The Getaway

SEVEN

‘I think I’m in,’ Archer told Gerrard, back in that same Starbucks on 35and 7, three days later. Across the table, Gerry’s eyes widened.

‘Already? How?’

‘There was a fight. Outside the pub on Ditmars. They pulled me out to the street to find out who I was but then they got jumped. Six guys, out of nowhere. I backed Farrell and his friends up, and flipped it on its head.’

Gerrard nodded. ‘Good move. I told you he’s trouble.’

‘That’s for damn sure.’

‘Anyone hurt?’

‘No one killed. And you were spot on about Ortiz. She took two of them down like they were practice. There’ll be some sore heads walking into Accident and Emergency at Mount Sinai this morning. She put both of them away in about twenty seconds.’

Gerrard nodded, sipping his coffee.

‘They pulled another job yesterday.’

‘Where?’

‘Chase bank, Upper East Side. Hit the place when the time-lock on the vault was off. When you saw them, they were probably celebrating.’

‘What was the damage?’

‘Five hundred thousand. Over half a mil.’

‘Wow.’

Gerrard shook his head as Archer reached for his cup of tea. ‘Not quite. They screwed up.’

‘How so?’

‘Two homicides. Or, should I saw, two more. Left them both in the getaway car which they then torched. First time they’ve done both those things. The two bodies were a real mess when we found them. What was left of them, anyway.’

Archer frowned, pulling the cap off his tea and letting the liquid cool.

‘That doesn’t sound like them. You said they weren’t that sloppy. Who were the two victims?’

‘Driver of the stolen taxi-cab, the car they used for the job. And Brown.’

‘Brown? Their own guy?’

‘The very same. Someone blasted him in the back of the head as he pulled up by the switch car.’

‘Shotgun?’

Gerrard nodded.

‘They unloaded the gear then tossed a match inside the cab,’ he said. ‘The driver was locked in the trunk and couldn’t get out.’

‘Wait, hold on. They just killed Brown?’ Archer asked, still surprised. He couldn’t believe it.

Gerrard nodded.

‘Yeah, they did. I guess they found out he was talking to us.’

Archer shook his head in disbelief. From the report in the file, he knew that Brown was a childhood friend of Farrell’s, a man who had been part of every job they had pulled together. But they had killed him in a heartbeat, shotgun, point blank, back of the head, the same method of execution as his father.

‘Jesus. These people are a different breed,’ he said.

Gerry nodded in agreement and took a long gulp of coffee.

‘OK, so why not move in right now and take them?’ Archer asked. ‘That’s two more corpses to work with. Surely you have enough of a case to make something stick?’

Gerrard shook his head.

‘That’s the damn problem. I don’t,’ he said. ‘Everything we have is circumstantial. We know they hit the bank. We know they torched the car. We know they blew Brown’s head off and killed the driver. I know one of them killed your father. But we can’t prove any of it. Their alibis will have been bought and paid for weeks ago. They never leave any evidence or traces of DNA, and are always fully disguised so nobody can make an I.D. And we can’t match the two shotgun blasts with ballistics. So until we actually physically catch them in the act or until they screw up and leave something we can pin on them, it’s just not happening. They don’t make mistakes, Sam. And that’s what is pissing me off.’

He shook his head, looking out the window, cursing under his breath. Archer drank from his tea. It tasted good, refreshing.

He noticed that Gerry looked wearier than the last time he’d seen him, which was only a matter of days. Judging by his complexion and demeanour, the investigation seemed to be really taking its toll. He looked exhausted.

‘OK, so let’s think,’ Archer said, forming a plan, trying to be positive and help the FBI agent out. ‘The last thing Brown told you was the job at Madison Square Garden on Saturday, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Today’s Tuesday. That’s four days from now. You said you needed to catch them in the act, so here’s your chance. It’s right there on a plate, Gerry. It’s the perfect opportunity.’

Gerrard shook his head. ‘They knew he was talking to us. That’s why they killed him. They’ll have changed their plans.’

Archer shook his head.





‘Not necessarily. They have no idea how much or what he told you. They are nine for nine so far. One hundred per cent. They won’t change. They’ll figure they can get it done anyway, even if he did tell you something. These people are fighters, not brain surgeons. They’ll love the challenge. The juice’ll be worth the squeeze. You can set up a team at the stadium, and be ready and waiting for them. Maybe call in back up from D.C and get some extra cavalry. Have an entire division on call.’ He paused, picturing the heist in his head. ‘How do you think they’ll try it?’

Gerrard shrugged.

‘Disguises, of course. Probably dressed as stadium employees, or cops. They may even have bought tickets and will get inside that way. The concessions stands from the concert the previous night will have brought in close to four million. They’ll either buy their way in or force it. If they plan smartly, the take could be monumental. And the Garden is on the corner of the big traffic junction on 33 and 8. There are going to be a lot of cops down there, so they’ll need to get out of the area quickly. They won’t walk or use the subway. They’ll want to get off the island and get across the water as fast as possible, but Brown was their wheelman.’

‘Surely one of them will take over?’

Gerrard shook his head.

‘I don’t think so. Farrell and Ortiz will definitely want to be inside, pulling the job,’ he said. ‘Regan too. The only question mark is Tate. They might conceivably put him behind the wheel, but I don’t think so. He’s a hothead. Brown was a rough piece of work, but he was cool under pressure. Tate’s too volatile and erratic to be reliable in the driver’s seat.’

‘So with Brown dead, they’ll be looking for a new driver.’

Gerrard nodded.

‘If they go ahead with it, then yeah, I’d say so.’

Archer glanced out the window, absorbing everything they’d discussed, picturing the job and the each member of the crew in his mind.

‘I had a tail, by the way. On the way here.’

Gerrard’s eyes widened suddenly.

‘What? Who?’

‘Regan. He followed me after I left Dad’s apartment. He was waiting for me on 38Street. Farrell must have put him there.’

Gerrard looked outside the window, anxious. ‘Did you ditch him?’

‘Of course. Relax,’ Archer said, noting the sudden alarm in the older man’s behaviour. ‘Take it easy.’

‘Jesus, you had me worried there kid,’ Gerrard said, exhaling a long breath, glancing out the window again. ‘They see you talking to me, its game over.’

‘Well don’t worry. I lost him.’ He saw the stress and anxiety on his father’s old friend’s face. He looked like he’d aged a few years in just the past few days. ‘Stay cool, Gerry. It’s all good. We’re already making progress.’

Gerrard nodded and checked his watch as Archer drank from his tea.

‘By the way, do you have a cell phone?’ he asked.

Archer nodded, and gave him the number.

‘I need to get back downtown,’ Gerrard continued. ‘I’ve got my team working the Chase job, and they’ll be wondering where I am. But I’ll give you a call later.’

‘OK. I’ll get out of here too,’ Archer said.

‘Great work so far, kid. You’ve done me proud. Maybe head back to McCann’s tonight. Try to establish contact with Farrell again, and gain some trust. But sleep with one eye open, Sam. You’ll have got his attention. He and his team will be watching you, I guarantee.’

Archer looked across the table at him and nodded. Then the two men rose and shook hands. Without another word Archer turned and headed to the exit first, tossing his half-filled cup of tea in the trash, and pushing open the front door, walked out and headed uptown.



But neither man realised at that moment that the game was up.

Someone was already watching them.

She was standing across the street on 35, outside a Vitamin Shoppe, leaning on a pay-phone, the receiver to her ear. But she wasn’t making a call. All she heard the other end was the dial tone.

She was in a good spot for surveillance. The box and post of the payphone were covering her body, the phone and her hand and arm covering one half of her head, but her eyes were looking straight over the metal box at the two men inside the Starbucks.

She’d been up early, despite a late night, and had followed Gerrard from Federal Plaza, seeing what he was up to. She’d followed him here and she’d been taken aback when the English guy had shown up ten minutes later. But this definitely wasn’t a social call. Around them, every other person going in and out of that place looked, for the most part, pretty chilled and relaxed and unsuspecting or preoccupied. But Gerrard and the Brit looked wary, occasionally checking around them, making sure nobody was watching, leaning over the table, talking in low voices.

She’d watched them speak like that for ten minutes or so, then she saw the two men suddenly rise, the English guy walking to the door, leaving and heading uptown. Gerrard strode outside soon after, readjusting his tie and sliding sunglasses over his nose then putting his hand in the air and waving for a taxi.

The woman turned, huddling over the receiver like she was struggling to hear what was being said the other end. He knew who she was and she didn’t fancy him seeing her. Her head down, she risked a glance and saw him step into a taxi, pulling the door shut, and watched the taxi speed off downtown. Once he was gone, she placed the receiver back with a ding. Amongst everyone on the sidewalks up ahead, she could still see the British guy walking uptown three blocks away. Although she’d only had a brief interaction with him, he’d looked and acted solid, but she didn’t know if she could trust him. His private meeting with Gerrard was making her uneasy and unsure.

Something was going on here.

Something that she didn’t know about.

But before the end of the week, she was going to find out what it was.



After he left the coffee shop, Archer turned left and headed uptown, straight towards Times Square seven blocks ahead. He was intending to go to the hotel and relax there for a bit. He figured a few hours resting up would be just what he needed, getting in some down-time and thinking-time before he headed back to McCann’s on Ditmars and tried to re-establish contact with Farrell and his crew.

But before he could go to the hotel, he knew he needed to salvage what he could from his father’s apartment. There was stuff in there that should be kept, stuff that his sister might want. The clothes and shoes, all that shit could go to the Goodwill store. It wasn’t a job that he was looking forward to, throwing out all his father’s stuff, cleaning out the place and ditching any non-essentials. But he knew he’d have to do it at some point, and now seemed as good a time as any to get it over and done with.

He crossed the street to the right, headed past a large Chase bank on the corner of 40 and 7, and ducked down the steps leading to the subway, pulling back on his flannel shirt that he’d removed earlier.

He could wear it again, seeing as he no longer had anyone tailing him.



He got on a Queens-bound train and headed back to Astoria. It was an R train, so he stepped off on Steinway and walked up to the street level, headed east towards 31 Avenue and to his father’s apartment. He would try to get everything done in an hour or so, working fast. It would probably take longer, but the quicker he did it, the quicker he could forget about it and move on. He walked down Steinway, past the food stand on the corner and through the smoke from the grill, then turned left and walked north a block, crossing the street. He started moving down 38, but as he approached the apartment, he saw someone sitting on the steps outside.

He could see straight away it wasn’t the guy from the second floor, the one who’d been using the grill. This man was a hulking figure, dressed in jeans and a white zip-up tracksuit top with red stripes down each arm, a cigarette in his mouth.

Archer saw who it was immediately, no mistake.

Farrell.

The bigger man saw Archer approaching and rose to his feet, flicking the butt of the cigarette onto the ground. Archer stopped on the sidewalk ten yards away, outside the gate. In daylight and standing across from him, Farrell seemed even bigger than he had the night before. He was an intimidating figure. Archer suddenly wished he hadn’t left his dad’s 9mm Sig upstairs in the apartment.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Archer asked.

Farrell raised his hands.

‘Relax. I come in peace.’

‘Like you did last night? I don’t give a shit. How did you know I was staying here?’

‘I had Regan follow you home after the fight,’ Farrell replied, honestly.

Silence. Both men stood there, either side of the small gate, staring at each other, testily. There seemed to be a mutual respect in the air, but no secure trust had yet been earned on either side.

‘So what do you want?’ Archer asked.

‘To go for a drive,’ Farrell said.