Tom Barber - One Way

He looked down at her and took a deep breath.

‘I have to get it then. The moment we fire a gun, it could happen again.’

Archer pulled the mag of his M4A1, checking there was ammo inside, and slid it back into the rifle. Helen’s apartment was on 5.

Seven floors down.

And this time, he was going out there by himself.

Moments later, he was back in the corridor on 12, alone, his M4A1 in his hands. He focused his hearing as hard as he could; the close-proximity gunfire had left a dull ringing in his ears which wasn’t helping at all. Clearing both ways, he moved down the corridor. He slid into the south stairwell, immediately checking up and down, already missing Vargas’ protection watching his back.

He started moving down as quietly as he could, looking out for any tripwires or hidden Claymores. When he got to 11, he stopped by the door then swept across, making sure there was no-one lying in wait.

No-one was there.

He did the same on each floor.

10, 9, 8.

Then 7.

Then 6.

When he made it to 5, he paused, then eased out into the corridor. It was empty. He moved slowly, constantly checking behind him, his heart racing. If he got ambushed right now, he’d be vulnerable from both sides. Any unexpected or sudden gunfire would shred him to pieces.

He arrived beside the doorway to Helen’s apartment, their first hideout hours ago. Well aware the sniper was surely still out there somewhere, he dropped to the floor and inched into the apartment slowly, making sure not to move the door and alert the sharpshooter that there was someone inside. There was enough of a gap for him to crawl through as he wriggled along the floor.

The fridge was still on its side; behind it were the two dead bodies of the men in fatigues who’d followed up the sniper fire. Two dirty cops, Archer thought. No wonder their moves had been so practised. He crawled past them, trying to avoid the blood and milk pooled on the floor but getting some on his jeans, feeling it soak into the fabric. He made it to the doorway to the sitting room. Staying close to the wall, he worked his way inside, trying to ignore the throbbing pain from the cut just above his waist.

Foster was still slumped against the wall, the bullet hole in his forehead, in the same position that he’d been in when they left him. Archer noticed with anger that both his weapons and his badge were missing. He looked at the dead Marshal, the first of their group to be killed. They’d all been caught completely off guard, no idea then of the lengths the other side were prepared to go to in order to kill Vargas. They could never have suspected a group of professionally trained men armed to the hilt and with a sniper were coming here to take her out.

Although he hadn’t known Foster before tonight, in that brief time he’d been hugely impressed by him. His response to the ambush on the street and his actions inside the building had been instrumental in saving their lives. At least he’d gone out on his shield, protecting the group and doing his job.

From the few intense hours he’d known him, Archer guessed that’s how he would have wanted it.

He crawled forward and saw Vargas’s black bag across the room on the floor. He reached over, taking hold of it. He opened it and found the box of tablets inside. Carbatrol was printed on the box, along with a white prescription sticker just below.

Miss I Lombardi. 200mg x2 daily.

Sliding them into his pocket, he left Vargas’ bag and shuffled back towards the doorway the way he’d come.

Moving back into the kitchen, he stayed low and headed towards the door, wanting to get the hell out of here.

Then he heard someone coming.

Moving out of the stairwell, Knight and Bishop turned and headed towards 5B, the apartment where Joker had killed Foster and where Markowski and Patterson had been whacked soon after. Arriving at the door, they tried to push it back further but the frame jammed against the refrigerator lying on the floor inside. The two men slid through the gap in the door, moving into the apartment.

Aside from the bodies, the place was still. Looking down at Markowski’s body at his feet, Knight shook his head. Knight’s real name was Sergeant Ben Denton, an eleven year man with Miami PD and Calvin’s oldest friend and police partner. Thirty three years old, he was one of the original ringleaders of their operation along with Calvin, Fowler and Markowski. During the course of his career he’d personally acquired over two million dollars in dirty cash and had beaten several charges of misconduct and one of sexual harassment.

Denton had a special dislike for Vargas. He’d made a move on her once outside the locker room at the station, having had his eye on her for a while; she’d given him a black eye and almost broken his arm. He was the man who’d seen her on the television eight days ago when he’d got home from a grilling at the Department. Tonight, although he knew he could never go back to Miami, he was more than invested in killing her out of principle and revenge. He wasn’t leaving this building without making sure she was dead. After that, he’d stay with Calvin, laying low and getting over the border into Canada. Denton had screwed over a lot of people over the years, both police and criminal. If he went down, he knew he wouldn’t last a week in the joint, shacked up with a load of guys he’d busted.

Failure tonight wasn’t an option.

There was only one way this was going to end.

He watched Bishop, aka Fowler, across the room rummaging through Patterson’s overalls, searching for what they were after. Pools of blood were starting to dry under both bodies, colleagues of theirs and close friends. Denton swore. Fowler looked up and knew what he was thinking.

‘Rather them than us, right,’ he said, as he frisked his way through the dead man’s fatigues.

‘That bitch is going to pay for what she’s done. I swear to God.’

Fowler nodded, continuing his search. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for.

‘Bingo,’ he said, holding up the item he’d pulled from Patterson’s vest. ‘Unharmed.’

‘Good.’ Denton paused. ‘Let’s get out of here and get moving.’

Fowler rose and pointed to a black holdall slung around Denton’s shoulder.

‘Might as well dump that shit. You’re not gonna need them anymore.’

Denton thought for a moment; he had a point. The contents were heavy and he’d been carrying the bag around all night. He slipped the holdall off his shoulder, leaving it on the floor.

Fowler rose, scooping up his M4A1, and the two men ducked back out of the door.

Inside the bath, Archer didn’t move, his M4A1 resting on his thigh, pointing down between his feet. He heard the two men exit. He shifted to one side to sneak a glance over the rim. The bathroom was half-destroyed, the walls torn apart from the gunfire.

His movement disturbed a piece of tile from the wall above him.

He saw it, almost in slow motion, drop away from the ruined wall.

It fell towards the floor.

Outside in the hallway, Denton and Fowler heard it.

They stopped in their tracks.

The two men swung round and doubled back, looking through the sights of their M4A1s. They re-entered the apartment, looking left and right silently. They cleared the kitchen and sitting room, ending up with their weapons aimed at the bathroom.

Denton examined it; the room had been half-destroyed by gunfire. The bathtub was against the far wall, standing on a step, riddled with dents. The wall above had taken most of the onslaught, with few tiles remaining.

He pushed his pressel down. ‘Joker.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You see any movement in the apartment on 5?’