Green Light (Sam Archer 7) (9 page)

But he
was about to be a completely naked, unarmed cop in a room
surrounded by some of the toughest, most aggressive criminals in
the State, men who didn’t need a weapon to kill someone.

He’d
never experienced anything like this.

As he
peeled off his orange DOJ overalls and white t-shirt underneath, he
glanced at the guard who’d hit him and saw the man’s eyes flick to
the scars on Archer’s body, the result of previous altercations.
His hand was also resting on the grip of his night-stick, Archer
guessed in case he was going to raise any more objections about
taking a shower. As he took his time undressing, using every moment
to think, he considered telling this guy he was a cop but decided
against it, not knowing whether he could be trusted to keep his
mouth shut or if he’d even care. His instinct told him he already
knew and he didn’t give a shit.

Pulling
off the remainder of his clothing, Archer stepped out of his white
prison-issue boxers and stood for a moment.

Focus,
he told himself, adrenaline
spiking through his veins and pumping him up.

Breathe.

Watching
him, the guard drew his baton again, silently indicating what would
happen if Archer didn’t move.

Turning,
the blond NYPD detective rounded the corner and walked into the
shower block.

The
place was rectangular, four separate lines of shower heads, eight
on each row; it was three quarters full, some men finishing up and
moving off, about fifteen or so still in there, inmates from other
blocks presumably showering in adjacent areas. Most of them were
focusing on what they were doing and didn’t pay Archer any
attention, low conversations taking place between some of the men
whilst others washed in silence.

He saw
their bodies were adorned with tattoos, most also criss-crossed
with scars; big, threatening men. The older inmates were thinner
but like their younger counterparts were covered in ink and scars,
with that wizened toughness of men who’d spent their entire lives
in and out of jail.

As he
walked under a shower head on the far left side, every muscle in
his body primed to fight but his face blank, Archer noticed
something else.

None of
the inmates were showering facing the wall.

Standing
under the cascading water and feeling eyes upon him, he took a
piece of soap and pretended to start cleaning himself, in reality
scanning the room as subtly as he could for anything he could use
as a weapon. Choke-holds or joint locks wouldn’t work in here. As
well as being slippery with soap and water, it took more than
several seconds to put someone out and in here, by that point he’d
already be dead.

He stood
under the jet-stream, never taking his eyes off the stall around
him as more inmates finished their showers and walked
off.

Water
cascading off his head and shoulders, he watched and
waited.

Focus.

Breathe.

He
noticed a few other inmates glancing over but no-one looked as if
they were about to make a move. Archer’s guard didn’t drop but he
realised all his concern might have been for nothing. No-one in
here seemed to know who he was.

He
started to lather himself up properly, remaining alert, working
fast but never taking his eyes off the showers around
him.

Then
suddenly, he heard a commotion next door, shouting and what sounded
like some kind of altercation, the guards turning and running out
to handle the situation.

Watching
them go, Archer cleaned himself even faster, wanting to get the
hell out of here.

But then
the room around him went quiet.

At the
front gate to the facility, a Counter-Terrorism Bureau Ford was
buzzed in and pulled to an abrupt halt in an empty space near the
doors. A moment later, a member of the Department stepped out and
moved swiftly towards the front entrance, pulling open the front
door and walking towards the desk.

‘
I need to pull someone right now,’ the newcomer said, showing
his badge. ‘You’ve got a suspended police detective in here and
you’d better pray to God he’s still in one piece.’

‘
Wait a minute. You can’t just walk in here giving
orders.’

‘
Waste any more time and you’ll need a new haircut by the time
you wake up,’ the detective said. ‘Get him out now!’

All
conversation in the block stopped. Archer hadn’t seen any kind of a
signal but it must have been pre-arranged. The inmates showering
around him suddenly withdrew like the tide pulling back, turning
and leaving the block without so much as a backward
glance.

Three
remained behind. They were all Latino, big guys, members of the
gang who’d been using the weights in the yard. They were all
holding a bar of soap.

And they
were staring straight at Archer.

Glancing
to his right, standing against the wall and out of the direct flow
of water, Archer looked for the guards but they were nowhere to be
seen, no doubt still handling the situation next door. In front of
him he watched as the Mexicans used their large hands to push
through the white soap, a shiv becoming visible inside each
bar.

Each one
was crude but wickedly sharp, soap clinging to the tips and
blades.

The men
looked at him silently, Archer standing there outnumbered three to
one.

The only
sound was water splashing onto the tiled floor.

At six
foot and a hundred and eighty five pounds Archer was well-built but
he knew he wasn’t a physical match for these men. He never went
looking for trouble, although well able to take care of himself; he
was also a man who’d spent the last few years of his life forced to
make split-second decisions to kill or be killed. That was the
reality of what he did for a living.

And as
he stared back at the three gang members intent on ending his life,
he knew that if he was going to have any chance of surviving this
he would have to match these guys for violence and
brutality.

His back
against the wall, he focused on the Latino standing in the middle,
who appeared to be the ringleader. As Archer watched him, the man
glanced towards the fat, tattooed guy on his right.

That was
all it took.

The
inmate who’d been given the signal suddenly rushed forward and
stabbed upward viciously, aiming the shiv for Archer’s gut with his
considerable strength behind it. Reacting fast, Archer stepped
forward before the arm could gain momentum, tucking his stomach
back as far as he could and using his left forearm to block the
man’s arm before it could make contact, the two bones thudding
painfully on impact.

The guy
was far stronger than Archer but in that enclosed space, technique
could even the odds. As he stopped the arm, Archer immediately bent
and then twisted the man’s elbow around, using him as a human
shield from the others, but as he glanced at the other two he knew
that wouldn’t make any difference.

Pushing
the man’s arm up hard, the guy yelled and his grip on his weapon
loosened. Archer grabbed the shiv from the man’s opened palm and
thumped it into the guy’s shoulder blade just as the other pair
rushed him.

As the
man shouted in pain, Archer pushed his bulk directly at one of the
two men, keeping his grip on the shiv and withdrawing it from the
guy’s shoulder, blood running down the handle and onto his fist.
His attacker collided with one of his friends, both of them losing
their balance on the slippery surface.

But the
other was moving in fast. He was right-handed and swinging his arm
in an upward arcing motion, but this time Archer had a weapon too.
He desperately tried to block the forearm again but slipped, the
man’s shiv slicing across his arm. Shouting in anger from the hot
pain, Archer buried his own soapy, blood-stained shiv in the guy’s
chest as hard as he could.

However,
the handle was slippery and he lost his grip. As the man dropped
his shiv and clutched the weapon buried in his pectoral, Archer
grabbed his wet hair and slammed his face into the wall, the man’s
forehead thumping off as it made contact. The impact cracked part
of the old shower wall, small pieces of tile falling to the floor
as the guy crumpled and went down.

Shouting
with rage, the remaining pair attacked simultaneously, over four
hundred pounds of murderous fury bearing down on him. Unarmed,
cornered and outnumbered, Archer scooped up a shard of broken tile
and rose just as the nearest guy took a swing; he was built like a
barn door but not as fast as Archer, who jerked out of the way as
the shiv in the man’s hand missed his gut by an inch, the blade
continuing on its arc. As momentum caught the guy off-balance
Archer brought his left hand up and sliced the shard across the
man’s face, starting at his lower cheek and continuing across his
nose and forehead, the porcelain cutting him diagonally lip to
brow.

The man
screamed, dropping his shiv and clutched his face as blood started
to flow into his eyes, blinding him. However, by that point the
other inmate had already moved in. Turning to face him, Archer
twisted at the last second and felt hot pain across his chest as
the shiv sliced him, the guy going for his heart.

Caught
in the water pumping from the shower, his attacker lost his grip on
the small blade and went to grab Archer but the blond detective was
still lathered up with soap and rolled out of the man’s grip,
hammering an elbow into his face and then pushing him back into the
first man he’d stabbed, who’d just got back to his feet.

Panting,
soaking wet and with blood leaking down his arm, chest and hand,
Archer kept tight hold of the piece of tile and braced
himself.

Suddenly
a gunshot echoed around the tiled room, deafeningly loud inside the
stall, the sounds of the fight attracting the attention from the
guards next door. His back against the far wall, Archer
straightened and put his hands up as the officers ran inside, their
boots splashing on the wet tiles.

Slamming
him into the wall and pulling the piece of ceramic from his hand,
the two men dragged him out. As they did so, Archer looked back at
the aftermath of the fight.

One of
the gang members was down with a stab wound to the shoulder, the
second had the savage cut across his face and the third had a
broken nose and stab wound to his chest. The white-walled block was
lined with red which flowed and swirled into the water.

‘
You’re dead, ese!’
the third guy
screamed as more guards poured into the room, blood flowing from
his broken nose and wounded chest.
‘You
hear me? You’re dead!’

Archer
didn’t reply as he was hustled around the corner and down the
corridor towards the SHU block, naked and soaking wet. His forearm
felt as if it could be broken and he was in serious pain from the
two cuts to his chest and his arm.

But
despite all that, he grinned. The Latino was wrong.

He was
still alive.

TEN

Pushed
into the single man SHU cell, Archer turned just in time to catch
his orange overalls, t-shirt and boxers as they were thrown at him,
the door slammed and locked behind him.

Tossing
the clothes onto the bed, he ripped the pillowcase off and wiped
himself down before pulling on his boxers and slacks, his hair wet
and clinging to his head, his body shaking from the cold and
plummeting adrenaline. Picking up the pillowcase again, he rubbed
it through his hair to dry it off as best he could, then held it to
the cut across the left side of his chest.

As it
made contact, he cursed under his breath; the shiv had cut about a
third of an inch deep, the skin sliced open, blood still running
from the wound down his chest. Glancing down, he saw the cut on his
arm was bleeding too, the blood dripping to the floor. Now out of
danger, the pain from the two injuries suddenly kicked in, in
addition to the throbbing ache of his forearm from where he’d
blocked that first knife thrust.

He sat down on the bed while he got his breath back.
Jesus Christ, you sure know how to get yourself
in deep shit,
he thought, shaking his
head.
If it was an art-form, you’d be
goddamn Pablo Picasso.

Then he
heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Throwing
the pillowcase to one side as the door started to open, Archer rose
instantly, ready to defend himself in case this was Round 2.
However, as the door pulled back he saw two guards standing there,
one holding a box containing Archer’s actual clothes, the other the
man from the shower block.

‘
Change,’ the latter said. ‘You’ve been released. Someone’s
pulled you.’

‘
Who?’

‘
Just get changed,’ he ordered, the other guard placing the box
down and pushing it towards Archer. ‘And don’t bleed on my
floor.’

The box
slid over until it hit Archer’s foot; the guards stood there,
waiting. Opening the box and quickly pulling his blue jeans, black
sweater and shoes back on, Archer replaced them with his overalls
then walked over to the men who turned and led him out of the cell.
It took some time to get to the exit as they had to negotiate
several locked doors and long corridors, but eventually they
reached the last door, the three of them waiting for it to be
buzzed open.