Tom Barber - One Way

He stepped forward and glanced out of the kitchen window, looking down at the street again. The gunfight between the cops and the gunmen who’d ambushed Foster and his team had lessened in severity slightly, but it was still going on, occasional shots fired, everyone still taking cover. It was a sea of blue and red flashing lights down there, officers behind vehicles with handguns and Mossbergs aimed at the entrance of the building, none of them risking coming anywhere closer.

‘A stand-off,’ he said.

‘Don’t think they’ll be getting in any time soon,’ Archer said. ‘One of the gunmen had an assault rifle.’

Foster nodded. ‘AK. Cop killer. I saw it.’

He stepped back from the window.

‘Sons of bitches. I knew they’d try. I could sense it.’

‘How the hell did they know where we were?’ Vargas said.

Foster didn’t reply. The door to the sitting room opened and the homeowner appeared, looking grim, wiping off her hands on a small flannel. She had crows-feet around her eyes and a worn expression on her face, her hair half-tied back with some loose strands hanging down either side. She looked a bit unsteady, but not from fear. Archer had spotted an open, half-full bottle of Southern Comfort and a glass on the kitchen counter when he’d walked out here. She’d have been settling down for the evening, not expecting visitors. Especially not ones with gunshot wounds to the stomach and carrying pistols. She closed the door behind her.

‘How’s he doing?’ Foster asked her.

‘Not good,’ she said. ‘Not good at all. The bullet hit him in the gut. He needs help immediately.’

‘Back up is on the way. He just needs to hang on for an hour.’

She shook her head. ‘He might not have an hour.’

‘He’s tough. He’ll make it.’

Pause.

‘I’m Helen,’ the woman said, sighing and running her hand through her hair worriedly.

‘Foster. Thank you for your help.’

‘You mind telling me what this is about?’

Foster hesitated. She saw the look on his face. ‘You just dragged a seriously wounded man into my apartment, who is currently bleeding out all over my couch. There’s a gunfight going on downstairs and police surrounding the building. You’ve barricaded the door with my refrigerator and you’re all carrying guns. I don’t think an explanation is too much to ask. Do you?’

Foster looked at her, then nodded.

‘We’re Federal Marshals. Carson, Barlow and Vargas are my people.’

‘You already said that.’

‘Where were you headed?’ Archer asked.

Foster turned to him. ‘What?’

‘You were getting into a car. Where were you going?’

‘Spokane.’

‘Safe house?’

Foster nodded slowly. Observing him, Archer noticed his reticence, reluctant to give anything away, even his own name. He looked tough as teak; drawing information from him was like getting blood from a stone. He had an aura of strength. Archer liked him already.

Helen went to ask something else but suddenly a shrill sound filled the building, a wailing siren. The fire alarm. The unexpected noise made them all jump. Foster pulled his.44 as Vargas drew her Glock and drew Jennifer behind her, all of them staring in the direction of the refrigerator and instantly back on edge.

The alarm quickly got people opening their doors all over the building. Braeten had found the switch downstairs on the wall beside an emergency panel and pulled it. He and two of the others had split up and were now working their way through the block, searching the corridors and everyone they passed on the stairs for the Marshals.

They were sticking to the lower floors; the group wouldn’t have had time to go anywhere higher. He’d guess they were somewhere between 1 and 6. If they emptied at least the lower portion of the tenement block, it would be far easier to hunt them down once everyone was gone.

Downstairs, the front door was being held open, the lock broken from when they’d smashed their way inside. The man with the AK was guarding it, forcing the residents out as soon as they appeared from the stairwells, responding to the alarm. Across the street, the NYPD had held their fire, unwilling to take the risk of hitting any of the people who were now streaming out of the building, urged on by the man holding the assault rifle.

‘Everybody out!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go! Right now!’

People continued to flood into the lobby, many of them half-dressed. They all jerked to a stop when they saw the smashed glass and the man with the Kalashnikov, people piling up behind them, but he kept the weapon on them and pulled the cocking handle for effect, a shell jumping out of the ejection port.

‘Get the hell out!’

As the alarm continued to ring, Foster kept his Magnum trained on the refrigerator, looking down the sights of the large handgun, waiting for one of the assholes to try and break in. He’d already taken out one of their group, the kid who’d shot Carson, putting one of the.44 bullets in the middle of his chest when they’d been jumped in the street. His friends could join him.

‘Did they start a fire?’ Helen asked, loudly enough so the others could hear.

Archer shook his head, reading the situation and feeling uneasy.

They’re clearing the building , he thought.

And they’re not giving up.

Shortly afterwards, two things happened. The alarm finally died and Foster’s phone rang. In the new quiet, the alarm still ringing in their ears, he took the call, keeping his Magnum in his hand and one eye on the door. In the meantime, Helen disappeared back into the sitting room to tend to Carson and Barlow joined the others in the kitchen, watching the action in the street below through the kitchen window with Archer and Vargas.

From their position on the south-east corner, they could see scores of residents pouring out of the block, NYPD officers hustling them to safety, the gunfight momentarily paused. As Foster talked on the phone, he moved towards them to take a look himself and give an update. Archer stepped away to make room and turned to Vargas

‘Are you guys New York based?’ he asked quietly.

She nodded.

‘What’s Marshal procedure for a situation like this?’

‘Task force,’ she said. ‘Ten, fifteen or twenty man team. Bulletproof vests and assault weapons. They’ll take over from your people on the street when they get here. They’ll access building blueprints, assess the situation, then breach and enter. Take down the enemy and secure our team.’

‘And get Jack to a doctor,’ Barlow said, over his shoulder.

‘It’s still a stand-off down there, sir,’ Foster said on the call, examining the scene and standing beside Barlow. ‘The NYPD are outside. The men who attacked us are holding the door.’

Pause.

‘I don’t know. They set off the fire alarm; it’s doing its job. Most of the residents seem to be outside with the police. I guess they’re trying to clear the building to make it easier to find us.’

Pause.

‘Heavily,’ he said. ‘One of them has a Kalashnikov.’

He listened.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll check it.’

Pause.

‘It’s not a problem. They won’t get the drop on me again.’

During the call, Helen had reappeared in the doorway. They could all hear Carson’s groans and gasps of pain in the room behind her. Foster ended the call and turned to her, tucking the phone back into his pocket.

‘Tell me about this place,’ he asked her. ‘How many floors are there?’

‘Twenty two.’

‘I saw an elevator.’

‘Doesn’t work. Been busted for weeks.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’