Tom Barber - One Way

‘Who the hell are they?’ Vargas hissed.

‘I don’t know. We need to get out of here right now!’

Each gunman had two spare clips in the vest on his uniform which they stuffed into their pockets. Then Archer crawled over to the kitchen windows, reaching up to pull the curtains shut as Vargas stayed low and went back into the sitting room, the M4A1 in her right hand. Barlow had already drawn the curtains in there.

Suddenly, there were two more smashes of glass as two more holes appeared in the fabric, everyone jumping.

The sniper was trying his luck.

As they all stayed down, Vargas reached for Jennifer with her free hand and headed back for the front door as Helen and Barlow followed right behind her, dragging Carson between them.

‘Let’s move!’

Eighty yards away, Joker cursed, searching with the crosshairs. He’d seen Patterson go down, taking two to the chest. He’d had a clear shot at the woman, but the bitch had moved at the last second and he’d hit Markowski instead. Now they’d drawn the curtains and he couldn’t see shit.

He pushed his pressel.

‘All of you, 5th floor, south side. Get over there! Two men down!’

Archer was the first out of the apartment, Carson’s USP in the back of his jeans, the M4A1 in his shoulder, a fresh mag slapped into the base. He was covered in dust, dried blood and specks of tile from the bathroom walls, but at least he knew the weapon fired.

He moved to the left into the stairwell and cleared it, up and down. Behind him, Carson was being carried by Barlow and Helen, Vargas holding Jennifer’s hand, her USP in her other and the other stolen M4A1 slung across her shoulders. Up above, Archer heard running footsteps from much higher up, heading down fast.

Back up was coming.

‘Let’s go!’ he whispered.

They needed to get as far from 5 as they could without meeting the guys on their way down. They made it up another three floors, arriving on 8, the footsteps from above getting closer and closer, only five or six flights away and counting. Archer desperately checked the 8th floor corridor as the others caught up. He was thinking about the sharpshooter who’d killed Foster. He was on the south side and therefore wouldn’t be able to see them from the north, west or east. They needed to get into a room down the hall away from his line of sight. He went to move forward but then heard shouting and noise echoing from the other stairwell.

Meanwhile, the running feet in this stairwell were almost upon them.

In moments, they were going to be trapped from both sides.

They had seconds.

Archer saw the door to the apartment to the left of the stairwell was open, on the south-west corner. It was the opposite apartment to Helen’s, the other side of the stairwell, facing the Hudson but also downtown and the sniper. They had no choice. He raced forward, pushing open 8A, and checked inside, sweeping left and right. The layout of this apartment was the same as Helen’s, but it was empty and by the grace of God the curtains were already drawn across the windows. The group piled in behind him and he quickly shut the door as soon as they were all inside.

As he and Vargas dragged the refrigerator across as a makeshift barricade, Barlow and Helen carried Carson into the next room and placed him the couch. Breathing hard and backing up from the door, Vargas unslung her M4A1 and aimed it at the wood, Archer already doing the same.

Both of them heard shouting and footsteps sprinting down the stairwell, passing where they’d been seconds ago.

They made it.

Just.

Helen and Jennifer stayed where they were inside the sitting room, scared, disorientated and tense. Helen had her arm around the child protectively, holding her close, both of them staying away from the curtain-covered window. Across the room, Carson was on the couch, totally out of it.

Barlow and Vargas were in the kitchen, standing near the bathroom door, keeping their weapons aimed at the refrigerator covering the entrance. On the opposite side, Archer was crouching in the doorway of the sitting room, his new M4A1 locked in his shoulder, waiting for someone to try and force their way in.

He heard the sound of voices and running feet echoing from the stairwell but no-one seemed to be on this corridor.

Realising he had some blood on his face from when his attacker had taken the sniper round, Archer wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt and glanced behind him. Jennifer was sniffing and crying, Helen doing her best to comfort her and try to keep her quiet. When it became clear no one was about to burst in, Archer, Barlow and Vargas relaxed very slightly, taking some deep breaths, letting the change to their situation fully sink in now Foster was dead.

Suddenly, things were looking a hell of a lot worse.

Vargas lowered her stolen assault rifle then strode across the kitchen and stepped behind Archer into the sitting room. Checking the safety, she placed the M4A1 to one side then dropped down, Jennifer breaking from Helen’s protective grasp and rushing forward to hug her.

‘It’s OK. It’s OK,’ she said, as Jennifer clung to her like a small koala bear. Barlow also moved inside the room, keeping his pistol in his hand and moving over to the couch to check on Carson. Archer rose and leant against the doorjamb, keeping an eye on the entrance to the apartment, his newly-acquired M4A1 in his hands. He watched the door like a sentry, waiting for the lock to be blown off at any moment, wondering just what the hell was going on.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Barlow said, pacing. ‘Foster’s gone. They killed him. How did that just happen?’

No-one responded. Jennifer sniffed and sobbed in the quiet.

‘Jesus. Who the hell are these guys?’

‘Whoever they are, the chopper must have brought them,’ Vargas said, looking up from comforting the girl. ‘And they’ve got a sniper. We underestimated this. Them.’

Archer glanced down at the M4A1 in his hands instead. It was in flawless condition. Black and compact with an adjustable strap, the weapon was high-tech and savage, not the kind of thing a street thug could get his hands on without some serious cash. He thought back to the two intruders, the way they’d moved, their equipment, how quickly they’d followed up the sniper fire.

‘Are they military?’ Helen asked, echoing the thoughts in his mind. No-one replied, because no-one knew.

Not hearing anything from the corridor, Archer laid his M4A1 to one side, ensuring the safety was on and that Vargas had charge of Jennifer. He walked across the room and joined Helen beside Carson. This time they hadn’t bothered to lay any towels or blankets over the furniture. By the looks of the rest of the apartment, the bloodstains would blend right in with the decor.

‘How is he?’ he asked.

‘Better than the rest of us,’ Helen said. Carson’s eyes were open but were seeing something somewhere else, totally oblivious to his surroundings. Thankfully the gunfire and Foster’s sudden death hadn’t turned things sour; since he’d been a cop Archer had encountered more than a couple of heroin users and knew any negative outside stimulus could turn a good trip into a nightmare like the flick of a switch. If he started screaming from hallucinations, they wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

Archer turned his attention to Helen. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’

‘Hey,’ Vargas said. Archer turned. ‘Your arm.’

He glanced down at his bicep and saw a growing bloodstain on the right sleeve of his red and white flannel shirt. He remembered the man cutting him with the knife, just before Vargas had pistol-whipped him and he took the sniper round in the back of the head. Suddenly aware of the wound and as if almost on cue, it started to throb. Giving Jennifer one last reassuring hug, Vargas rose and scooped up her M4A1.