The Getaway

TWENTY

Archer stayed very still, the phone to his ear. The air-conditioning system above blew chilly air over him, but he stood there frozen, the police hat in one hand, the cell phone in the other, the photographic evidence still up on the screen before him.

‘You’re an idiot,’ Siletti told him. ‘A real dumb shit.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I knew you’d end up back at the hotel. We raided your old room last night, but you weren’t there. But we saw Katic’s car in the parking lot and knew you were somewhere inside. So we waited. We stayed all night in the lobby. Then Sanderson appeared this morning, headed for the taxi ranks. We couldn’t believe it. Bobby Sanderson, an Assistant Director, at the same hotel at the same time as you and Katic. Once we put a gun on him and got him in the trunk of our car, I took the receptionist to one side and asked what room you’d been moved to. I told her what I would do to her if she didn’t tell me. Before long she was begging to give me the key.’

Pause.

‘So what do you want?’ Archer asked.

‘What do you think I want? The money. And you. I want you, you piece of shit.’

‘You can’t have both. Make a choice.’

‘You broke my nose, you son of a bitch.’ Pause. ‘Or maybe I should hang up right now. Maybe I should just kill the bitch and the kid. I’ll keep the call connected. You can listen.’

Archer stayed silent.

‘The Garden cash. Where is it?’

‘No way. We meet. We exchange. You and I can settle it afterwards.’

A pause.

‘Flushing Airport,’ Siletti said. ‘7:30 pm. A minute late, Katic, the kid and Sanderson die, one after the other. If you go to the cops or the FBI, they die, one after the other. 7:30 pm. If you’re a second late, they die.’

And the call went dead.

He stood in that same position, staring straight ahead for the next couple of minutes. Someone came up behind him to use the machine themselves, but realised something was up with the cop and moved away.

They had Sanderson. They had Katic.

And they had Jessie.

He couldn’t go to the cops. They’d arrest him in a heartbeat over the Garden job.

He couldn’t go to the feds. That was Siletti and O’Hara’s world. They’d know in a second and the three hostages would die.

Pulling the memory card from the slot and pushing it into his pocket, Archer wandered to the exit, desperately trying to think of a plan. Suddenly he bumped into someone, not paying attention to where he was going. He looked up from under the hat to apologise.

But he stopped dead.

He was looking into the eyes of a woman.

He saw her eyes widen, the same time as his.

It was Carmen Ortiz.



They stood there for a split-second, just staring at each other, both of them in stunned disbelief. Archer’s hand was by his right hip, next to the Sig tucked in the holster there. He didn’t reach for it though. There were people all around them on the sidewalk and entering the store. But Ortiz didn’t move. They stood there in total silence, eye-to-eye, not saying a word.

The uniform was saving him.

She couldn’t attack a cop or pull a weapon on him. Everyone on the street would see. It would be reported or intervened on in a second.

‘Walk away,’ he told her, staring into her hostile eyes as he had done that night in the bar when she passed him. ‘Pretend you never saw me.’

‘Where’s the cash?’ she asked, Dominican accent.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said.

‘If you don’t, you’ll die, pendejo. I won’t let you go.’

Neither moved, both staring at each other. A standoff. If she came at him, Archer would pull his gun. If he came at her, she would use her fists, which were almost as effective.

‘You left us.’

‘That wasn’t my fault. I got held up.’

‘By who?’

‘A woman.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s dead. I killed her.’

‘So give us the money. If you run, we’ll find you.’

‘What if I tell the cops about Flushing? I take it you’ll all still be there, right?’

She didn’t respond.

‘Pretend you never saw me. Or I’ll talk to the feds. There’ll be an entire division waiting for you when you get there.’

He stepped forward and to the side. She didn’t respond or move. He moved around her slowly, keeping eye contact the whole time, moving onto the sidewalk. He was close to her radius where she could hit him, but deliberately kept just out of it. He saw her arms and fists tense, desperate to strike him.

He kept eye contact on her, his hand close to the Sig.

Suddenly a police car passed on the street alongside, then slowed.

‘Hey,’ a voice called.

Archer flicked his eyes, risking a quick glance.

There was one cop inside the squad car, a man. He was one of the cops that had just checked out his father’s apartment, the first guy inside, the one with the female partner.

‘Hey man, I’m headed for a house call in Long Island City,’ he told Archer from behind the wheel. ‘My partner just had to bounce. Can you give me a hand?’

Archer stared straight at Ortiz.

‘Sure,’ he called.

He walked across the sidewalk, around the side of the car, and climbed into the front seat, beside the cop. He closed the door and the car moved off, Ortiz still staring at him. He looked through the open window at her as she stood there, her eyes following him as the car moved off down the street. The guy behind the wheel saw her too.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘That’s one chick I wouldn’t want to mess with.’



‘Haven’t seen you before,’ the cop behind the wheel said, as he drove through the streets towards the East River and Long Island City. Archer allowed himself a small sigh of relief and then turned his attention to the cop beside him.

‘Yeah, I’m out of the 19,’ Archer said, in his best American accent. A benefit of coming here a lot as a kid meant he had developed an ear for it, and he could pull one off pretty convincingly.

‘Oh yeah? What you doing in Queens?’

‘I live here. I was just headed to the city.’

The cop frowned.

‘Why are you in uniform already? Didn’t you leave it at the station?’

‘Just got it dry cleaned,’ Archer replied, thinking fast.

The driver nodded.

‘Oh. Gotcha.’

At that moment, a call came over the radio. It was a woman, from dispatch, wherever their base was in the area. She told the officer that the Long Island call was a false alarm. He picked up the receiver as he kept one hand on the wheel.

‘Roger that,’ he said, pushing the buttons on the receiver with his thumb and forefinger. ’10-4.’ He returned the receiver to its cradle and turned to Archer. ‘Ah shit. Never mind. Tell you what man, I’ll take you into the city to say thanks for coming along.’

Archer nodded, keeping his head slightly turned away. ‘Thanks.’

They drove on in silence, approaching the Queensborough Bridge. Archer didn’t say a word, but he sensed the guy next to him wanted to talk. He was friendly, and seemed professional. That however would change if he realised who the guy beside him in the car was and his current status with the NYPD.

‘So you’re the morning shift then?’ the cop asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘You dodged a bullet not being on duty last night, man. It’s been a long one, let me tell you,’ he said. ‘There was some heist at the Garden last night during the fight. Madison Square Garden, can you believe it? Guy and girl made off with almost a million bucks. Apparently the chick was an FBI agent. We’ve been scouring the city all night looking for them.’

‘Really?’ Archer asked, looking out the window.

‘Yeah. The FBI is on the hunt as well. Two of their agents have gone missing and one of them was found dead in his apartment. They reckon the guy and girl did it. Real Bonnie and Clyde stuff, you know?’

‘Yeah. Sounds like it,’ Archer said as they moved over the Bridge.

There was a pause.

‘So what’s your name?’ the guy asked.

Shit.

Archer didn’t answer, his mind racing.

He tried to remember the name on the tag.

‘Griffin,’ he said, eventually, trying to sound casual.

‘I’m Willard. Good to meet you, man. You want me to drop you on your beat?’

‘That would be great. I’m up around 90.’

Willard nodded and pulled a right after they crossed the bridge, headed uptown. They moved up 1 Avenue, through the Upper East Side.

‘I get off in thirty minutes. Can’t wait. Cold beer and put my feet up. Let you boys take over and look for the gruesome twosome.’

Archer nodded. ‘Hope we can find them. Right here’s good.’

Willard frowned, looking at the street beside them.

‘You sure? We’re only on 81?’

‘Yeah. I’ll stretch my legs.’

Willard shrugged and nodded then pulled to a halt. Archer grabbed the handle and pushing the door open, stepping out and closing it behind him.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

He walked around the car to the sidewalk and started walking off, feeling Willard’s eyes on his back.

‘Hey.’

Archer stopped, then turned.

From behind the wheel, Willard smiled and raised a hand.

‘Nice to meet you man. Have a good one.’

Archer raised his own hand, and the squad car moved off up the street. At the lights, Willard turned left and headed left down 81 towards 2 Avenue, and the car disappeared out of sight.

The moment he was gone, Archer sagged and sat on a bench, shaking his head, taking off the hat. He’d thought he had problems before, but now he was on a whole new level.

He’d be at Flushing airport at 7:30 pm.

He’d have to be, to save the hostages.

On one side there would be Siletti.

And O’Hara.

Farrell.

Ortiz.

Regan.

And Tate.

On the other, there was one man.

Archer.

Him, all alone.

He leaned back on the bench, sunlight shining down on him, the street around him quiet, and looked straight ahead, assessing his odds.

Six on one.

And knew it was going to take a damn miracle to stop them.

*

A hundred and twenty eight miles south from where Archer was sitting, the Atlantic City hotel room Tate was booked into under a fake name was plush and expensive. Tate always liked to skim a little off the top when he came down here. One night in the best suite normally cost close to five hundred bucks, but that was a drop in the ocean considering the amount of cash that was soon to be coming their way. It made the whole trip just like that little more enjoyable, like a mini vacation. It was an executive suite for a business executive. Tate was down here on business, so technically he qualified.

He’d been here for thirty-six hours. He’d been in the casinos till three am last night and had cleaned the last of the stolen Chase cash, and had just taken an hour long bath. He’d drunk two beers and watched a Pay-Per-View replay of the welterweight title fight from the Garden last night. He walked out of the bathroom, having towelled off and pulled on a white bathrobe, and strode barefoot across the padded white carpet.

Across the room, four zipped up bags sat in a line, neatly organised. Although this wasn’t New York City, he still had to be careful when he came down here. He had a rule not to take more than $100k into any one casino at any one time. The FBI would take a great interest in what he’d been up to down here in the last year, and he didn’t want to leave a paper trail.

But he’d traded all the cash. The notes were clean, loaded up in the bags, a million and a half. He checked the time on the digital clock on the bed-side table. 11:54 am. Just before midday. He was planning on getting something to eat, then packing up the car downstairs and heading back to NYC for the extraction later tonight. He grabbed a phone and dialled room service and asked for a steak, medium-rare, and a chocolate sundae. Once he’d eaten, he’d pack up all his shit, get out of here and head back to help out the rest of the team.

Walking over the thick carpet to the bed, he examined the outfit he’d be wearing later tonight. He’d laid it across the bed, making sure the stitching was tight, no loose fibres or chinks in the armour. He tapped it with his knuckle and it gave a dull clunk. There was enough Aramid and steel-plating under the cloth to stop pistols, machine guns, shotguns, even semi-automatic rifles from a reasonable distance. Tate wouldn’t be directly in the firing line, but he figured they’d be taking some heat before they got up in the air and it never hurt to be prepared. They’d come a hell of a long way as a team. He didn’t fancy getting popped just as they were making their final getaway.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

Room service. His food. Tate smiled. He reached for his pistol resting on a side cabinet, then thought better of it and tucked it under the sheet. He turned and walked forward towards the door, looking forward to his meal. Out of habit more than anything else, he stopped and peered into the spy-hole.

A man was standing there.

But there was some weird black shape obscuring Tate’s view.

He looked closer.

And saw knuckles.

Wrapped around something metal and black, held up beside the spy-hole.

Tate froze.

And the guy in the corridor pulled the trigger to the pistol.

The weapon was silenced, so the report was dulled, but there was a thud as the pistol fired a round. The bullet chewed through the wooden door in milliseconds with ease and entered Tate’s forehead, the hollow-point separating and shredding into his brain. There was a spray of blood and brains from the back of his head as it blew apart, and he fell back, dead, the back of his head blown all over the white carpet.

The man in the corridor eased the key-card he’d taken from the dead hotel worker into the slot and shoved the door open. He stepped over the dead man in the bath robe and walked over towards four bags. He unzipped the first one and smiled with satisfaction. He checked the others. They were the same.

He moved rapidly over to the bed and grabbing the helmet, balaclava, jacket and trousers, stuffed them quickly into a bag he pulled out from his jacket. He walked back over to the door, stepping over Tate's body and pulled the door behind him. Within ten minutes he was back. He went over to the four bags, looping the straps of two over each shoulder and grunted as he lifted the remaining two in his hands. He walked over to the door and stepped past Tate, blood and brains sprayed behind him on the carpet.

He moved out into the empty corridor, and using a gloved hand, pulled the door shut behind him, and headed downstairs for the car park.