Green Light (Sam Archer 7) (33 page)

‘
No, sweetheart. You’re not a curse. Just the opposite. And
whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out. OK?’

She
nodded. ‘OK.’

‘
And remember; your mother and Vargas will both be looking out
for you too. And if you ever have a bad dream, they’ll be there to
protect you.’

‘
They don’t need to. Someone else already does
that.’

‘
Who?’

‘
You.’

Caught
off guard, Archer smiled. The girl suddenly sat up, hugging him
again. Archer held onto her for a moment then settled her back down
and rose, leaving her tucked under the blanket in the
office.

‘
I’ll be back soon,’ he told her. ‘I promise.’

She
settled back into the couch, staring up at him. ‘OK. I’ll be
waiting.’

Taking a
last look at her, Archer turned and walked to the door, twisting
the blinds shut so the room was dark.

Then he
opened the door and quietly shut it behind him.

FORTY

Inside
the rear office of the nightclub in Little Odessa, Vladimir Bashev
locked the door then moved over to the wall behind his desk and
lifted down a piece of artwork, revealing a safe. Checking a series
of CCTV monitors mounted on the wall to his left, his last three
men somewhere out there but invisible amongst the mass of
revellers, he quickly turned back to the safe and entered the six
digit code.

He was
getting the hell out of here. As he’d waited to hear from Marat,
Valentin and the others that they were on their way to Long Island,
one of his men had been checking the news and seen the report of a
failed attack at a police sergeant’s house in the city, three men
shot dead and another critically injured.

Four
more losses, half their remaining force put out of the game in less
than an hour, but at least on this occasion he knew what had
happened to his men. They’d been set up; the tip-off had been
phony, and he and his men had been suckered. Going after a member
of the NYPD and their family was just about the dumbest move
someone in his position could make.

Cursing, he opened the safe, revealing a wad of dollar bills
and a handgun. He’d been in the city for less than twelve months,
inducted at the end of last year after the previous head had been
killed by a sniper. The
Prizraki’
s operation in Pittsburgh
had been drying up due to a renewed FBI presence in the city, and
Bashev’s promotion had signalled the end of that group, the rest of
the faction being reassigned elsewhere on the East Coast,
the
ghosts
staying
true to their name and avoiding Federal attention.

However, Bashev was the only one who’d become a
vor
, recommended because
of the success of his operation in the Steel City; getting his
stars was a huge honour, an opportunity many men in the
organisation chased their entire lives but never achieved. Working
for the New York arm of the
Prizraki
was the ultimate
achievement; it was the top faction on the East Coast, outranking
Boston, Philadelphia and Bashev’s old haunt, Pittsburgh. When he’d
been inducted, he’d joined the most feared gang in New York State,
whose legacy went back almost eighty years.

But now,
from the original seventeen, including himself there were just four
of them left.

The
first to go down had been three enforcers, all vanishing without a
trace in February. The Little Odessa Russians had many rivals, but
the leadership at the time figured the Georgians must have been
responsible. Four men had been sent to exact retribution. That was
how it worked; you get hit, you hit back harder. That was the only
way to stay in business.

But then
more guys started to disappear. Now, eight months after this shit
started, the organisation had been whittled down to virtually
nothing. Bashev had never encountered anything like this; he was
the one who made people disappear, not the other way around. He
also knew that word was out on the street about what was happening
and he was becoming a laughing stock; the Mafia leader who kept
losing his men. Right now, he was so vulnerable he felt naked; it
was just a matter of time before one of two things happened. The
shot-callers in Moscow ordered his execution or someone made a move
on this portion of Little Odessa and he didn’t want to be around
when either went down.

Tonight
signalled the end. Although Marat and the other men had no
traceable ID, soon enough the police would track down where they’d
come from. With the threat of other gangs circling, like vultures
over a wounded animal, it was time to get the hell out, cut his
losses and quit before he was the next one to disappear. He was
well aware that running like this would be looked upon as
humiliating failure, especially for a man with stars on his
shoulders, but Bashev was ready to accept that loss of face if it
meant he kept a pulse. He wasn’t afraid of anyone on the street,
but he was dealing with something out of the ordinary here. He
couldn’t fight an enemy he couldn’t see.

Continuing to push the last of the bills from the safe into
his large briefcase, he glanced at the CCTV screens and suddenly
stopped what he was doing.

A series of black 4x4s were pulling up outside the front of
the club. The doors opened and a group of immediately recognisable
figures wearing black Kevlar vests and armed with shotguns stepped
out,
NYPD
clearly
printed on the front of each vest, the white letters slightly fuzzy
on the screen but still unmistakeable.

Lowering
the case, he pulled the top-slide on the handgun, loading a
round.

Time to
go.

Outside
the club, Shepherd walked forward, meeting up with Detective
Massaro, who had his team in tow. Without pausing, the two men,
followed by Hendricks, Marquez and Massaro’s squad strode across
the street, all carrying loaded Mossberg shotguns.

With
what had happened to Vargas on his mind, Shepherd’s mood was
unusually dark as he approached the front of the club. The
combination of the attacks on the families, Royston’s treatment of
Archer and Alice’s death were all roiling around inside him,
filling him with an anger that he normally kept well under control.
As a leader, losing someone under his command was something he’d
experienced once and vowed he’d do his utmost to prevent happening
again.

Two
bouncers were on the door, large men dressed in black with ear
pieces tucked into their right ears, their eyes narrowing as they
saw the armed detectives approaching. As one of them called it in,
the other stepped forward, his eyes cold.

‘
You need a warrant, policeman,’ he said, blocking Shepherd’s
path, jabbing a finger in the Sergeant’s face to emphasise his
point.

Walking
into the man’s forefinger, which technically counted as assault,
Shepherd’s arms moved up in a flash, the butt of the Mossberg
hitting the side of the bouncer’s head with considerable
force.

The blow
caught him right behind the ear and as big as the man was, his
equilibrium went for a wander, his legs turning to cooked
spaghetti. As he staggered, two of Hendricks’ men quickly stepped
forward, restraining and cuffing the guy before he could make any
attempt to retaliate.

The
other bouncer stepped forward but Marquez racked a round in her
shotgun and put the Mossberg’s barrel an inch from the man’s face.
He stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the look on her face;
wisely, he stayed put as the remaining three members of Hendricks’
team handcuffed him, both bouncers now under control.

Shepherd
swept the red rope barrier strung across the entrance out of the
way; then he, Hendricks, Massaro and their teams walked into the
dark, hot nightclub, Marquez following closely behind, the pounding
music and heat hitting the detectives as they entered the
room.

Although
they were each wearing an earpiece connected to the doormen,
Bashev’s last three guys hadn’t heard the warnings from outside.
The music was too loud, the men frowning and pushing a finger into
their other ear as they’d tried to hear what was being
said.

They
were spread out around the club, two downstairs, one upstairs, all
three of them tense and on edge. Each was wearing a loose jacket to
conceal the sub-machine gun they had on straps hanging from their
shoulders.

As they
scanned the people in the club, they became aware of a commotion by
the entrance, just as some strobes hit.

Illuminated in the flashes, the man positioned upstairs saw
armed NYPD detectives suddenly walking into the club, each carrying
a shotgun, most of the people on the dance-floor completely unaware
of their sudden arrival.

‘
Police just arrived, sir,’
one of the
men said in Russian over the radio.
‘What
do we do?’

Pushing his finger into his ear, the man on the
1
^st
floor waited.

‘
Boss?’

There
was no response.

Staring
down at the two male and one female cops, others moving in behind
them, he pulled out his MP5K and hit the cocking handle forward,
racking a round.

They
didn’t look as if they were here to talk.

And
neither was he.

The club
was full of people, slowing the three detectives’ progress as they
walked forward and looked for their quarry.

Moving
behind Shepherd and Hendricks, Marquez approached the dance-floor,
some revellers on the squares seeing her and doing a double-take,
the surprised expressions on their faces jumping in the flash of
each strobe.

She
checked the floor and then lifted her gaze to the floor
above.

And saw
a man aiming a sub-machine gun directly at her.

From
inside his office, Vladimir suddenly heard gunshots followed a few
seconds later by screaming, all coming from the other side of the
door.

Quickly
snapping his case shut, he pulled on his jacket, snatched up his
loaded pistol then turned and opened the door to the cellar, a gun
in one hand and millions of dollars in the briefcase held firmly in
the other.

Sprinting up to the 1
^st
floor, Marquez fought her way
through the panicking clubbers towards the man she’d seen aiming
the sub-machine gun at her from below. He’d fired but for some
reason his aim was off, shooting high as he pulled the trigger, his
rounds hitting one of the lights above her head.

When she
finally reached him she saw he’d been shot in the throat, clutching
the wound with both hands as he suffocated, his eyes as wide as
drink coasters as he writhed on the floor, choking on his own
blood.

As the
man died, she suddenly heard more screams from across the club,
more audible now as the music had just cut out.

Turning,
she ran to the edge of the balcony and saw Hendricks scanning the
crowd as Shepherd knelt by another man. He’d been shot in the head.
There hadn’t been any sound of gunshots though, only from the guy
behind her who’d fired just before he’d been killed.

Looking
around, Marquez desperately searched for whoever was
responsible.

Then she
heard more screams from panicking clubbers directly under her on
the ground floor and sprinted for the stairs.

With the
noise muffled by the brick, Bashev ran through the dark passageway
away from the club, then up another flight of stairs.

Reaching
the exit, he put the case down and eased open a metal delivery
hatch, glancing around him. He saw people running away from the
club at the other end of the street but none of them were paying
any attention to this side street, no cops anywhere in sight, no
movement other than clouds of steam rising from some construction
portholes to his right.

Stepping
out and closing the door behind him, he walked rapidly towards his
car, pushing the key fob as he approached. Several cars were parked
along the street, construction vehicles, an old work truck and a
white van.

Opening
the vehicle, he threw the case inside, checking around him again
before getting ready to climb in behind the wheel.

Suddenly
he sensed a whisper of movement behind him and snapped
around.

A beat
too late.

FORTY ONE

Eight
miles north in Queens, Archer was alone in the sitting room of his
apartment, April cleaning herself up in the bathroom before they
left for the safe-house in Manhattan. He’d just put fresh dressings
over the cuts on his arm and chest then changed his clothes,
pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a navy blue sweater after
taking off the NYPD vest he’d worn since he and Hendricks had
breached Santiago’s apartment five hours ago.

With the
vest resting on the couch beside him, Archer glanced at the empty
space around him, the sound of the shower filling the quiet.
Everywhere he looked, he saw different memories of Vargas and they
wracked him with the worst guilt he’d ever felt. After all they’d
been through, he’d not been there to protect her when she’d needed
him most. She’d been vulnerable and alone in that hospital room.
She’d survived the gunshot and the trip in the ambulance when her
heart had stopped twice, but they’d somehow got to her.