Damn, he’d missed that feeling.
Finally, I’m back, he thought.
Up in the 3rd floor apartment across the street, Foster used his forefinger to part the shutters a fraction and look out of the window again.
Down below, activity still looked routine. Cars were parked on either side of the road, traffic moving both ways past them, people using the sidewalks, the atmosphere just about as relaxed as a Sunday afternoon in a city could be. He noticed that a young blond guy had just taken a seat on a bench across the street near a Sabrett hot dog stand. The man looked chilled out and was drinking a soda. He had a bag beside him which Foster focused on, watching to see if the guy had his hand hovering near the zip. Examining the loose body language, he realised the guy wasn’t a threat. If he was waiting for Foster and his team to bring out the girl, there’d be signs of tension or anticipation.
Shifting his attention from the man, he scanned the rest of the street one last time. It looked safe.
He turned from the window. ‘Time to go.’
His team nodded. Barlow rolled up the wrapper from his burger, tossing it in the trash, then rose and pulled a shirt over his t-shirt, covering the Glock and holster around his shoulders and the USP, cuffs and Marshal’s badge on his hip. Vargas started clearing up all the stuff on the table, pulling on her own shirt and helping Jennifer down.
Foster looked at Carson, who rose from his chair. He had make-up and fairy dust all over his face; the girl had given him a complete makeover. He looked like a Disney princess with hormonal problems. Carson saw the expression on Foster’s face and didn’t need to qualify for Mensa to interpret it.
‘I’ll go wash my face.’
‘Good idea.’
In the car ten feet from the hot dog stand, the two guys watching the apartment had just seen the shutters flicker again. Braeten glanced at the time on the dashboard clock.
5:50 pm.
‘Get ready.’
The man beside him nodded and took one last hit of coke. As he sealed the bag and stuffed it in his pocket, Braeten took out his cell phone with his free hand and dialled a number. Trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder, he pulled the slide on his handgun back, loading a round into the chamber. Beside him, the other man did the same, his leg jiggling with cocaine-fuelled anticipation, getting fired up.
The call connected.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘They’ll be out any minute.’
FOUR
Everyone has instincts.
Most are there for our survival, like anticipating danger. Others are more superficial, like hearing a phone ring and knowing who’s calling before you pick it up. Many can’t be explained, like sensing when you are being watched.
But being a cop for almost a decade sharpens these instincts.
Very often they make the difference between life and death.
And that meant despite being totally relaxed, Archer saw the gun in the man’s hand before anyone else on the street.
The guy carrying it looked about nineteen or twenty, Hispanic, dressed in baggy jeans with a stringy white vest hanging off his shoulders. He’d just stepped out of a car on Archer’s side of the street, about fifteen feet away, and was headed across the road in a break in the traffic. The man’s hand was tucked against the side of his thigh.
The black handgun was nestled by his hamstring against the baggy jeans.
Above the pistol, the man’s wiry arm was tense, the sinews and muscles pronounced and hardened. His body was pumped full of adrenaline and probably something else. Beside him was another guy wearing the same kind of jeans, brown-skinned with thick blond dreadlocks and wearing a grey t-shirt instead of a vest. He’d climbed out on the driver’s side, slamming the door. Archer couldn’t see a gun in his hand but he made out the tell-tale shape in the back of the waistband of his jeans.
They were walking with intent and purpose, moving fast across the road.
Someone was about to get killed.
In that split-second, Archer flicked his eyes ahead of the pair. On the other side of the street was a black 4x4 Tahoe pulled up to the kerb, facing downtown. Three men, a woman and a small child were climbing into the car. All five were dressed similarly in casual clothes but didn’t have the look of a family. One of the men was older, a big guy with short-cut grey hair, and the other two were about twenty years younger with dark looks but no family resemblance. The woman had a light-brown complexion and long black hair. The child was a little girl, maybe six or seven.
She was being helped into the car. It seemed the two younger men would be sitting either side of her, one of them already around the road side of the car and reaching for the handle. The woman was on the kerb-side, climbing into the front passenger seat.
The grey-haired guy was reaching for the handle of the driver’s seat, this side of the vehicle.
Archer was already on his feet, leaving his gym bag and drink on the bench. He reached to his hip instinctively but all his hand met was shirt fabric and jean. Shit; he’d left his Department issue Sig Sauer P226 at home with his badge. He always liked to be prepared but hadn’t thought he’d need a pistol for the gym.
The two men with guns were halfway across the street.
Then the guy on the right suddenly raised his pistol as the dreadlocked man drew his.
‘Look out!’ Archer shouted.
The group at the car heard him and turned; they reacted fast. They all ducked for cover save for one of the younger men, the guy climbing into the backseat, who was the road side of the car and had nothing to protect him. He swung round to face the threat, but it was already too late.
The sinewy gunman in the white vest fired. The round hit the man in the torso and knocked him back; he thudded into the Tahoe and slumped to the road.
The gunman fired twice more erratically, working the trigger fast, smashing two windows on the car. The gunshots echoed around the street; people started running for cover, many of them screaming, the peace and quiet of the neighbourhood suddenly shattered.
As traffic screeched to a halt around him, Archer ran towards the two gunmen. They’d heard his shout and swung round, raising their pistols. Archer veered to the right and threw himself behind a car that had just stopped his side of the road, his sunglasses falling off his head to the ground. As he went down, he saw one of the two gunmen suddenly get punched off his feet, blood spraying into the air as a huge gunshot echoed around the street.
He pitched back to the concrete, dead, his weapon spilling out of his hand and clattering onto the road.
Archer looked over the front of the car and saw the grey-haired man holding a large six-shooter in his hand, kneeling by the front of the Tahoe. The other gunman, the guy with blond dreadlocks, had already gone for cover behind a pulled-up car and the grey-haired man fired twice more, just missing him and blowing out a front tyre on the car he’d taken refuge behind, the driver ducking down in terror.
Scrambling to his feet, Archer started running across the road, making a beeline towards the man by the car who’d been shot. He saw the guy with the.44 swing it in his direction, pointing the weapon straight at him. Archer stopped in his tracks, putting his hands up, and shouted NYPD. After a moment’s pause, he took a chance and moved forward, keeping his hands up, desperate to get to the wounded man and help him. The grey-haired man didn’t fire, possibly because he could see Archer wasn’t carrying, probably because the guy with dreadlocks had just fired back. He shifted his aim back in the direction of the immediate threat and squeezed off another round, the huge crack echoing around the surrounding buildings over the screams.