The Getaway

TWENTY-ONE

As the sun slowly slid across the sky in its journey from dawn to dusk, Sunday lunchtime became Sunday afternoon, and the time crawled on to four o’clock.

Archer was sitting in Central Park. The same bench in fact that he’d sat on a week ago in his suit, fresh from the funeral and his first meeting with Gerry. As it was then, the late summer weather was still beautiful, coming to the end of the season, fall fast approaching. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a saxophone, a jazz busker somewhere nearby, the only other noise was the breeze blowing through the trees, the birds chirping and the sounds of people walking or cycling past. Amongst the wind and the birds, the perfect and fluid melody of the saxophone floating in the air, Archer closed his eyes.

So much beauty amongst so much pain.

They’d killed his father. They’d killed Gerry. They’d killed Parker, and Lock. They’d tried to kill him. They’d taken Katic, her daughter and Sanderson hostage, and they would try and kill him again too.

Siletti wanted to meet at Flushing Airport, which meant he and O’Hara were in on Farrell’s plans. Archer didn’t know how. Maybe they had reconciled their differences, or struck up a deal. Maybe Siletti had promised Farrell Archer would be there later tonight so he could exact revenge. Maybe they’d all get in the helicopter with the cash and leave the city forever as a team. He had no doubt that Siletti would try to kill him at the trade. The guy had all but promised it on the phone call earlier. Archer knew how it would play out. They’d have guns on Sanderson, Katic and her daughter and demand the cash or they pull the triggers. Archer would throw it over, along with any weapon. Then they would open up on him. Maybe a shotgun to the back of the head, same as his father. They’d order him to turn around and he’d hear the footsteps approaching. Feel the cold barrel of the weapon nestle in the back of his head. His life ended the exact same way as his father by the same people who’d killed him less than two weeks ago. Then they’d waste the three hostages.

He opened his eyes and looked at all the greenery around him, the sun lighting up the place. Siletti and O’Hara knew that they didn’t just have the winning hand, but the entire deck, and there was only one man standing in their way. Once they took care of him, they’d get on that helicopter and fly away forever.

The perfect getaway.

Archer looked up and saw the sunlight filter through the brown trees and green leaves.

And he started to formulate a plan.



He sat there for another hour, working everything out in his mind, every possible scenario or outcome. He was still dressed as a cop, the hat over his head, so no one passing by in the Park would recognise him. At one point, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and deliberated whether to call Cobb or not. He decided against it. Even if he could help, Archer only had three hours. Cobb was across the Atlantic Ocean. He couldn’t do anything or get here in that time. And Archer had dragged Sanderson into this mess and it had got him taped up with a gun to his head. He was going to handle the rest of this himself. This was his problem and he was going to fix it.

He rose and started walking through the Park, headed north to the Upper East Side. The walk took him about twenty minutes. He exited the Park and crossed 1 Avenue and went straight to the parked police car on 92, pulling the keys from his pocket, unlocking it and climbed inside. In the front seat, he pulled off the police hat and started unbuttoning his shirt, and changed back into his clothes quickly, getting out of the cop uniform. He pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, trainers and grabbed the navy blue overcoat. He checked the chamber on the Sig, then clicked on the safety catch and tucked it into his coat. He went to climb out to get the money from the back, but something made him stop.

There was something stowed between the two front seats.

A gun.

He reached over and pulled it from its home and held it in his hands.

It was an Ithaca 37, pump-action 12 gauge shotgun, the same weapon that Farrell and his team liked to use. In a compartment under the radio, Archer found ammunition for the weapon, twenty shells inside a small cardboard box.

And he had an idea.



Across the city in an FBI safe-house, Siletti checked the watch on his left wrist.

5:51 pm.

Not long to go.

He looked across the dark room at his three hostages. He’d duct taped and gagged all three of them and left them lying on the floor. O’Hara had blindfolded the kid, but neither Sanderson or Katic were wearing one and the two of them glared up at Siletti, a mixture of rage and fear in their eyes. Katic’s hair had fallen over her face, hanging in strands over the grey-strip of duct-tape pulled across her mouth, and she was looking at him like she wanted to kill him. Sanderson had been a pain in the ass earlier, trying to fight them when they marched him downstairs to the Marriott parking lot, so Siletti had punched him three times in the face, breaking his nose. Join the club, he thought as he saw the FBI Assistant Director sat against the wall, his eyes blazing with fury, blood staining the skin under his nose and the strip of grey duct-tape across his own mouth.

They were in an old storage place, a safe-house that only he and a select few other members of the FBI knew about. It was dusty and smelt of sawdust but it was quiet. No one was going to come in here. But just as the thought crossed his mind, a noise came from behind him, and he turned, pistol in hand. But it was only O’Hara. He was returning from a trip to get some food, two burgers and fries from McDonalds. They needed to fuel up before the evening’s events. He walked over without saying a word and dumped the bag on an empty chair, passing Siletti a wrapped up burger. He pulled back the plastic and took a bite, watching the three hostages.

The three of them would have to die. There was no question. All three had seen his and O’Hara’s faces. Katic and the kid weren’t a problem. He’d do them both, cut them up, then dump them in the sea, the pieces weighed down with bricks in individual bags. He’d do it down in Atlantic City, far away from here. No one would ever discover the bodies. Sanderson was the only problem. He was an Assistant Director, which meant there was going to be a shitload of attention on what would happen if he disappeared. He also didn’t know how he had got down here and become involved. He figured the Bureau had sent him, but he had come from the hotel where the Slavic bitch and the English a*shole were staying and that was too coincidental for his liking. He needed to find out who had set them up together. He’d go to work on Sanderson later, and get him to tell him who.

But he had something else to attend to first. He took a bite on his burger and turned, looking over at O’Hara. He was standing behind him, eating and looking down at the three captives, Katic in particular.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told Katic, who was glaring up at him. ‘I blindfolded the kid for you. I can take it off.’

Siletti took another bite, then rose. He signalled O’Hara to follow him, and he headed over to the bathroom, out of earshot. The other man followed him and they both stood inside the stall, the door open, the two hostages watching them, the girl blindfolded.

‘What?’ O’Hara asked him, inside the bathroom.

‘I planned ahead,’ Siletti told him. ‘I brought us weapons and body armour for taking on Farrell.’

O’Hara’s eyes widened.

‘You did. Where is it?’

‘I hid it behind those tiles,’ he said, pointing behind O’Hara at the wall. ‘Check it out.’

O’Hara turned. He reached over across the bathtub, reaching for the tiles.

In the same moment, Siletti’s silenced HK USP pistol appeared in his right hand.

He aimed the gun at the back of O’Hara’s head and pulled the trigger.

The weapon gave a thud, like someone had stamped once hard on the floor. Blood, brains and skull sprayed into the air and spattered all over the wall, and O’Hara collapsed with a thump over the bath. There was no shower curtain to shield Siletti from the gore, so he ended up wearing some of his former partner’s brains and blood on his face and shirt. Siletti walked back into the main room, not bothering to wipe himself down. Katic and Sanderson were staring at him, their eyes wide with horror. The girl was blindfolded, but she was shaking like the temperature was below freezing in here.

With blood and bits of brain all over his shirt and face, Siletti took a seat.

He grinned at them, taking another bite of the burger, and checked his watch.



Across the city, in a dark brick room below the Astoria Sports Complex, Farrell, Ortiz and Regan stood together, making final adjustments. They were all wearing the black reinforced body armour, black boots on their feet and the usual three layers of latex gloves on their hands. The stolen car they’d use was parked in a garage connected by doorway to the building, so they wouldn’t have to go out on the street.

For this final job, they’d need a quicker rate of fire than the shotguns would offer. This time, none of them gave a shit about ballistics. They’d be out of the country before anyone could make a match to the weapons they used. Each of them lifted an M16 203 assault rifle from the desktop at the same time, slamming a full 32 round magazine into each base and pulling the slide, loading the three weapons. Each M16 was modified and also had a grenade launcher attached to the front, under the main barrel, and there was a grenade already loaded inside, four more in special sewn-in compartments on their black uniforms. They each checked the safety on the weapons, then laid them back down on the table, turning to look at each other.

‘Final check,’ Farrell said. The three of them looked each other over, checking everything was in place, no gaps in their armour.

‘Good,’ Ortiz said.

‘Good,’ Regan said.

Farrell nodded. He took one last look at the room, where every job they had ever pulled had been planned. The last time he’d ever be inside this room.

This was it.

Showtime.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

His two companions nodded.

‘OK. Let’s do this,’ he said.