Tom Barber - One Way

That particular Sunday, Hendricks had been off duty; he’d just been settling down to supper with his family at his house across the Hudson when they’d flicked on the television and seen the news. The reports were saying a gunfight had broken out in the street on West 89th between a team of Federal Marshals and five other gunmen. Apparently there’d been a car chase uptown and they were now cordoned off in a building on West 135th and Broadway, the gang members successfully holding the doors. A helicopter of reinforcements had arrived, but rumours suggested they weren’t part of the rescue effort. Efforts to take back the building had been resisted and countered; an ESU team had abseiled in, but police reports were saying they’d been all been killed.

When Hendricks had heard that last part, he’d stopped eating. He put down his fork, then without a word, he’d risen from the table, grabbed his piece and shield, jumped in the car and burned it over here as fast as he could. This wasn’t his jurisdiction and he was off duty, but a team of NYPD officers had died tonight. That made it his business.

As he walked through the crowd, he saw a task force of US Marshals fifteen yards away, all of them vested up and carrying assault weapons, crowded together and examining what looked like several I-Pad tablets. Beside them, he suddenly spotted Shepherd. Hendricks paused, both pleased and genuinely surprised. The two men were the closest of friends and colleagues; they both ran their own teams in the Counter Terrorism Bureau and had started out as rookies, training together in the Academy and then working as partners in the same squad car years back. Their families had even been on vacation together, and Shep had been Hendricks’ best man at his wedding.

Shepherd saw him too. Leaving the group of Marshals, he immediately walked forward to meet him.

‘Jake?’

‘Hey Shep,’ he said, shaking his friend’s hand.

‘What are you doing here? Did Franklin give you a call?’

Hendricks shook his head. ‘I saw the news. Apparently an ESU team went down.’

‘The chopper wreckage is in Riverbank State Park,’ Shepherd said, pointing. ‘And one of our guys is inside the building.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Archer.’

‘He’s in there?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘How the hell did he get caught up in this?’

Shepherd pointed south. ‘The group of Marshals were ambushed downtown as they were getting into a car with a State witness they’re protecting. Archer was on the street nearby. He saw what was going down and tried to intervene. He ended up having to go with them when they made their escape. There was a car chase which ended here when the Tahoe’s tyres were blown out and it hit the hydrant.’

Hendricks looked over at the two vehicles still dumped in the street outside the building, all the doors open. Both were surrounded by smashed glass with shell casings on the ground beside each vehicle. The Tahoe had taken a hell of a lot of punishment, riddled with bullet holes.

‘They duked it out,’ he said, reading the scene. ‘But the gunmen had superior firepower. Something automatic. The Marshals and Archer took cover in the building.’

‘Correct. They barricaded themselves inside an apartment. One of the Marshals has been shot, another has been killed, and we can’t communicate with them; all phone lines are down.’

Hendricks frowned. ‘Cellular too?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘So what happened to ESU?’ Hendricks asked.

‘About thirty minutes after they went in there, a black, unmarked chopper arrived. We thought it was one of ours, but it wasn’t. We counted ten men abseiling in, some kind of back-up response team. One of the Marshals managed to get to an emergency phone; she said whoever they are, this team are all heavily armed and inside to finish the job. She and Archer managed to kill two of them, but the others sure as hell aren’t giving up. They took out the ESU team and the chopper with Claymores and a LAW. There’ve been sounds of gunfights and explosions from inside. We can’t communicate with them so we have no idea where they are or their current situation.’

‘Jesus.’ Hendricks looked up at the tenement block. ‘You think they’re still alive?’

‘They must be. The response team sure as hell aren’t leaving yet.’

‘So who the hell is this witness?’

‘A seven year old girl.’

‘A child?’

‘Other than that, we don’t know much more.’

‘Nothing at all?’

Shepherd nodded towards Dalton. ‘He won’t give.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Hendricks said, striding over towards the US Marshal. Shepherd joined him.

Jake had a way of getting people to talk.

Once he’d put out the fires in 8A, Bishop had stumbled his way down the north stairwell, leaving the smoky corridor behind him. He pulled back the door on the ground floor and moved into the lobby. He was still disorientated, unsteady and nauseous, his face blackened, dust and smoke in his lungs. The others were momentarily taken aback when they saw him.

King was reloading his M4A1, having apparently just fired off some rounds through the window. He turned and looked at him.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bishop said loudly, shaking his head to clear his hearing. ‘There was an explosion. Castle was in there with most of the mob. They’re gone.’

‘Jesus Christ, I’m sick of this,’ King hissed, as Spades, Diamonds, Knight and Braeten stood there in silence. ‘All I’m hearing tonight is failure. Do you call this shit professional?’

Silence. None of the men responded.

‘All of you, get your game-faces on and step up your shit. It’s a kid, a gunshot Marshal if he’s still alive, a hundred-twenty pound woman and some asshole wannabe street hero who’s in way over his head. If they want a war, let’s give them a war.’

Just then, there was a commotion on the stairs behind them. A handful of the remaining guys from the volunteer mob appeared from the north side doorway, all of them looking spooked. The response team turned to them.

‘Where were you?’ Bishop asked, coughing.

‘We were on 9, getting ahead,’ one of them said, noting Bishop’s appearance. ‘What the hell happened?’

Bishop didn’t reply, stepping to one side and shaking his head to try and get back his hearing. One of the guys from the stairwell walked towards King.

‘We’re leaving.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘You didn’t say anything about us getting blown up. We’re out of here.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Try to stop us, asshole.’

Pause.

‘Is this all of you?’

The man looked behind him. ‘I guess so. Everyone else bought it upstairs.’

Without another word, King swung up his M4A1, aimed at the man’s head and opened fire. The guy didn’t have a moment to react. The burst took half of his head off; as he dropped, the men behind didn’t have time to move as King machine gunned them all, blood and bits of clothing spraying into the air. He worked the trigger, moving from right to left, as the assault rifle tore them to pieces, and he kept the muzzle climb low, expertly using every round to kill.

When the clip clicked dry, the air reeking of cordite and gun smoke, King looked down at the bloodied and torn bodies slumped in front of the stairwell. Pushing the magazine release catch, he let it fall to the floor and slapped another one home from a pouch on his tac vest. He turned to the other men, who were standing back impassively.

‘No-one’s leaving. Neither them, nor us. Not until she’s dead.’

Bishop stepped forward, beginning to recover, and retrieved his pistol from the man on the floor. He tucked it back into the holster on his thigh.