Archer arrived by the gunshot victim. He had dark hair, freshly wetted, and looked in his early thirties; bizarrely, Archer noticed he had some kind of glitter or dust on his neck and collar. Both his hands were clutching his torso, blood staining his shirt and soaking through his fingers, his eyes wide with shock, his breathing ragged as the sounds of screams filled the street. The dark-haired woman and the other younger man had already bundled the girl into the car, pushing her to the floor and jumping in after her, one on each side, keeping her low and forming a protective shield either side.
The grey-haired man who’d killed the gunman in the vest squeezed off another round then moved over to join Archer and the wounded man, keeping his weapon trained on the car providing cover for the man with dreadlocks. He had short, buzz cut grey hair and had the lean, sinewy toughness that screamed ex-military.
He glanced at the wounded man quickly, assessing his condition. ‘Hang on, Carson,’ he said. ‘That’s an order.’ Suddenly there were more gunshots and one of the windows above them smashed, showering the trio with glass.
‘Shit!’
Archer turned and saw three more men with guns had appeared from downtown, moving up the middle of the street. Each was carrying a pistol and had appeared out of nowhere. They were all dressed in jeans and dirty tops like the other two, part of the same crew. This wasn’t a car-jacking.
This was an orchestrated ambush.
The grey-haired man raised his Smith and Wesson and fired back, forcing the advancing trio to take cover, the deafening echo of the weapon firing filling the street. By now, every member of the public was hiding behind something or lying as low as they could on the ground as bullets hit cars, the echoes of the shots reverberating off the buildings.
Archer tore open the back door of the Tahoe; the man and woman reached over and grabbed the wounded man, hauling him across their seat by his collar. The girl in the footwell still had her hands over her ears and looked up in terror at the wounded man as he was dragged in beside her. More gunfire smashed the remaining intact window above them and the group jerked down instinctively, the little girl screaming.
Archer slammed the door. The grey-haired man had maintained his fire, pinning down the gunmen whilst climbing into the driver’s seat. Squeezing off a sixth round, he ducked in and fired the engine, pulling his door shut. On the road side of the car, Archer was already unprotected. Once the Tahoe left, he’d be target practice for the quartet of gunmen. The grey-haired man saw the situation.
‘Get in!’ he shouted.
Archer didn’t need to be told twice, racing around the car and jumping into the front passenger seat. Before he’d shut his door, the grey-haired man beside him floored it, the tyres squealing as the Tahoe jerked forwards. They pulled a fast U-turn in the middle of the street and took off uptown. Dragging his door shut and staying low, bullets smashing into the rear windshield and riddling the 4x4, Archer sneaked a glance behind them and saw the trio of gunmen piling into a car, the man with long blond dreadlocks moving out from his cover and racing to join them.
They were already giving chase before their doors had shut.
FIVE
The grey-haired guy drove like a wheelman. He weaved in and out of traffic, torching his way uptown, streets and landmarks flashing past on both sides. The gunfire had smashed out two windows and put holes in all the others, and wind whistled through the car as they burned up the Upper West Side. The Tahoe was a big vehicle but he handled it expertly, avoiding other cars by a hair’s breadth. West 94th, 96th, 98th. West 100th.
Archer checked behind them and could see the pursuing car keeping pace, the four guys visible inside. Their driver was nowhere near as proficient as the man beside Archer and they smashed into vehicles as they forced their way through, unaware and uncaring of anyone in their way. However, they were staying with them.
‘Who the hell are you?’ the grey-haired man shouted at Archer, putting his foot down.
‘NYPD.’
‘Show me a badge!’
‘Watch the road!’ Archer shouted, pointing.
The grey-haired man swerved around a truck emerging from a side street and accelerated forward, pushing the horn and cutting a red light, pedestrians leaping back as the car scorched past just inches from them. They were now in the triple digits; he cut a hard left down Cathedral Parkway and then turned right onto Amsterdam Avenue, the streets ticking past, West 104th, West 106th, 108th, 110th. ‘Hang in there, Carson!’ the grey-haired man shouted, his giant hands wrapped tightly around the wheel as they raced on, approaching Harlem. Archer twisted in his seat and saw the wounded man, Carson, in the back. He was lying across the third man and dark-haired woman, blood all over his hands and staining his white t-shirt. He’d been shot in the stomach and his body was contorted in pain, his eyes as wide as saucers as he stared up at the interior of the roof.
They roared on up the street, the streets flashing by, moving further and further uptown. There was a screech of tyres as the pursuing car kept up behind them, right on their tail. They couldn’t shake them.
Suddenly there was a Bam and a wheeze as one of the Tahoe’s tyres blew out, a gunshot echoing in the street. The grey-haired man fought with the wheel but the car starting drifting unresponsively to the left. There was another Bam as another tyre was hit and they slammed hard into a fire hydrant, throwing everyone in the car forward, Carson coughing in pain and the little girl yelping in the rear footwell.
The ruptured hydrant started spraying water into the air and onto the front of the vehicle, people around them on the street stopping momentarily, shocked at the sudden crash.
The grey-haired man tried the ignition frantically but the 4x4 wouldn’t start. They were stuck.
‘Shit!’
There was the screech of the pursuing car pulling up.
‘Everybody out!’ the grey-haired man shouted, pushing open his door. Archer climbed over to the driver’s side, diving out after him and crouching down behind the 4x4. He saw the driver pull a second weapon from a pancake holster on his belt, a Glock. As the man and woman in the back started to manoeuvre themselves, the child and Carson out of the wrecked Tahoe, their driver started to fire over the bonnet, the four gunmen diving down behind their own car as passers-by screamed and ran for cover. The uninjured younger man drew his own pistol and joined the grey-haired guy firing from behind the 4x4. The woman pulled the child and then Carson out of the car who was clutching his belly, his face twisted in agony. The four gunmen were gathered behind their vehicle, the Glock fire smashing out the windows, shell casings rattling and bouncing onto the concrete. The street around them started to clear as drivers braked hard and reversed fast, pedestrians flat on the ground or scrabbling for safety behind any form of cover.
The enemy gunmen started to return fire, the pace of it increasing dramatically, bullets ripping into the Tahoe and forcing them all down behind it, spraying them with smashed glass as the remaining pieces of window were destroyed. One of the gunmen had an assault rifle.
As bullets smashed into the car, tearing it to pieces, the group sheltering behind it looked at each other. They were pinned down, one of them was already hit and the Tahoe wasn’t going to last long under that kind of firepower. If they stayed where they were, the enemy assault rifle would shred them apart like a wood-chipper.
Their only option was to retreat.
Turning, Archer saw there was a tall tenement building behind them, just past the corner of West 135th. The grey-haired man squeezed off two rounds, then looked over his shoulder and saw the block too.