Tom Barber - One Way

Still wearing his white t-shirt, he’d removed his red and white flannel over-shirt and had it resting on his lap. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, throwing a stark and unforgiving light over everything in the room. In front of him, Vargas was kneeling on the step, examining the knife wound on his arm, the two of them alone, everyone else next door. Beside him, his M4A1 rested against the porcelain bath, the safety on.

His adrenaline had dropped and he felt nauseous. It had happened scores of times before, the inevitable response to a life-threatening situation, his body pumping the hormone into his bloodstream in an effort to keep him alive. That wasn’t the first gunfight he’d been in and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but it had been a relatively long time since someone had tried to kill him and his body had reacted instantly to the stress.

Swallowing and closing his eyes, he waited for the feeling to pass, furious at himself. He’d had the jump on two armed guys but almost got himself and everyone else killed. A creaky floorboard, for Christ’s sake; hell, it all might have ended differently if it wasn’t for a bullet intended for Vargas. The Archer of three months ago would have slotted those two gunmen before they’d even had a chance to turn, no hesitation, no mistakes.

With his eyes still shut, he shook his head. Errors like that were hardly ever forgiven.

He’d been lucky.

Vargas noticed the look on his face. ‘Everything alright?’

He opened his eyes and nodded, looking down at her. She’d lifted the edge of the sleeve of his white t-shirt and was studying the wound, making sure it wasn’t too deep. Archer glanced down. The knife had sliced across his arm, blood leaking out and leaving a rivulet path on the skin below. It was only a superficial cut, no tendon or muscle damage, although it hurt like hell. Knives were scary weapons; Archer couldn’t stand them. They could kill with just one slice or jab and unlike guns they didn’t require reloading and didn’t jam. They were also silent and could be concealed easily. Archer had some unpleasant memories of knives and the type of people who used them as weapons. He had a jagged scar running along his brow just under his hairline that was a constant reminder of just how dangerous they were.

‘Yeah, he got you,’ she said. ‘An ounce more pressure, you’d be in deep shit.’

He smiled. ‘Story of my life.’

She looked around the bathroom for a bandage. He read her mind and lifted his red and white flannel shirt from his lap. Carson’s, his own and the other man’s blood had stained the upper half, but the lower portion of the garment was relatively clean and a damn sight cleaner than anything else around the place.

‘Use this.’

‘It’ll be ruined,’ she said, taking it. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘Gift from an ex.’

She smiled.

‘Probably not what she had in mind when she gave it to you.’

Taking a pair of scissors she’d found in the kitchen, she made a cut then ripped off a long strip. She then wrapped it around the wound firmly but gently, the fabric soaking up blood the moment it touched the cut. He watched her work; the light was accentuating her cheekbones in a nice way. He suddenly had a flashback to another Latina face under a similarly harsh light; that had been very different. Examining her face, he tried to guess her heritage. Her hair and eyebrows were jet black, her eyes the colour of coffee, her skin the same but with a splash of milk.

‘So what’s your story?’ she asked, tightening the bandage. ‘You said you’re NYPD.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t sound American.’

‘I’m half English. I used to be a cop in London. Grew up over there too.’

‘Why’d you move?’

‘Itchy feet.’

‘You got a family?’

He nodded. ‘A sister. She’s a lawyer. Lives in DC.’

Pause.

‘How about you?’

She smiled. ‘My story’s boring as hell.’

‘I’d like to hear it.’

‘Trust me. You wouldn’t.’ She paused. ‘I’m from LA. I never met my father; apparently he was Brazilian. My mother was American and raised me. She died when I was sixteen.’

‘How?’

‘Wrong place, wrong time. She was in a deli in Reseda when someone held it up. Shot her twice along with the cashier. He forgot to wear a mask and didn’t want any witnesses.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Pause. ‘Wrong place, wrong time. Sounds familiar.’

Finishing winding the bandage, she double tied it, then examined her work. Archer looked down at it, moving his arm around, testing the pressure. It was wrapped tight, yet was loose enough to not cut off circulation. There was no more blood leaking from the wound and staining his arm. Given the circumstances, she’d done a pretty good job.

‘Thanks.’

She watched him for a moment then leaned back, rolling to her feet. They both looked around the bathroom as a silence fell.

‘This must be the President’s suite,’ she said.

He smiled as Helen appeared in the doorway, seeing him sitting on the edge of the tub. ‘All patched up?’

He nodded. ‘How’s Carson?’

‘On Cloud Nine. Barlow’s watching him and the girl.’ Pause. ‘So I hate to ask the obvious but who the hell were those men? Do you have any idea?’

‘I don’t know,’ Archer said honestly, glancing at Vargas. She shook her head. ‘But this is bigger than we thought. The guys on the street were amateurs. They had surprise on their side and that was it. But this group is in a different league, whoever they are and how many they are. They have high-tech weapons; they move in pairs. They arrived by helicopter and they have a sniper. They had no idea we’d end up in this building, yet they were prepared enough to be here within forty minutes and kill Foster. They’re professionals.’

‘And this is about Jennifer?’ Helen said, lowering her voice.

Archer looked at Vargas, who nodded.

‘Let’s just say she’s important.’

‘Enough that they’ll kill each other to get to us and her,’ he said. ‘Mind telling us who she is?’

‘I can’t share that,’ Vargas replied.

‘I can’t share that,’ Dalton replied outside on the street corner, unwittingly echoing Vargas.

‘C’mon James, save it,’ Shepherd said, frustrated. ‘You heard the gunfire and saw that chopper. One of my people is in there too. We’re in this together. Tell us what this is about.’

‘Not going to happen,’ Dalton replied. ‘Save your breath, Sergeant.’

He turned to one of his team, a female Marshal in a bulletproof vest. She had a cell phone to her ear.

‘Any luck?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Still down; can’t get through to any of them. Tried the 5B mainline but its dead too.’

‘How could they disable the cell phones?’

The woman shrugged. ‘They must have a jammer of some sort.’

As Dalton considered what she’d said, Marquez returned, carrying another folder. ‘Got the four files on the other boys from the street,’ she said, passing it to Shepherd. ‘Check ‘em out.’

He opened them, examining the files one by one. The last one caught his eye; the man in question had long blond dreadlocks with brown skin and angry eyes, holding up a placard as he was snapped for a mug shot. Apparently he was half-Colombian; his name was Zachary Braeten. In and out of juvenile facilities and prison for most of his twenty six years; Marquez was right. A detective up in Harlem had been trying to build a case against him and his friends for a series of unexplained murders, with him down as the leader. Shepherd had seen similar files before; these kind of people were killers but not trained killers, men who would take life for money without a second thought. Amateurs.