaney’s muscle, and they annihilated the entire family. They’d found two more upstairs, both women who were unarmed, one of them with a phone in her hand about to dial 911. They’d been taken care of, killed where they stood. When it was done, the men checked they hadn’t left anything incriminating or anyone alive. Satisfied, they’d taken to their boat and left.
Their alibis in place, the murder weapons dismantled and dropped in the sea, Mike had been at home that night when he got the expected knock on the door. A blue and white had taken him to the local Precinct and he’d used all his acting skills, feigning horror and anguish at the atrocity. There was only one group of suspects he was told, and they were bringing them in. Casings had already been found with prints from the Devaney crew; if they could prove the hits were ordered, they could send down Frankie Devaney himself. Four weeks later, seemingly recovering from his grief, Mike started to assert control over the family operation. Too soon, and the cops would smell a rat. Too late, someone else would take his shot. Everything was in place; everything had been accounted for.