Silent Night

EIGHTEEN

At the house, Bleeker and Donnie had almost finished packing. Neither of them lived there. It belonged to Bleeker’s brother Hurley who was doing time upstate for armed robbery, and had been an ideal hide-out last night, totally off the grid and no obvious connection to the four men. Bleeker was on the ground floor in one of two side bedrooms beyond the kitchen. He’d already ditched his ID and bankcards, planning to get some forgeries once they left the state. As he quickly stuffed his belongings into a holdall, he glanced over at the last remaining bomb resting on a bed beside the bag. Ray’s bomb. It should have gone off on the platform at Times Square 42 Street this morning, but Ray stepped out late last night and had never returned.

His disappearance was confusing and unnerving. Ray was tough, and not the kind of guy to get cold feet. Bleeker had a gut instinct about what had happened to him and who had done it, and that meant he and Donnie had to get the hell out of there right now.

He reached over to the make-shift viral bomb and carefully unclipped the cylinder. Keeping it in his hand and scooping up the bag with the other, he walked quickly into the kitchen. Placing his bag on a chair he stepped over to the fridge and pulled open the door.

Inside, beside some milk and a half-drunk six pack of Miller, was the last vial of the virus.

Bleeker hadn’t anticipated Ray’s no show but despite that, their current situation was still pretty good. He and Donnie now had two vials to sell and this morning’s work was a clear demonstration to any potential buyers of the virus’s power. The price had just gone up exponentially. There would be plenty of people out there willing to pay it. He took the other vial off the shelf in the fridge and studied it. This small, harmless looking glass cylinder was worth far more than the house he was standing in. Maybe more than the entire street.

He carefully wrapped both vials in cotton padding, then placed them in a box which he sealed and tucked into his bag. Then he moved over to the sink and opened a cupboard by the window, reaching inside and pushing some cereal boxes out of the way. He pulled out a Beretta handgun and a magazine with fifteen 9mm Parabellum shells pushed inside. He slammed the mag into the pistol, pulled the top slide and checked the safety then slid it into the bag too. He checked his watch and glanced at the television showing footage from the Seaport. There were ESU cops and what had to be NYPD detectives in every shot, crowds of onlookers filling South and Water Streets.

They’d already be hunting for whoever left the device inside the store.

As would others.

‘Let’s go!’ he called to Donnie, urgency in his voice.



Speeding down 33 Street in Astoria, the subway line overhead, Josh and Archer saw Shepherd waiting for them around the corner on Ditmars Boulevard, pulled up to the kerb on the left. He’d already strapped a black bulletproof vest over his torso, NYPD clearly visible in white letters on the front and back. He was loading a Mossberg 590A1 shotgun while standing by the trunk of his car. Parking behind him, Archer and Josh jumped out of their own Ford and moved rapidly to the back of their vehicle, just as a third Ford pulled up behind them. Turning as he fastened a bulletproof vest in place, Archer saw it was Marquez and Jorgensen.

His vest on, Josh pulled out two Mossbergs from their stowed positions in the trunk and started loading them. Designed by OF Mossberg and Sons, a Swedish immigrant’s company based up in Connecticut, the 590A1 was a modification of the 500 model. With an eight shell magazine chamber and metal trigger guard and safety catch, the black aluminium and steel pump-action shotgun was an old favourite of the US Army and a new one of the NYPD. The old Department-issue Ithaca 37 was being slowly phased out and in the next few years every squad car in the five boroughs would have a Mossberg up front by the radio. Mossberg and Sons claimed it was the only weapon of its kind to pass the Army’s military specifications tests for shotguns and it wasn’t an outlandish claim. The 590A1 was sleek, smooth to load, didn’t have too much kick and had the stopping power of a Claymore mine. Well, eight mines technically, considering the ammunition in the magazine.

Josh finished loading the shotguns. He tossed one to Archer, who caught it and racked the pump and within twenty seconds the entire detail was gathered with Shepherd by his car, NYPD vests on their torsos and Mossbergs in their hands. This extra gear was Department procedure for a house breach of this kind. They had no idea what kind of weaponry they were facing inside and that meant they needed sufficient firepower to counter it.

‘What’s the plan, sir?’ Josh asked.

‘The taxi company put out a call to their drivers,’ Shepherd said. ‘Apparently two men matching our guys got dropped off around the corner at Number 18. The house is registered to a Hurley Bleeker. Rach is running a check and trying to locate the third man.’

‘Do we know the layout?’ Marquez asked.

‘Doesn’t matter. We go in through the front door. We don’t have time to waste. One of their team is still out there.’

‘It could be a bottleneck,’ Josh said. ‘They’ll be expecting. They could drop us one-by-one.’

‘Hold up,’ Archer said.

The team turned and saw where he was looking.

A mail van had just pulled up across the street, a woman stepping out of the truck and heading over to one of the properties to deliver a parcel.

‘I’ve got an idea.’



Inside the house, Donnie and Bleeker had finished packing and were standing in the kitchen making sure they had everything they needed. They’d have to leave Hurley’s Remington here. No way they could carry a 12 gauge shotgun covertly on a train, but they still had the Beretta in case things got physical.

‘I’ve got the last two vials,’ Bleeker said. ‘We get out to Long Island, then take the train south. When we’re out of the state I’ll put the word out about what we’re selling. We can hook up with Chapters in Pittsburgh or Baltimore.’

Donnie nodded.

‘What about our guest?’ he asked, pointing to the main bedroom.

Bleeker turned, having momentarily forgotten about the man inside.

‘Shit. Good catch. I’ll take care of him.’

He pulled the Beretta from his holdall, flicking off the safety and walked into the room.

A man was sitting in a chair, tied up, his mouth gagged. His eyes widened as he saw Bleeker walk in and grab a pillow. Bleeker held it to the man’s face then pushed the barrel of the pistol into the other side.

‘Time’s up.’

But before he could pull the trigger, there was a sharp knock at the door down the hall.

‘Delivery.’

Bleeker froze, the gun and pillow held to the gagged captive’s face. The man was squirming and making muffled sounds under the gag.

There was another knock.

‘Delivery. C’mon man, it’s cold,’ the voice called. Female. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

Bleeker looked at Donnie. He took the pillow off the captive’s head then passed Donnie the Beretta, grip first. The younger man took the weapon, then moved down the corridor. He walked towards the door slowly and risked a glance through the spy hole.

A dark-haired woman was outside on the step, dressed in UPS gear, wrapped up against the cold.

‘Who’s it for?’ he asked.

He watched her look at a package in her hands. ‘Hurley Bleeker.’

Donnie thought for a moment, then opened up.

‘I’ll take-’

Suddenly, the woman dropped the package and rammed the door back hard, throwing Donnie off balance and sending him reeling down the corridor. She pulled a Sig Sauer pistol from underneath her coat, an NYPD bulletproof vest on her torso.

‘NYPD! Don’t move!’

Bleeker was watching from the kitchen as Donnie fell to the ground. He ducked out of sight as Donnie, flat on his back, quickly raised his pistol and aimed at the woman’s legs.