The Getaway

TWENTY-TWO

The Billie Jean King Tennis Center was located in Flushing Meadows Corona Park, a 1200 acre area on the east side of Queens towards Long Island. Renowned as being one of the largest tennis venues in the world, the Billie Jean King was also the proud location for the U.S Open tennis tournament every year, one of the major highlights in the sport’s annual calendar. The tournament was two weeks long, and the stands, even for preliminary matches, were always packed so the concessions stands, ATMs and businesses inside made an absolute killing in that fortnight. The main court, the Arthur Ashe, had the largest capacity for any tennis stadium in the world, 23,200 seats, and with other courts in the Center with many thousands of seats, every single person who sat in one was another potential customer.

Sunday was the end of the first week of the tournament, where most of the lower-seeded players had already been eliminated in the opening rounds and both the Men’s and Women’s draws were down to only eight players each. Unlike Wimbledon and the French Open at Roland Garros, the U.S. Open played matches at night, sometimes into the early hours the next morning if there was a prolonged fifth set. That early September Sunday evening, there was a big match on Arthur Ashe taking place, as two of the top male seeds fought for a place in the semi-finals. The match was being broadcast around the world, and the stadium itself was packed to capacity.

Sunday was also the day that the first week’s cash load would be escorted out of the Tennis Center and taken north up the I-495 to a secure location in Long Island. Door to door, the journey would take around eighty minutes, and was usually a two man job.

But considering the wealth of the cargo in the back of the truck that evening, tonight the security was double loaded.

As the clock ticked to 7:01 pm, the last of the haul was being secured inside, the crowd inside the Arthur Ashe behind them cheered as a dramatic point ended. The cash was locked and secured in individual bags and bullet-proof cases, stowed in secure shelves inside the truck. As three stadium officials finished loading the money, four other men in black combat fatigues and boots stood on the tarmac behind the truck.

They were all tough, grim-faced men, military trained, and were heavily armed to say the least. Each man was equipped with an AR 15 assault rifle, a 9mm Berretta pistol on his hip and five spare magazines for each weapon in slots on their tactical gear. The weaponry was all authorised by the United States Federal Reserve, necessary back-up given the value of the cargo in their possession. They’d be in the truck, protected by over two dozen tons of steel, but with ports either side so the men could fire out if they got ambushed or attacked. Unlike most armoured truck personnel who were retired cops, these guys were in their thirties and pulled straight from the military. If someone was stupid enough to try and engage them when they were out there on the road, it would be the last mistake they ever made.

The security officials finished loading up the last of the cash into the truck as the four men stood there, watchful and alert. Once all the money was inside and secure, they climbed into the truck and pulled the heavy door closed behind them, sealing it shut and taking seats inside. A fifth man, the driver, walked around the side of the truck and climbed into the front seat, locking his door shut and then bolting it. They were all inside now. Secure. The driver fired the engine, strapping on his seatbelt. He gave a thumbs up to the three stadium officials to his left, and released the handbrake, setting off east through the 1200 acre park towards the eastern exit.

Eighty minutes, door-to-door, and counting.

As the driver headed down New York Avenue, through the Tennis Center and past the fans and spectators on the sidewalks either side of him, he used the time and slow movement to get a feel for the vehicle. He’d been with the armoured courier company for six years, but this was his first time driving this particular journey and his first time with so much wealth in the back. Despite its weight, the truck wasn’t a hard vehicle to manoeuvre. He kept his eyes on the road, and tried not to think about how much cash was in the back.

He pulled out of the Center, turning left, and then after twenty seconds or so, he turned right. They were now moving down Perimeter Road, the long winding lane which ran all around the Park. They’d pass both a mini-golf and golf course on their right, then the swimming pool and Aquatics Center, then finally follow the road east then turn another right and head south on the Van Wyck Expressway, where they could transfer to the I-495 highway and get on their way to Long Island.

The truck moved on down the road. The place was pretty quiet. There was the occasional person walking in the park, and a couple of groups sitting enjoying a picnic, but most of the activity in the area was back inside the Tennis Center, the action taking place on the courts. They passed the golf course on the right. The driver glanced over at it, and accidentally let the vehicle drift to the edge of the road. It dropped off suddenly, but he quickly re-corrected and pulled back onto the tarmac.

‘What the hell was that?’ called a voice from the back.

‘Nothing,’ the driver said.

Looking over, he realised there was a little ditch each side of the road. Nothing to worry about for someone driving a normal car, but a nightmare for something this big and heavy. If he drove too close to the edge, they could slip off the side and topple to one side like a turtle on its shell. Focusing on the road instead, he drove over a small bridge and the road started to curl to the right, towards the exit.

He glanced to his left and saw a black car parked on the grass with a couple of people sitting inside.

Suddenly, a third person stepped out from behind the car, also in all black, wearing what looked like a balaclava or a black helmet.

He saw the figure drop to one knee and lift something to their shoulder.

Aiming it directly at the truck.

And he realised what it was a second too late.

The person in black recoiled as the rocket-launcher whooshed. In a split-second, the driver saw something zoom towards him.

Then there was a deafening explosion.

And the world tipped over.



Ortiz hit the truck first time. She was using a Stinger, and it hit the side of the vehicle perfectly. The rocket didn’t penetrate the steel, as they knew it wouldn’t, but the force of the blast smashed the truck over onto its side. It fell over with a giant crash and groan under a large fireball from the explosion, and came to a shuddering halt on the grass, on its side. They knew there were four guys inside.

And now their gun ports were all but useless.

She dropped the rocket launcher to the ground immediately and grabbed her M16 203 that was resting on the grass beside her. Whilst she did this, the car containing Farrell and Regan raced forward, coming to a halt by the upended truck. Across the grass, people on the grass and bystanders in the area started screaming and ran for cover as they reacted to the explosion and realised what was happening.

As Farrell ground to a halt on the grass by the truck, Regan leapt out of the car. He had five long lengths of plastic explosive strips in his hands, the kind used for demolitions, the M16 slung over his shoulder. Laying the strips on the grass, he waited as Ortiz ran forward, as fast as her body armour would allow. He had his back to the rear of the truck, and she didn’t slow as she approached him, putting her boot on his hands and jumping as he hoisted her up onto the truck with a grunt from the extra weight of her armour. He reached down and passed her up the demo strips one-by-one, and she laid them in a hexagon on the side of the truck, carefully avoiding the gun ports.

That done, she jumped down and ran for cover behind the black car, joining Farrell and Regan who were already there.

The three of them crouched behind the car, covering their ears.

Farrell had a detonator in his hand.

He pushed it.

There was a loud crack, and a groan as the metal fractured from the shock of the explosion. Whoever was inside would have been incapacitated, like someone had tossed a flash-bang grenade inside. Ortiz and Regan ran forward. He hoisted her up again, then used the wheel to clamber up himself, whilst Ortiz stamped on the damaged metal side of the vehicle. It fell away after the fourth stamp, and she dropped down inside. The four guards were sprawled on the floor, their ears bleeding, rolling around in pain and agony, their assault rifles forgotten. Ortiz passed the AR 15’S up one-by-one quickly, and Regan tossed them to the grass. She plasti-cuffed the four men, and none of them put up a fight, all four disorientated and in pain.

Outside on the grass, Farrell passed four black holdalls up to Regan. He took them and dropped them down to Ortiz, who started loading the money from the shelves into them. The explosion had softened up any cages or cases that were locked up, and any that were still intact needed just a hard kick to open them.

Outside on the grass, through the visor of his bulletproof helmet, Farrell checked his watch.

‘Thirty seconds,’ he shouted.

Ortiz was just finishing zipping up the third bag. She passed them up to Regan, who tossed them to the grass, Farrell loading them into the car. Ortiz packed up the fourth bag, pushing it up to Regan, who tossed it onto the grass then reached down, pulling her up. Ortiz dropped down to the grass, but on top of the truck Regan looked ahead on Perimeter Road.

‘Oh shit!’

An NYPD squad car, the lights flashing, was bearing down on them, having pulled in fast from the east entrance.

Without a second’s hesitation, Regan lifted his M16 and fired, the weapon tight in his shoulder. The fire-rate was set to automatic and he emptied the magazine into the front of the car. The bullets shredded through the windshield, stitching the two cops in the front seats and killing them instantly, blood spattering all over the windshield, the glass and headlights smashing from the hail of bullets, the car slewing to a halt forty yards away. The harsh sounds of machine gun fire echoed around the park, breaking the silence.

As Regan reloaded his empty clip, Farrell stowed the last bag in the car. Regan dropped down from the truck and ran over to the getaway car, pulling open the door. Just then, another NYPD squad car appeared, moving fast, pulling off the road onto the grass to move around the first car.

Still on the grass, Ortiz raised her M16. She emptied the mag into the front of the police car, then moved to the second attached weapon on the front of the M16 under the stock, the 203 grenade launcher. She aimed and pulled the trigger and the grenade landed smack on the windshield. It exploded on impact and the shockwave reacted with the petrol in the fuel tank, exploding into a fireball and erupting with a force that made her look away and shield herself.

She ran over to the car, jumping into the front seat, Farrell behind the wheel, Regan in the back, the money in the trunk.

‘GO! GO!’ Ortiz shouted, pushing the catch on the M16 to let the old magazine drop and smacking a fresh one inside, doing the same with the grenade launcher. Farrell put his foot down and the car sped forward. He moved off the road and onto the grass. Any witnesses and onlookers were already out of the way, screaming and running for cover, so the path was clear.

‘Woo!’ Regan said, pumped up and excited from the back seat. ‘Home stretch, baby!’

Farrell sped along the grass, the Industry Pond approaching on their right. They needed to get out of the Park and head north on the Van Wyck, straight to the turn off for the abandoned Flushing Airport and their last ride out of here.

But suddenly, five more cars roared into view from the entrance, blocking their path.

Four NYPD squad cars and a black truck.

Farrell looked closer and swore.

There were three letters printed in white on the side of the black vehicle, three letters that alone meant nothing but together spelt a shitload of problems.

ESU.



Things just got a hell of a lot harder. They hadn’t been expecting this. The NYPD standard-issue Beretta and Ithaca shotgun wouldn’t get through their Aramid and steel plate body armour, but ESU was the NYPD’s SWAT team. The officers inside the truck would be armed with sub-machine guns and assault rifles that stood a far greater chance of getting through their armour. Farrell shouted with frustration, and braked hard, grabbing his weapon and climbing out. The other two joined him, and together, all the frustrations and anger of the failed Garden heist reappeared.

And together, the trio opened fire.

The police cars and the ESU truck had pulled to a halt. They were forced to, as the three thieves just unleashed a lethal hail of bullets. The officers ducked for cover and rolled out the far doors, shielding themselves from the barrage of bullets, as the sound of automatic gunfire echoed around the Park.

Ortiz was fired up and angry. She walked forward, firing down on one of the squad cars. Two of the cops started firing back with their pistols and she drilled them both, emptying her magazine and shredding their car. Behind the other four cars, the other officers started leaning over the vehicle and firing down on her. They managed to hit her a few times, but each round pinged off her armour and helmet. She realised they were aiming for her legs. The North Hollywood duo had screwed up by not protecting their ankles and feet. Farrell’s team had learnt from that and the three of them were covered in Aramid and plating all the way down to their boots.

Regan was shooting at the other cars, whilst Farrell was pinning down the ESU team. He emptied his mag, then fired three grenades one-by-one, firing and reloading. The task force were forced to huddle behind the truck, taking cover, as the grenades exploded against the front of the truck. The ferocity of the assault had taken them all by surprise. As Ortiz took over and fired down on all of them, Farrell rushed back to the car and climbed in.

‘Let’s go!’ he shouted to Ortiz and Regan, who were still firing down at the ESU truck.

Ortiz gave them another grenade and moved back as she fired, then ducked into the car, pulling her door shut as Farrell sped to the left around the cop car and the two dead officers blocking their way. As Ortiz reloaded, Regan took over, keeping up continuous fire. The five vehicles had been shredded, most of the cops behind them injured, but Ortiz suddenly pulled three grenades tucked into the doorframe beside her, passing one to Regan whilst holding the other two herself. They were flash-bangs, not explosives, designed to stun and incapacitate.

Farrell saw what she was planning and slowed. She pulled the pins on both, the same time as Regan did on his. She passed them to Farrell, who threw the grenades rapidly out of the window towards the cop cars, one after the other, as Regan did the same. The three of them leant to the side, covering their ears and shutting their eyes as bullets pinged off the car.

The three bangs was muffled, considering they had covered up, and after three seconds, the three of them were back in action. Farrell pushed his foot down and the car sped off. As they drove away, Ortiz saw cops and members of the ESU team in black gear either grounded, writhing on the floor, or staggering, blinded and stunned. She had reloaded her M16 and fired as they sped forward, killing three of them as they stumbled around, trying to recover their senses.

Farrell roared through the gate and out onto the Van Wyck expressway, the I-678.

‘C’mon!’ he shouted, ecstatic. ‘Everyone OK?’

Beside and behind him, Ortiz and Regan nodded, reloading their weapons. Their car was riddled with bullet holes, the windshields smashed, but the highway was pretty quiet as they sped up the expressway. The turn off to Flushing Airport was just a couple of miles away. Farrell pushed his foot down as hard as he could, and glanced at a watch on his wrist.

7:23 pm.

In seven minutes, they were out of here.



Archer was in a car too, burning his way down the Grand Central Parkway, headed towards the airport. He had unloaded all the cash from the cop car then locked up and headed back to the Marriott Hotel after making a quick stop at a store on the way. He had gone up to the hotel room, pulling his Sig and dumping the bags in the corridor and eased the key into the lock. He burst inside, his pistol aimed, but no one was inside. They were all gone. He grabbed Katic’s car keys from the side, then left immediately with the bags and headed to the basement and the car park.

Traffic had been typically unpredictable and bad, and he’d been held up, delayed on his way to the airport. He checked the time and swore. 7:24 pm. He needed to be there in six minutes or the three hostages would die.

Suddenly, he heard a wailing siren from behind, and an ambulance appeared in his rear-view mirror. He waited for it to pass, then immediately pulled in behind and followed it down the highway, moving fast.

7:24 pm.

Six minutes to go.



Farrell didn’t slow as he turned off the highway and sped on towards the deserted Flushing Airport. The place was empty, having been shut for almost thirty years, and the car hit the chain-link fence, breaking the lock and smashing it open, the vehicle speeding on into the abandoned airport.

The entire airfield was made up of old tarmac, empty hangars and overgrown concrete lined with weeds, but up ahead they saw a black helicopter that was waiting on a space in the tarmac outside one of the hangars. Farrell and Ortiz had come here on Thursday night and moved it out of the hangar. It was resting on wheeled supports either side, and all they had to do was roll it outside gently, cover it with a giant tarpaulin, then lock the gate again and leave. No one ever came in here.

As they got closer, they saw Tate standing by the helicopter. He was in his full tactical gear, balaclava and helmet on, his car parked out of the way to the right. Farrell saw the side to the helicopter was open, the money from the previous heists already stashed inside. Tate stood there, his M16 in his hands, and waited for them to pull up.

The car torched forward then screeched to a halt to the left of the helicopter. The three of them climbed out quickly. Farrell opened the trunk and the three of them each grabbed a bag and took it to the helicopter, packing the money away inside. Farrell ran back and got the fourth and brought it over. When that was inside with the rest, he jumped back out and pulled off his helmet and balaclava, taking a deep breath of air and running his gloved hand over his head.

‘Holy shit! We did it, you a*sholes. We did it!’ he said.

He walked over to Ortiz and Regan, who also pulled off their headgear and the three of them hugged, one at a time. They each turned and saw Tate standing there, watching them silently. He still had his gear on, and he hadn’t moved to join them the three of them standing there in a line in celebration.

‘We did it, man,’ Farrell said. ‘We made it.’

Tate looked at him for a moment.

Didn’t speak.

Suddenly, he raised his M16.

None of them had time to register what he was doing.

And he fired.

Tate used controlled, three-round bursts, all aimed at the head, the three of them unprotected without the helmets. Farrell, Ortiz and Regan took the rounds before they could react, and blood and brains sprayed on to the tarmac behind them as they all fell back, dead, each shot several times through the face.

Tate looked at them for a moment, the three corpses motionless, blood and brains spattered around them. Then he went to turn back to the helicopter, but suddenly, another car burst into view through the entrance, driving fast towards him.

Tate squinted through the visor, pushing the release catch on his M16 and quickly reloading.

It was Archer.



Archer couldn’t believe what he saw as he drove into the airfield.

Farrell, Ortiz and Regan were all dead. Shot by Tate. He’d screwed them. He saw the man lift his M16. Archer reacted fast and slid the car to a halt on its side, opening the driver’s door and sliding out the side as a hail of bullets hit the side of the vehicle. He landed awkwardly on the tarmac, but pulled his father’s Sig from his pocket as Tate continued to fire on the car. He heard a click and the firing stopped as Tate’s magazine emptied. Archer then rose up over the trunk of the car, his arm resting on the metal top, the Sig aimed dead straight at Tate’s chest twenty yards away.

He fired, relentless, bullet after another, his aim straight from resting his arm on the car. Most of the bullets hit Tate in the chest and head, knocking him back slightly, but each one pinged and dinged off the body armour under his clothes.

None of them were getting through.

Shit.

He knew it was useless. He would never pierce the body armour from here.

As Tate dropped down to one knee to reload his M16, Archer saw another car pull into the lot from an entrance ahead and to the left, speeding over the weeded tarmac.

Siletti was at the wheel.

The car screeched to a stop beside Farrell and his team’s getaway car and Siletti climbed out, a silenced pistol in his hand. Archer aimed and fired four more times at Tate, all four hitting him in the chest. None of them got even close to getting through the armour. Siletti fired back, then took cover, running around the side of his car and popping the trunk. Archer saw him drag Jessie out, her hands duct-taped behind her, a grey strip over her mouth and passed her to Tate. Someone had pulled a blindfold over her eyes, and strands of hair hung over it, the girl trembling as she stood there.

‘Enough!’ Tate called, from under the helmet, grabbing the girl by the hair. He threw his M16 to the ground and pulled a Glock pistol from a holster on his hip, putting the gun to the girl’s head. ‘Drop the gun or the girl dies!’

Behind the trunk of the car, Archer didn’t move, his arm still gripping the pistol, aimed at Tate. He looked at Jessie, her body shaking and terrified. As long as the guy had the gun to her head, there was nothing he could do.

‘Drop it!’ Tate screamed.

Archer rose very slowly, then tossed the gun to the ground, still standing behind Katic’s car.

During this, Siletti had moved to the back seat of his car, pulling Sanderson out, dragging him towards Tate and pushing him to the ground. He was also duct-taped and bound. Lastly, Siletti walked back and dragged out Katic, pulling her by the hair to stand beside Tate, a silenced pistol in his hand, the harsh black barrel against Katic’s soft features. The two sides stood there looking at each other, the helicopter behind Siletti and Tate, the dead bodies of Farrell, Ortiz and Regan between them. There was no sign of O’Hara.

‘So what’s the deal?’ Archer called, at Tate, pointing at the corpses. ‘You kill all your friends and walk away?’

Tate stood still for a moment, the gun still to the child’s head.

He said nothing.

Then he let go of the girl, and reached up and lifted off his helmet.

He had a balaclava on underneath, which he pulled off too.

Archer froze.

He stared.

He thought he was dreaming.

He couldn’t believe it.

He was looking at Supervisory Special Agent Todd Gerrard.