Silent Night (Sam Archer 4) (2 page)

Inside, the dark-haired woman had her back to him and didn’t see him arrive. He knocked gently on the doorframe and she turned.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’

He stayed where he was, the empty apartment in front of him. It seemed naked and bare, like one of the trees lining the street outside that had lost its leaves for the winter. It also looked far bigger now that it had been cleared of all the woman’s possessions. To the right, the wooden panels of the main bedroom door caught his eye. The entire middle portion of the frame had been replaced, the fresh wood a slightly different shade from the rest.

He remembered the night last year when that door had been blown apart by a shotgun shell and handgun fire.

He glanced back at the woman.

That was the night the two of them met.

‘All done?’ he asked, forcing a smile.

‘All done.’

‘So this is it?’

She sighed and nodded. ‘I guess so.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

‘It just wasn’t going to work. And I have to think about my and Jessie’s futures.’

He nodded. He went to speak again, but there was the sudden blare of a car horn from outside. The woman checked her watch.

‘That’s me. I need to get over to LaGuardia. My flight leaves just before midday.’

‘I’ll walk you down.’

She nodded and followed him towards the door, grabbing a coat from the kitchen counter and pulling it on. Before she left, she took one last look at the empty apartment.

For a second, the place was busy, full of her memories.

Leaving the spare key on the side, she turned and shut the door for the last time, following the blond man along the corridor and down the stairs to the building exit.

Outside, the sun was shining but the air was cold, icy winds blowing down East 13
th
Street. City maintenance had already done their rounds this morning. Snow had been cleared off the roads and sidewalks, piled up to the side to allow access for cars and pedestrians. The streets had then been salted to allow traction for wheels and grip for shoes. To the left, an endless stream of vehicles flowed up
1
st
Avenue
, a faint Christmas song audible from the radio in a deli on the corner of the street. The beating heart of
Manhattan
on a typical
New York
December day.

A yellow taxicab was waiting by the kerb outside the apartment building, as close as the banked snow would allow.

The woman pulled up the collar of her coat and turned to the blond man.

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘With everything.’

He nodded. ‘You too.’

They embraced, then parted. Turning, the woman stepped through a gap in the snow and pulled open the door of the cab, climbing inside and slamming the door. She turned to him and smiled, waving as the taxi pulled away and headed off down the road. The man raised his hand in farewell. The driver paused at a red light at the end of the street, waiting to join the stream of traffic heading up
1
st
Avenue
. The light flicked green and the taxi turned right.

Then it was gone.

The blond man stood still, the sharp wind ruffling his hair, looking down the street.

Just like that,
he thought.

He felt a purr in his pocket as his cell phone started ringing. He pulled it out and answered.

‘Archer.’

‘Arch, its Josh.’

‘Hey. What’s up?’ he said, starting to walk down the sidewalk towards the traffic stream on
1
st
Avenue
.

‘Shepherd wants us in immediately.’

Archer frowned.
‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. But it sounds serious. Want me to pick you up?’

‘No, I’m in the city. I’ll hitch a cab.’

‘OK. See you there.’

Archer ended the call and walked along the icy sidewalk until he arrived on the corner of 1
st
and 13
th
. He raised his arm and an approaching taxi in the right-hand lane slowed and drew to a halt beside him. As he stepped forward, pulling open the door, he checked the time on the black Casio on his wrist.

9:56 am
. Saturday. His day off.

His eight years of experience as a cop told him that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be good.

‘Shit,’
he muttered, stepping inside the taxi and slamming the door.

And the vehicle moved off up the street.

Thirteen miles away in
New Jersey
, a slender grey-haired man in a dark coat stepped out of his brand new Mercedes and shut the door. The car was a black CL-Class that had set him back over 100 grand but as far as he was concerned it had been worth every cent. He was planning on taking a trip to DC with his wife over the Christmas break when he’d have a chance to really put his foot down and see what the Mercedes could do on the open road. Clicking the locks shut, he tucked the keys in his pocket and headed towards the entrance of
The Kearny Medical Institute
, a three-floored laboratory complex located just off the town of
Kearny
in
Hudson
County
.

His name was Dr Jonathan Bale. Although he was too modest to acknowledge it, Dr Bale was widely considered to possess one of the top scientific minds in the
United States
. He and his six-man team were responsible for some pioneering work at the institute. They worked closely with medical organisations around the country, as well as interacting with the US Army and their Medical Research Institute. Dr Bale was fifty eight, enjoyed good health and had no immediate intention to retire. He had four things that he loved in his life: his wife, his job, his new Mercedes and golf. He’d just come from an early nine holes at Liberty National and had shot a very satisfactory 37. The low score had given him an extra spring to his step and he was feeling good. Approaching the entrance, a briefcase in his hand and a folder under his arm, he pushed open the glass door.

As he walked in, he was surprised to see a new security guard behind the front desk. The man looked tall and rangy and sported a strange haircut. Blond, it was on the verge of being a mullet, short at the sides and longer on top.

Bale hid a smile.

Must be some kind of new fashion
, he thought.

‘Good morning, sir,’ the guard said, a Southern twang to his voice.

‘Good morning.’ Bale looked around. ‘Where's Joel?’

‘He took sick. I'm covering his shift.’

Bale nodded. The guard had a pad and pen in his hands.

‘Your name please sir?’

‘Dr Bale. My team should already be here.’

‘Yes, they're all upstairs. You’re the last one. I'll just buzz you in.’

The guard pushed a button under his desk and the glass panel beside the desk slid back. He smiled warmly.

‘You have a good morning, sir.’

Bale nodded as he walked forward and approached the lift, pushing the button. The door in front of him opened immediately. He stepped inside and pressed
3
, mentally running through all the tasks he and his team had to work on today. A few seconds later, the lift dinged again and the doors slid open on the third floor.

He walked forward, looking at the folder in his hand and his mind on the day ahead, but suddenly sensed someone standing in front of him.

He looked up.

A large man with thick black curly hair was blocking his path.

No one else was around.

The man's arm was outstretched; he was gripping a pistol aimed straight at Dr Bale’s forehead.

Bale dropped his folder and briefcase, shocked, and raised his hands instinctively.

Behind the handgun, the man’s face was cold and hard. He nudged the pistol to Bale’s right.

‘Move.’

Dr Bale did what he was told, staring at the weapon, too scared to object.

‘Keep going.’

Dr Bale kept walking.

He arrived at a colleague's office. The door was closed.

‘Open it.’

Dr Bale did.

As the door pushed back he saw with horror that a pile of bodies had been dumped inside, all of them shot in the head. They were all the members of his team, dumped one on top of the other. Amidst the heap he caught a glimpse of a security guard’s uniform.
Joel
. The white-tiled floor was pooled and caked with dried blood.

‘Whh-what-,’ he stammered, fear making his vocal cords seize up.

‘Inside.’

Trying not to faint, Dr Bale did as he was told. At his feet, he could see the dead faces of his colleagues and friends. Some of the most brilliant scientists in the country.

Their eyes open and lifeless.

‘Against the wall.’

Bale moved back to the wall, but self-preservation kicked in. He started trying to reason with the man.

‘Please. I’m beg-’

He never finished the sentence. The weapon in the other man’s hand was a modified Glock, an illegal trigger catch turning the weapon from a semi-automatic into an automatic. With an extended magazine slapped into the base of the weapon, he had thirty two bullets to work with. Lowering the weapon in anticipation of the muzzle climb, the man pulled the trigger. The weapon drained the mag in just over a second, and Dr Bale took every single bullet to the face. When the gun clicked dry and the echo of gunfire ceased, the body collapsed to the floor, cordite in the air, blood and brains and small black holes sprayed all over the wall behind where he’d been standing. The curly-haired man pulled the empty clip from the weapon and tossed it to the ground. Then he walked out, shutting the door behind him. He pulled a fresh magazine from his pocket and slapped it into the weapon, snapping the working mechanism forward and loading a shell in the chamber.

He walked across the empty lab towards a chair and took a seat directly in front of the lift.

Waiting for whoever came next.

Fifteen minutes after Archer had stepped inside the taxi, it turned off
Vernon Boulevard
in
Queens
and began to move down a side street, passing a long junkyard and several auto-body shops. In the back, Archer looked out of the window to his right. The snowfall here had been pretty heavy last night, the same as in
Manhattan
. The white stuff had been shovelled and ploughed to the kerb to clear the way for vehicles, piled a couple of feet high in some places.

They paused at a red light for a few moments, then crossed the street and continued to head south. Before long, a long red-brick building slid into view on the left. It was unmarked and looked innocuous, blending in with all the other structures on the block.

‘Here’s good,’ Archer said.

The driver looked at him through the rear-view mirror. ‘Right here?’

‘Yeah.’

The driver shrugged and pulled to a halt by the kerb. Archer paid the fare and tipped the guy then climbed out and slammed the door shut behind him. As the taxi moved off, turning the corner and disappearing out of sight, Archer looked around. He could see why the driver had been confused. The whole neighbourhood was pretty much deserted, just the faint sound of a radio hanging in the air from one of the auto-body shops nearby.

He walked straight towards a set of glass doors that led into the red-brick building. He pulled one of them open, moving inside.

A second glass door was directly in front of him, this one electronically controlled. He drew an ID card from his pocket and swiped it down a card reader. It
buzzed
, a green light on the boxed-panel flicking on.

He pushed the second door open and walked into the Counter Terrorism Bureau for the New York Police Department.

The bustle and hum of activity inside the building couldn’t have been in greater contrast to the quietness of the street. To the left as you walked in was a large technical area containing a team of some twenty analysts. On the wall in front of them was a myriad of LED news tickers, electronic maps, digital world clocks and television screens tuned to various news channels both from within the United States and from all over the world. Some of the analysts were wearing headphones, monitoring foreign broadcasts and communications, constantly on their guard for anything that so much as hinted at a threat. Others were working closer to home, running key words through domestic calls and internet searches, scouring communications for anything that seemed at all unusual. The rest were working on a variety of jobs such as threading through intelligence, tracking potential suspects or working with field teams based out of the building. Open twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, the Bureau epitomised both the way the world and technology had changed in the last few years and also how the NYPD now conducted its affairs.