Tom Barber - One Way

Inside their new hideout on the 12th floor, Carson had been placed on the couch in the sitting room, safe from the sniper given that the apartment was on the east side. He was starting to double over and groan again, the cheap heroin all but worn off. The sounds were passing through the thin wall, even with the door shut, and brought mounting concern, not just about the noise but over his condition. They’d been trapped inside the block for almost three hours now, with no medical aid.

If they didn’t get him out of here soon, he’d be joining Foster, Barlow and Helen.

In the kitchen, Isabel was sitting on a chair as Vargas inspected some minor cuts on the little girl’s face and arms, Archer watching her. Fortunately, Isabel hadn’t been badly hurt from the blasts, Archer and Vargas protecting her and covering her from any shrapnel or debris. All three of them were blackened by soot and smoke, nicks and cuts peppering their arms and cheeks. The path of blood from Vargas’ ear had dried. Archer now had the wound to his lower torso to contend with as well as a fresh cut across his eyebrow. The blood was trickling down his temple, just missing his left eye, and his ears were still ringing from the grenades.

Satisfied that Isabel was OK, Vargas looked over at Archer and saw him holding his palm to the lower left of his torso.

‘You’re hurt?’

‘It’s OK,’ he lied. ‘It’s not deep.’

Pause. Vargas swallowed.

‘I saw Helen.’

Archer nodded. ‘Yeah. Me too.’

He turned and watched the door, listening closely. With his back to the other two, he lifted his hand from the wound. The injury burned like hell. It felt as if he’d spilt hot liquid over his skin. He rose and moved to the kitchen counter. Grabbing a towel from the table-top, he held it tight against the wound, staunching the blood as best he could. For the first time since they’d escaped, he thought back in detail to what had happened downstairs in the laundry room, replaying the entire sequence in his mind from the moment that grenade had clanged down the chute.

He suddenly went very still.

‘What? What is it?’ Vargas asked, watching him. ‘Archer?’

He didn’t move.

‘Archer? Are you OK?’

Pause. He turned slowly.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, seeing the look on his face.

‘Downstairs. They had a clear shot at her,’ he said, indicating to Isabel. ‘They didn’t take it.

He looked at Vargas for a long moment.

Then he leant back, sliding slowly down the counter and sitting on the floor.

Suddenly everything fell into place.

‘What?’ Vargas asked, pressing him. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve been such a fool,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This whole time, I never saw what this is really about.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Upstairs, earlier, when we took out those two guys on 22. You were staring at that man.’

‘Yeah. So?’

‘Not because you’d killed him. Because you recognised him.’

She blinked.

‘They’re not here for her, Vargas,’ he said, nodding at Isabel.

He paused.

‘They’re here for you.’

The room was silent. Archer’s statement had drawn no denial from her.

Instead, Vargas rose without a word and took Isabel through to the sitting room; Archer heard her tell the girl to lie down and promised she’d be just next door. Then she re-joined him in the kitchen, closing the door to the sitting room so they were alone.

She sat down on the floor across from him, leaning against the wall, her M4A1 beside her. He saw the expression on her face.

The game was up.

‘That story you told me earlier about Isabel,’ he said. ‘Was that bullshit?’

‘No. That’s all true. Every word.’

‘But this isn’t about her. They let her go. So who are you?’

Silence.

‘Is Vargas your real name?’

‘Yes.’ Pause. ‘I wasn’t a United States Marshal until very recently.’

‘How recently?’

‘Been qualified for three weeks.’ She paused. ‘Before that, I was training in Glynco, Georgia.’

‘And before that?’

‘I was a cop.’

‘Where?’

‘Miami.’

‘What division?’

‘SRT. Special Response Team. Their SWAT unit.’

She paused.

‘I finished my Academy training in LA just over two years ago. I did well, finishing at the top of the class, and spent the first twenty five months in a squad car working a beat in Inglewood. At the beginning of last year, I arrived at the Department one morning and was ordered by my Sergeant to meet with a police Commander. He started asking me about my background, what I wanted to achieve as a member of law enforcement, sounding me out. As the conversation progressed, it turned out that he wasn’t from LA. He was Miami-Dade PD.’

‘Why was he scouting you?’

‘He had two SRT teams under his command, First and Second. Twelve people in each, male and female officers, units that performed the same tasks as LAPD SWAT. His Second Team were all good, no problem. But he had suspicions about First. And these weren’t just concerns about some detective who wasn’t undercover anymore but still doing blow on the weekends. This was some high-level scamming; we’re talking seven or eight figures worth of dirty cash and stolen product from legitimate raids and busts.’

He nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘He had a feeling that they were making more illegal money on the side than the guys they were busting. Drugs have been flowing through Florida like a river for the past forty years. You should see the amount of seized money, dope and cocaine that these officers have access to. It’s staggering, and their superiors are well aware of the temptation. They’d come up through the ranks themselves.’

She paused.

‘The Commander had been working on finding out if these guys really were corrupt, but he hadn’t succeeded. They were smart and covered their tracks effectively. Although they were under his official command, they worked together on a daily basis as a close unit, a tight-knit group. He’d tried sliding officers into the team who were working undercover for him, but none of them found any evidence of corruption. It even started making him think and look like he was just paranoid. However, he was a good man, and very experienced. Despite the lack of proof, he knew deep in his gut something was very wrong.’

Pause.

‘He said his last two options were to bring in Internal Affairs, which would open a real can of worms and make his concerns public, or try one last undercover cop. The problem was, every applicant to SRT was assessed by a review board of current SRT team members and himself. The Master Sergeant of the First Team, Seth Calvin, had access to all their files, their history, their performance in training at the Academy. He knew weeks in advance before anyone applied to join his team what they were about. The Commander even tried sullying up a few applicants’ records, but Calvin and his team smelt a rat, the officers joining their team unable to get close to any illegal activity.’

She paused.

‘They were constantly on their guard, looking into Miami PD at anyone who could be set up as a mark to get inside their crew.’

She looked over at him.

‘But they weren’t watching the LAPD.’

His back against the wall, Archer listened closely, holding the towel close to the wound on his lower torso. Vargas was ex-SRT, trained Special Response. That explained the way she’d handled everything tonight. But he waited for her to explain the rest.

‘I thought about the Commander’s offer to go undercover and accepted,’ she continued. ‘It sure as hell was better than the alternative, working the beat in LA for five or six years hoping for a promotion and trying not to get killed. I packed my stuff and flew down there. But then it came to my cover story, which brought up a problem.’