Silent Night

THIRTY ONE

Saturday night in any Manhattan bar was easily the busiest time of the week. Make it seven days before Christmas and pretty much every place with alcohol and a dance floor was packed. That night Tonic East was no exception. The place had three floors. There were bars on 1, 2 and 3, televisions mounted all over the walls on 1 and 3 whilst 2 was dominated by a large dance-floor and DJ booth. Although it was winter the place was buzzing, the heating and the proximity of other human bodies helping to keep everyone in the place warm.

Shepherd and Marquez were parked around the corner with Jacobs, getting him ready. But they had a man on each level inside the bar. Jorgensen was on 3, Josh on 2. Archer was on the ground floor, facing the entrance, his back to the bar and ignoring everyone around him. Seeing as the building was heated he’d left his jacket in the car outside and was dressed in a grey hoodie and blue jeans, blending right in with the mass of NFL fans scattered around him. He had his right hand by his hip, covering the Sig in the holster hidden under the loose-fitting top. He didn’t want anyone touching or grabbing it by accident. The team were all hooked up with ear pieces and mics tucked into their sleeves so they could communicate instantly without having to pull out a cell phone.

The two doormen checking for ID had been informed of the situation. The manager of the bar had needed a lot of persuasion to convince him to let the detectives take their weapons inside and to allow the trade to happen. But at the end of the day this was an NYPD operation and the outcome was inevitable. He’d accepted he just had to shut up and put up.

Leaning against the bar, Archer shot his cuff and checked his watch.

9:54 pm.

Jacobs would be sent inside any minute now. Archer had scanned everyone he could see from his position, but there was no sign of either Rourke or Sway anywhere.

Shepherd’s voice suddenly came up over his ear piece. ‘Report.’

‘Nothing up here,’ Jorgensen said.

‘Me either,’ said Josh.

‘No sign,’ Archer said.

‘OK, get ready. We’re sending Jacobs in. Sway or Rourke could appear at any minute.’



In the Ford, Shepherd watched Marquez place a sticky mic under the collar of Jacobs’ suit. As she worked, Shepherd glanced at the English senior partner’s face. He looked strained and had been asking to speak to his son. Earlier, he’d been permitted to call a woman looking after the boy and had asked her to watch him a little longer. She’d agreed pleasantly, completely unaware that he was making the call from an NYPD interrogation cell with a group of detectives staring down at him.

‘I want to speak to my son,’ he repeated to Shepherd. ‘Please.’

‘Once this is over,’ Shepherd said. Marquez finished adjusting Jacobs’ collar. The mic was invisible. She grabbed a set of headphones and put one of the sides to her ear, pushing her forefinger into her other.

‘Please. Just one quick call.’

Marquez turned to Shepherd. ‘We’re good. Sound is 100 per cent.’

‘Once this is done, you can use my cell and talk to him all night,’ Shepherd said. ‘But you give Sway or Rourke one signal, you won’t speak to the kid again until I decide so. Clear?’

Jacobs looked at him, then nodded. Shepherd checked his watch.

9:55 pm.

‘Showtime. Out you go.’

Jacobs pushed open his door and stepped out, trying to stay cool and breathe.



Less than a minute later, Archer saw the lawyer walk in.

‘Eyes on Jacobs.’

The constant jostling of people getting to the bar meant Archer was jammed in, which was good for camouflage but not so good if he had to move in a hurry. In the dim lights, rap music thumping from the sound system, he watched Jacobs closely. He looked nervous as hell. The stairs were straight ahead of him, which he approached and started to climb.

Switching his attention back to the level, Archer scanned everyone who was walking in and around him.

Nothing.

‘I see Jacobs, but no sign of Rourke or Sway.’

‘We’ve got the door covered. Get up to 2 and stay on him.’

Archer nodded, stepping away from the bar and making his way to the stairs.

And with all his focus on Jacobs, he didn’t notice a dark-haired woman in a leather jacket watching him from the corner of the bar.



The second floor was where the dance floor and nightclub were located. People were milling about everywhere, dancing and sitting around drinking as house music pounded out of the speakers, the lights low and flashing.

When Archer arrived on the second level he saw Jacobs to his left, cutting his way through the dance-floor. He was meant to be on his way to the roof, not staying down here. Josh was here somewhere too but Archer couldn’t see him.

‘Jacobs is headed the wrong way. He’s going through the dance-floor on 2.’

‘Where the hell is he going?’ Shepherd asked. ‘Follow him.’

‘Josh, where are you?’

‘To your right.’

Archer looked over and saw Josh leaning against the wall by a booth, watching the stairs.

‘Follow Jacobs,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch for Rourke and Sway.’

Archer moved into the dance-floor, cutting his way through the crowd, keeping his hand over his Sig protectively. He saw Jacobs turn a corner to the left. Archer quickly followed, but when he got there Jacobs was gone.

Shit.

Then he realised that was where the door to the unisex restroom was. Jacobs must have ducked inside.

‘Jacobs is in the restroom,’ he said, enunciating clearly so the others could hear him over the pounding dance music.

He checked his watch.

9:56 pm.

They didn’t have time for this. If Jacobs was late, the trade wouldn’t happen. Archer stepped back, casually taking up a position near the wall facing the door. In front of him, the song changed to a pulsing dance track, the lights flashing in time to the music.

Just as Archer was contemplating breaking open the door and hauling him out, it opened and Jacobs reappeared. His hair had been tidied and it looked as if he’d splashed water on his face. He didn’t notice Archer and headed back down the side of the dance-floor, moving towards the stairs. Archer went to talk into his mic but realised he was beside a speaker. He stepped to his right so the others could hear what he was saying.

‘We’re in business. Josh, he’s on his way to you.’

Watching Jacobs move through the crowd, Archer went to follow.

But suddenly, his path was blocked.

Amongst the flashing lights and dancing people, three huge guys seemed to appear out of nowhere. They merged together from through the crowd, a human wall of bulk and intimidation, thick beards on their faces.

All three of them were staring down at Archer.

They had their big fists clenched, thick golden rings on their fingers serving as makeshift knuckle-dusters. Each guy was built like a fridge-freezer, way over six feet and two hundred pounds. Comparatively, Archer was around six foot and one eighty five, and there was only one of him.

Looking up, Archer caught the edge of what looked like a black Swastika tattoo on one of their necks.

This wasn’t a coincidence.