Silent Night (Sam Archer 4) (15 page)

That wasn’t unusual except this one had white letters on his black vest.

NYPD.

It was the last thing he ever saw.

The Mossberg in Archer’s shoulder had a trigger pull of around seven pounds. He squeezed as the man turned towards him and the weapon boomed in his shoulder. The buckshot smashed through both sets of windows and hit the guy full in the chest. He wasn’t wearing a vest and the shot hurled him back into the counter behind him. Watching the man slump to the ground, Archer racked the pump on the Mossberg, his ears ringing from the shot.

‘Clear!’

He turned, and looked at a couple huddled down on the floor behind him, the owners of the house. They had their hands over their ears.

‘Sorry about the window,’ he said.

Inside the house, Marquez and Jorgensen were in the lead, sweeping and clearing each room. As they moved into the kitchen, Marquez dropped down to the man Archer had shot, pulling his shotgun from his grasp and checking his pulse.

He was dead.

Jorgensen headed straight to a door ahead, kicking it open and moving forward, all the while looking through the sights of his Mossberg. It was a bedroom, dank, the bed unmade.

But there was a man inside, tied to a chair. He was sitting on the left of the room, his eyes wide with shock. He’d taken a severe beating, his face cut up and bloodied, a piece of black duct tape pulled across his mouth. Jorgensen stared at the man for a moment, recognising him immediately as Marquez joined him inside the room. Lowering their weapons, the two detectives moved forward and Jorgensen pulled the strip of tape off the man’s mouth.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Reuben,’ the man said, between deep gulps of air. ‘Reuben Kruger. I’m a doctor’.

*

Across the water in
Manhattan
, a long line had formed outside the men’s restroom in the French patisserie at Bryant Park. As she fulfilled a drinks order, a busy waitress noticed the queue and frowned. Irritated, she placed her tray down and quickly stepped past everyone, arriving outside the men’s room door. She knocked on it briskly.

‘Sir? Is everything alright?’

Nothing.

‘Sir?’

Nothing.

No sound from inside.

She tried the handle but it was locked. Turning, she caught the attention of a waiter and motioned him over.

‘He’s not answering,’ the waitress said, as the man joined her. He put his ear against the wood, listening for a moment, then grabbed the handle and tried to force it open. It wouldn’t budge. He made a decision and stepped back. He dipped his shoulder and hit the frame. The force overpowered the lock and the door flew open. As he stumbled into the restroom, they both saw a man slumped on the ground.

His body was limp, his head twisted at almost a right angle. Beside him was an empty box. His dead eyes stared across the room.

The waitress covered her mouth, but didn’t quite manage to stop a scream.

Thirty minutes later, the house off
Ditmars Boulevard
was filled with CSU investigators photographing the crime scene before the bodies and weapons were bagged and tagged.
A preliminary search inside an unzipped holdall sitting in the kitchen had revealed the third and fourth vials of the virus. That left one to go, in the possession of the third bomber who Rach was currently working hard to find. Given Dr Flood’s unexpected suicide, the murder of Dr Tibbs and the disappearance of Dr Glover, Health Services were taking the reins on trying to work up an antidote. They had another fifty nine infected dead to work with. A two-man team from their lab had arrived at the house five minutes ago, taken the virus and left as quickly as they had arrived. Everyone inside was relieved to have found the vials, but were even more so when the virus left the house.

Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Jorgensen were gathered in the bedroom in front of Dr Kruger, who was still sitting in the chair they’d found him in. His binds and gag had been removed and a medic was patching him up. The woman was attending to his face, clearing off the blood, using antiseptic to clean the wounds and then applying several butterfly stitches to the cuts on his cheekbones.

Standing near the door, Archer examined the doctor. He was in his late thirties or early forties and looked in good shape, blond hair and green eyes with overnight stubble on his neck and cheeks. He was wearing a blue shirt and some corduroy trousers with black shoes but the shirt was specked with blood from the injuries to his face. He looked solid; he wasn’t in shock. He wasn’t staring at the dead body visible through the doorway in the kitchen. And he was alive. That was the most important thing considering that two of his colleagues had already died this morning.

‘How are you feeling?’ Shepherd asked.

‘I’ll live,’ Kruger said.

Only two words, but Archer picked up a strong South African accent.

‘So what the hell happened?’ Shepherd asked.

‘You tell me. Last night someone knocks on my apartment door. I open up and a gun is stuck in my face. They take me downstairs, stuff me in a car and bring me here.’

‘What did they want?’

‘At first, I had no idea. I thought maybe it was kidnap, but I don’t come from a wealthy family and certainly don’t mix in high circles. No one would pay much for me.’

He nodded out of the room.

‘The fat boy took my key-card for the lab from my pocket, then left. He came back an hour later with five vials of Peter’s virus.’

He flinched as the doctor dabbed at a cut on his cheekbone.

‘When he got back he took off my binds and shoved a gun in my face. He'd brought some equipment from the lab and ordered me to use it to extract a small sample of the virus and place it in another vial, which was pressurised. He made me do it right here. They weren't taking any chances and were all wearing masks. I had to do it without. Then I saw them start soldering together those things.’

He nodded to the bed.

The team saw a shoebox containing a timer and rack for the vial. A carbon copy of the other bombs.

‘It didn’t take a genius to work out they were planning some sort of atrocity. Once I was done, the leader took the package with the smallest amount of the virus I transferred for him and was out for a while. He didn’t come back with it.’

‘It detonated in
Central Park
,’ Marquez said. ‘Killed a man.’

Kruger stared at her but didn’t respond. The doctor went to unbutton his shirt and check his torso for injuries but he caught her hands. ‘I’m fine, doc. It’s just my face.’ He seemed resolute and tough. Archer liked him already.

At the door behind them, Josh ducked his head into the room. ‘Sir?’ Shepherd turned. ‘I’ve got some news. The third bomber has been found. He’s out of the game.’

‘What do you mean he’s out of the game?’

‘He’s dead. He was found in a restroom of a café near Bryant Park. His neck was broken.’

‘His bomb?’

‘That’s the problem sir. The device was there. But the vial containing the virus was gone.’

Thirty five miles to the south west, a
New Jersey
farmer pulled open the door to a large barn where he always took his lunch break. Despite being in his early seventies, he’d been up since first light, something he had to do if he wanted to make the most of the season and prepare for the spring.

He’d just finished his work for the morning. He owned a large spread of land and the shed he was standing in was almost like his office. It was also excellent storage for his retirement gift, an Antonov An-2, a single engine biplane. Given that it was a Russian model, built back in 1946, the duster was a favourite of collectors and aircraft aficionados. The farmer was the latter, although he’d never flown the plane. A pilot couldn’t fly an Antonov in the
United States
without an experimental certification which the farmer was currently working on attaining. He’d spent most of his retirement fund on the duster, much to his wife’s fury, but was planning to sell it as soon as he’d taken it up in the air just the once. After he experienced that, he’d be happy. An expert had come by last month to give him an evaluation. He’d told him that the plane could be worth over $60,000 to the right collector. The farmer was elated. He’d bought it for two thirds that price.

Leaving the door to the barn open behind him, he walked towards his old armchair. It was beaten and worn, much like the farmer himself, but over time the seat had adjusted to his body shape and now was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat in. He relaxed back into the chair, his knees creaking, enjoying that moment when the pressure was taken off them. Beside him on a table was a radio, a newspaper and his lunch. His wife had made him a sandwich wrapped in foil. He clicked on the radio then snapped out the newspaper on his lap. Reaching over, he picked up his sandwich and unwrapped the foil. It was a Reuben, his favourite, corned beef, cheese, sauerkraut and Russian dressing on thick-cut bread.

Warm and comfortable, he picked it up and went to take a bite.

'That's quite a plane,' a voice suddenly said, startling him.

He looked up and saw two people standing in the doorway of the barn. It was a man and a woman. They’d appeared silently and out of nowhere. He didn’t recognise either of them and they definitely weren’t rural folk. The man had white blond hair, almost like an albino, most of it sticking straight up. The woman looked the tougher of the two, her face hard, lank dark hair that looked like it needed a good scrub and a brush. Both were in jeans and leather jackets.

Both were staring at him.

'Can I help you?'

'What kind of model is that?' the man asked, pointing at the crop duster.

'Antonov. An-2.'

‘How much is it?'

‘It’s not for sale.’

‘You don’t know how much I’m willing to offer.’

The farmer didn’t reply.

‘Who are you?’ he asked instead.

'You got any pesticide?' the blond man asked, ignoring the question.

The farmer's eyes narrowed. 'Now what would you want with that?'

'How much you got?'

'Enough.'

‘Well show us what you have and I’ll tell you how much I’m willing to pay.'

The farmer hid his excitement. He had much more than he needed and could make a tidy profit here which would please his wife. He pretended to think for a moment, pondering the offer. Then he pushed himself out of the chair and walked over towards them.

Up close, he got a closer look at the pair. The white-blond haired guy had a thick scar over his eyebrow which told a story that the farmer didn’t want to know. The woman had a face that looked weathered and hard.
Not city folk
. They lacked that softness.

And there was something about them that was unnerving.

'You don't look like farmers.'

'We're from out of town,' the woman said, her eyes fixed on him.

'The plane’s not for sale. But I can sell you some pesticide. For the right price.'

'Let’s see it first.'

The farmer looked at them for a moment, then beckoned the pair to follow, leading them out of the barn and to another shed next door. He undid the lock, taking the wooden bar off the front and placing it to one side, then pulled open the doors.

He had six thick canisters of the pesticide stored inside. Each barrel was about the size of a beer keg, a yellow toxic sign on the side of each one.

'There you are,' he said, turning. ‘Now let’s talk about the price.’

The blond man grinned.

‘OK. How about we take it all off your hands for free?’

The farmer looked at him, to see if he was joking.

He wasn’t.

‘Are you crazy?’

He suddenly realised the woman had her hand behind her back.

She whipped it round and the farmer found himself looking down the end of a silenced pistol.

She pulled the trigger. The back of the farmer's head blew apart, spraying blood and brains into the air in a mist and he collapsed to the ground with a thud, sinking slightly into the mud. Drexler gave him two more rounds for good measure as Wicks stepped past the body and grabbed a wheeled dolly placed beside the canisters.

Stepping past the dead man, Drexler walked up to the first tank of pesticide. She tipped it onto its side and Wicks slid the dolly underneath, loading it up.

In the bedroom at the house off Ditmars, silence had followed Josh’s revelation that despite finding the third bomber the last vial was still missing. A race that had been looking set to close was now wide open again.

Shepherd had sent him out to call Rach with fresh orders, to find out who went into that café with the dead bomber and broke his neck. Inside the bedroom the medic applied a final butterfly stitch to the cut on Dr Kruger’s right cheekbone, then clicked her case shut.