Nine Lives (28 page)
‘Bullshit,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘You’re full of shit.’
‘Oh, and two more things. Your daughter failed at the stadium. A DEA agent shot and killed her before she could blow the nerve gas. Everyone there is safe, and she’s dead. And Dominick failed too. You sent him to kill my boss, didn’t you? That was part of the deal, him getting off and all, right? Your daughter told you all about Special Agent Crawford, and the strength of his case, so you sent Dominick to kill him and erase the problem. He was close. Real close. He had a knife to Agent Crawford’s neck, apparently. But a British cop shot him in the head.’
Silence.
‘Take me back then, asshole. You need me for trial,’ Henry said
At that moment, a blond man appeared from inside the hull, dressed in a suit with a blue shirt and red tie. A band aid had been stuck to his neck.
‘Let me introduce Special Agent Crawford,’ Cruz said. ‘He’s the head of our team, the six men that have taken your whole business down. The man you sent Dominick to kill. I was going to take care of all this myself, but he insisted on joining me.’
‘I don’t give a shit. Take me back to land. You work for the government. You have to follow rules.’
Cruz smiled. Crawford didn’t.
‘Well that’s the thing,’ Cruz said. ‘We have everything we need; we’re seizing everything you’ve ever owned and arresting every guy who ever worked for you.’
Cruz sipped his drink.
‘But we don’t need you. It’s down as a real tragedy in the report. We confronted you on your yacht, out at sea. We planned to take you in out here, away from the public. But you decided to try and shoot your way out, so we were forced to fire back. Unfortunately, one of the bullets knocked you into the sea so we couldn’t recover your body. Shit, it’s a hell of a long way down. We’d never find you if we searched all year.’
Henry blinked, and stayed still for a moment. Cold fear seeped into his belly.
Then he frantically started scrabbling at the cuffs by his ankles, trying to reach over his fat gut.
‘It’s useless. You’re a big boy, so I used three sets.’ Cruz pulled three things from his pocket. Henry saw they were steel keys. As he sipped his drink, he threw them overboard, one at a time.
He then drained the cocktail and placed the empty glass to one side, checking his watch.
‘Right. I think it’s time for you to go.’
Henry started bucking and thrashing, screaming, as Cruz approached him, trying to break the handcuffs from the cinderblock. It was no use. His feet jangled as his chubby ankles pulled the cuffs tight against the concrete, the metal solid. He then started trying to grab something, but it was useless.
He’d been placed in the middle of the space at the back of the yacht, nothing to grip but slippery white deck.
Cruz approached and stood near him, staring down.
‘My friend Faber is down there. You drowned him two days ago. Diving teams haven’t been able to find his body yet. Try to hold your breath. You owe him an apology.’
Behind Cruz, Henry saw Crawford walk forward, his face expressionless. The two of them moved past the drug lord, towards the edge of the water. Cruz looked down at him.
‘Tell Faber we said
hi
.’
The two men each gripped the rail, to prevent Henry from pulling them down. They bent down.
And pushed the cinderblock into the sea.
The concrete hit the water with a splash and pulled the fat man down like whipcord. He slid off the deck, scrabbling for something to hold, but the polished deck didn’t provide any grip.
He screamed like a stuck pig as it pulled him into the water, vanishing under the surface.
And all of a sudden, it was silent.
Peaceful and calm.
The only sound was the lapping of the water against the side of the yacht.
Cruz stood still for a moment, looking down at the clear blue water and the beige round shape becoming smaller and smaller as it disappeared into the depths.
It’s over.
He’s gone.
Thoughts and memories flashed into his mind, like someone flicking through a series of photographs. When the DEA had needed an agent to go undercover, the other four guys hadn’t even considered it for a moment. So Cruz had swallowed his fear and stepped up. He knew they needed him. He’d been in for over a year. He’d been forced to do some terrible things, things that would stay with him the rest of his life.
But to protect the flock, you need to catch the wolf.
And the wolf was finally gone.
Cruz turned back to Crawford who was standing, watching him. He nodded and smiled at his agent, the man who’d been known as Faris for the last thirteen months.
‘You OK?’
Cruz didn’t respond. He just smiled.
‘Ready to have your life back?’
Cruz nodded. ‘I can’t wait, sir.’
‘Let’s get back to the bay,’ Crawford said. ‘We’ll be on the next flight to DC, First Class. I called ahead. Your wife and son will meet you at Dulles.’
Cruz felt a lump in his throat, and readjusted his sunglasses. Crawford smiled and moved back into the hull of the yacht. Twisting the key, he fired the engine.
He took the wheel in his hands gently, as the motor pushed the sleek vessel forward.
And the sun shimmered across the calm, still water as they headed back to the harbour.
THE END
###
Born in Sydney, Australia and raised in England and Brunei, Tom Barber has always had a passion for writing and story-telling. It took him to Nottingham University, England, where he graduated in 2009 with a 2:1 BA Hons in English Studies. Post-graduation, Tom moved to New York City and completed the 2 Year Meisner Acting training programme at The William Esper Studio, furthering his love of acting and screen-writing.
Upon his return to the UK in late 2011, Tom set to work on his debut novel,
Nine Lives
, which has since become a five-star rated Amazon UK Kindle hit. The following books in the series,
The Getaway, Blackout,
Silent Night
,
One Way
,
Return Fire
and
Green Light
have been equally successful, garnering five-star reviews in the US, UK, France, Australia and Canada.
Nine Lives
is the first novel in the Sam Archer series.
Follow
@TomBarberBooks
.
The Getaway
By
Tom Barber
The second Sam Archer thriller.
Now available on Amazon Kindle.
*****
They were in and out of the bank in three minutes.
It was late summer, a beautiful August morning in New York City, and the heat and humidity were at just the right level, pleasantly warm yet not stifling or uncomfortable. Above Manhattan, the sun beat down from the cloudless sky on the sea of tall buildings and skyscrapers scattered all over the island below. It had been a scorcher of a summer, the daily temperature consistently in the high 80s, but today was slightly cooler and brought much welcome relief for the eight million people living in the city area.
It was just past 9 am, Monday. As a consequence the streets were flooded with people making their way to work, sipping coffees, talking into phones or just striding on, head down, ready to get to the office and get started. The sidewalks and subway were crowded, but the slight drop on the thermostat meant that tempers were under control, making the journey into work a little more pleasant than it had been earlier in the summer.
One particular business opening its doors for service that Monday morning was a Chase Manhattan Bank. It was located on 2
nd
Avenue between 62
nd
and 63
rd
Streets, towards the southern tip of the Upper East Side, a neighbourhood running up the right side of Central Park that was renowned all over the world for its affluence and wealth. Chase had thirty banks in various locations all over Manhattan and this was one of the best placed of them all.
Across the United States, Chase as a financial institution enjoyed a staggering amount of daily custom and had amounts of cash in their reserves that could cure a third-world country’s deficit. With a company ATM inside the hundreds of Duane Reade drug stores in the city and immaculately clean and professional branch headquarters set up in locations such as this, it came as no surprise that Chase was one of the founding pillars of
The
Big Four
, the four banks that held 39 % of every customer deposit across the United States. As a business, Chase had earned all those dollars and custom with the convenience of their branch locations and their excellent quality of service. They were renowned as one of the most reliable and dependable banks out there and it was a reputation they had worked hard to earn.
On that summer day it was also the last Monday of the month, August, and that meant something else to this particular bank.
Delivery day.
To keep the branch fully supplied with dollar currency, two men and a thick white armoured truck arrived at 9 am sharp every second Monday, never early, never late. One of the two men would step outside, unload a considerable amount of money from a hatch on the side of the vehicle and then take it into the bank, headed straight to the vault. It was an awkward yet vital part of running a financial institution: no bank can operate without money inside. Most modern banks around the world were built like military bunkers, the kind of places to give bank robbers nightmares. But for those twenty minutes or so each month whenever cash was delivered the bank was momentarily vulnerable, their collective managers secretly on edge despite their pretending to the contrary.
On the other side of the deal, anyone who decided to take a job inside the armoured truck was made well aware of the risks that came with that line of work before they signed on the dotted line. With the second highest mortality rate amongst all security roles in the United States, anyone inside one of these vehicles knew three undeniable facts.
One.
There were people out there who had a great interest in killing you.
Two.
There were people out there who had a great interest in protecting you.
And three.
At some point every fortnight, someone inside the vehicle had to step outside holding the cash.
That morning, the clock had just ticked to 9:03 am. The reinforced white armoured truck had pulled up outside the Upper East Side Chase bank three minutes ago, right on time. The two guys inside were both middle-aged, efficient yet relaxed, accustomed to this routine. They were retired cops, like most guys in this profession, but figured the rate of pay and healthcare plan that came with the job was worth any potential risk. They’d been working together for over two years and had set up a rota where they would take it in turns to deliver the cash, sharing the risk, giving one of them a week off while his partner took responsibility for the dollars in the bags.
That morning, the man in the front passenger seat unlocked his door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind him and hitching his belt as he moved to the side cabin on the truck. Back inside, his partner grabbed a copy of the
New York Post
and leaned back, going straight to the Sports headlines on the rear pages. He was relaxed, and rightfully so. He was sheltered behind twenty seven tons of reinforced steel and bullet-proof glass, enough to stop a firing squad of machine guns on full automatic or even an RPG. He and his partner also had a fully-loaded Glock 17 pistol on each hip, seventeen rounds in the magazine and two more clipped to their belts as extra insurance, a hundred and two extra reasons to feel confident about their safety. Chase and the armoured truck business took great care of the men inside these vehicles. They were carrying their profits and investments. If the two men got jacked, they weren’t the only ones who would suffer.
Outside the truck, the guard unloaded the supply from a cabin in the side of the vehicle, glancing left and right down the sunny sidewalk. Once he had the bags containing the money on a cart, he shut the cabin door and headed towards the entrance of the bank. As he approached the doors he started to relax.
Another week down
. Taking another quick look each way down the street, he shook off his unease as he grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. He’d been doing this exact routine for two years with no problems. And besides, this was the Upper East Side, not the ghetto. Movie stars and politicians lived up here, not gang members.
No-one in their right mind would ever try to rob this place
, the man figured as he strode inside and headed towards the manager by the vault.
He was wrong.
Across the street to the north, three men and a woman watched in silence as the guard entered the bank. They were sitting in a yellow NYC taxi cab pulled up on the street corner between 63
rd
and 64
th
, twenty five yards behind the armoured truck. Vehicles passed them on the left as they headed downtown but the cab stayed tight to the kerb, the engine running, the light on the roof switched off to dissuade anyone from trying to hail it.
No-one paid any attention to the vehicle; it was just another normal part of everyday New York life, as common as pizza slices and Knicks jerseys.
Which made it the perfect getaway car.
Inside the vehicle, all four passengers were dressed in pristine white paramedic uniforms, lifted straight from a hospital supply depot in Queens a day earlier. Before taking the clothing out of its plastic wrapping, each of them had pulled three sets of latex gloves over their hands, serving as triple insurance against any tears and guarding against fingerprints or DNA that could be left on any of the equipment or clothing they used. Over the medic uniforms, three of them were also wearing white doctors’ overcoats, the kind a GP or a chemist would wear in a lab, also fresh from the packets. The driver wasn’t wearing one; he was staying in the car and wouldn’t need it.
The outfits were crisp and clean, covering every possible source of trace evidence, not a speck or stain on any part or any piece of the white fabric. If anyone studied them, the outfits would seem absurd; the three passengers were wearing a medic and a doctor’s uniform combined, something that never happened at the hospital or in the O.R. But to a casual observer, the clothing wouldn’t cast suspicion. There were much stranger and wackier outfits being worn across the city at that very moment, outfits far more peculiar than these.
Beside the driver, the guy in the front passenger seat checked his watch.
9:04 am.
He glanced up at the front door of the Chase branch.
No sign of the guard returning yet.
Inside the bank, the time lock on the vault would be off for another six minutes.
The world-wide back and forth battle between banks and thieves throughout history had seen modern vaults become close to impenetrable from the outside. The latest designs were cased with thick, steel-reinforced concrete, rendering the vaults themselves stronger than most nuclear bomb shelters. There was a famous story from the past of how four Japanese bank vaults in Hiroshima had survived the Atomic bomb of 1945. When survivors and rescue aid had eventually worked their way through the ruins of the city, they’d discovered the steel vaults fully intact. And when they got each one open, they also found that all the money inside was unharmed while everything else around each vault had been completely levelled by the devastating nuclear blast and subsequent fallout. The designs in those Teikoku banks that day were now over sixty years old. Bank vaults were amazingly resilient back then, able to withstand nuclear weapons, but now they were as close to impenetrable as was humanly possible to design.
The model in this particular Chase bank could definitely survive the same kind of destruction and punishment. It was a rock-solid piece. Two layers, an outer steel and concrete shell controlled by a spinlock code leading into a second vault, which was opened by simple lock-and-key and only by the bank manager himself. Once closed, it was pretty much impossible to open. Explosives would be useless. Anyone who tried to use them to open it would bring the building down before they made a scratch on the surface. And even if the correct combination was entered on the outer spinlock dial, the vault still wouldn’t open outside this fortnightly ten-minute window.
But despite those factors and the seemingly insurmountable odds, the four thieves inside the taxi were cool, calm and confident.
Because they knew one unalterable fact.
No matter how strong any bank vault was, at some point it had to be opened.
The man in the front seat checked his watch again. 9:05 am. He looked over at the bank, lit up in the morning sunlight. Still no sign of the tubby guard. He hadn’t come back out yet.
Any major drop-off, deposit or withdrawal from the vault itself had to happen every fourteen days in those two ten-minute periods. The manager had to plan all those things far in advance and operate fast from the moment the big hand on the clock ticked to 9am, working through a spread-sheet of planned transactions and satisfying every business and customer on the sheet. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were delivered from the truck, topping up the branch’s supply from the banking organisation itself, and equal amounts were often withdrawn. But outside that ten minute window every fortnight, the electronic lock would stay shut and the vault wouldn’t open, even if the correct code was entered.
An extra security measure was also to have an alarm code. If under duress or with a gun to their head, a manager or teller could pretend to enter the code to the vault and instead enter a six-digit code that triggered a silent alarm. The thieves would be standing there, waiting for the steel vault to open and suddenly find an entire police ESU team bursting in through the front doors behind them. Banks and their security divisions were constantly having to come up with new ways to foil any attempted bank robbery, methods and tricks the thieves didn’t yet know about; the silent alarm dial code was one of the latest and favourite measures at their disposal.
The man checked his watch again.
9:06 am.
Four minutes to go.
He didn’t panic. He’d observed the last four drop-offs. The guards in the truck, despite both being out of shape and relatively slow, always worked to a clock and the fat guy inside would be out in the next minute, giving them three left to work with.
One hundred and eighty seconds.
Plenty of time.
And just then, right on cue, the front door of the bank swung open. The guard reappeared, walking to the truck, and tapped the passenger door three times with his fist, waiting for his partner inside to put down his newspaper and unlock it.
‘Mark,’ said the man inside the taxi.
He watched the guard pull open the door and step inside the truck. At the same time, all four of the thieves in the taxi looked down and clicked a black digital Casio stopwatch wrapped around their wrists. The clock was ticking.
They had three minutes and counting.
The next instant, the guy behind the wheel took off the handbrake. Above them, the light flicked to green, perfect timing, and the driver moved the taxi forward, parking outside the bank like he was dropping off a customer. As the armoured truck drove off ahead of them and turned the corner, disappearing out of sight, the guy in the front passenger seat of the taxi grabbed the receiver to the vehicle radio off its handle. It had been retuned from the taxi dispatch depot to the NYPD frequency. He gripped it in his gloved hand and pushed down the buttons either side.
‘Officer down, I repeat, Officer down!’
he yelled into the handle. ‘
I’m on East 95
th
and 1
st
! I need back-up, goddammit!
’
