Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (3 page)

Over a week-long period during the Christmas holiday four months ago, the entire team had become accustomed with the weapon under the tutelage of three snipers from the SAS, the British Special Forces squad. Each officer had fired hundreds of rounds with the weapons and
all
had quickly improved, learning the intricacies and technicalities of precision marksmanship. Archer in particular had proven to be particularly proficient, despite being the youngest man on the team. He was a natural, having taken to sharpshooting as he had to the pistol and sub-machine gun work in previous years, and by the end of the week he was the stand-out shooter in the Unit. The three SAS guys training him had been impressed. He had even ended up outshooting one of them in a final challenge, much to the delight of his team-mates. However, the ARU’s First Team were typically the go-to squad in operations, the first guys through the door, so Archer needed to be there on the ground and not far away from the action and up high with a rifle. As a consequence, the two best shooters of the six-man Second Team were assigned sharp-
shooting detail if it came to it, but Archer was always there as immediate back-up if they needed him.

Fox and Porter stepped forward to take their turns with the weapon whilst Archer and Chalky walked through to the back of the range, headed towards a drinks stand to their right where there were a couple of tables and some empty chairs. The range was about a twenty minute drive from their headquarters and was a second home to the Unit. North of the city up past Stratford, the range had separate areas for short-arms and long arms fire. The entire team were officially required to retest on handguns and MP5 sub-machine guns every three months here, so the guys were extremely familiar with the place. Cobb encouraged constant practice to mitigate against any disasters in the field, so First Team had taken to meeting here three times a week, if they weren’t on an operation, to work on their shooting. Soon after its arrival, one of the PSG1A1’s had become a consistent fifth member of the group. The challenge of being precise with the rifle inevitably created competition within the team, and although Chalky had improved he was still to beat Archer in their head-to-head, a score-line his best friend seldom let him forget.

Returning his binoculars to a rack on the wall, Chalky poured himself a coffee with milk and two sugars whilst Archer went for tea, black, nothing added. The two men took a seat and watched as Fox snuggled in against the stock of the rifle across the range, Porter lying beside him like a spotter, binoculars to his eyes, ear defenders in place on his head. They were the only ones here on the long-distance range, but they could all hear muffled bangs and weapons' reports coming from the doors across the stone walkway to their right.

Archer watched as Fox clicked off the safety and settled in behind the weapon, giving it a dry click. He then carefully slotted the magazine into place and pulled back the slide, loading a round into the chamber. A hundred and fifty five yards across the grass, the black paper target was mounted in front of a thick sand levee, the sun now shining down brightly. The morning April air was thin and clean, not a whisper of wind in the air, good weather considering the usual showers that time of year in the UK.

‘So how’s your girl?’ Chalky asked, blowing on his coffee to get it to cool.  ‘The one in New York. What was her name- Katick?’

Archer looked at his tea.

‘Katic. And she’s not my girl.’

Chalky looked at him. ‘What happened?’

‘It didn’t work out.’ Pause. ‘She met someone else.'

'Oh shit. I'm sorry buddy.'

Archer shrugged.

'Guess it wasn't meant to be,’ he said. ‘Probably for the best anyway. She's a Supervisory Special Agent in the FBI. People like that don't have time for personal lives.'

Silence followed. Chalky took a premature pull from his coffee and winced as he burnt his tongue. It was still too hot.

‘You should go over there,’ he said. ‘Go and see her. Maybe she’ll change her mind.’

Archer looked at him and shook his head.

‘With what money?’ he said. ‘I’m even more broke than you, Chalk. And you know the way this job goes. I can’t just pack up and leave for a week.’

There was suddenly a loud
b
ang
as Fox fired the weapon. They looked down the range from their seats and could just make out a white hole in the black right shoulder of the target. A hit, but not a kill. Anything three inches left would have been a different story. The sandy-haired officer looked up and cursed, racking the bolt and clicking on the safety. He and Porter swapped places as the two other officers watched. Fox was six-five up against Porter, much closer in their head
-
to
-
head contest. But from the looks of things, it was about to become six-a-piece.

‘So what’s new with you?’ Archer asked, drinking his tea and eager to change the subject.

Chalky grinned.

‘I went on a date last night.’

‘Oh really? Who’s the girl?’

‘Her name was Elaine.'

'Where'd you meet her?'

'Dating website. She's a lawyer.'

Archer looked over at him. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘That she's a lawyer?’

‘No, that you're on those websites.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Chalk, you’re twenty seven. Why the hell are you online dating? Go to a bar.’

Chalky drank from his coffee and shook his head.

‘You should have seen her, Arch,’ he said. ‘She was a real beauty. Divorced, late-thirties. She saw
police officer
on my profile and said that’s what attracted her. Said she’d always liked a man in uniform, and was looking for a new one after her ex-husband left her for a younger woman.’

‘Am I going to meet her?’

‘No. Don’t think I’ll see her again. Didn't even get a chance to show her my scar.’

Archer smiled. Chalky had taken a bullet in the back a year and a half ago, and after he’d healed, he'd found much to his pleasure that the bullet-scar had a very positive effect on women. He had all sorts of wild stories for how he’d got it, including surviving a mob hit and Archer’s personal favourite that he took a bullet for the Prime Minister. Chalky had never realised that the true story how he got the scar was actually far more impressive than anything else he could come up with.

‘Why won’t you see her again?’ Archer asked.

‘My card got declined at dinner. She had to pay. Don’t think she was happy about it.’

‘You made her pay?’

‘I hadn’t checked my account in a while. But I’m skint. We don’t get paid for another couple of weeks, and you keep taking all my money with that stupid rifle.'

Archer laughed. 'Are you serious?'

‘That wasn’t just it,’ his friend continued. ‘She kept banging on about my name. You had to put your real name on the website, and she said she'd only call me Danny, or Daniel.’

‘Imagine that. That’s your name.’

He shook his head. ‘She said Chalky made it sound like I was a builder or plastered walls for a living. We’d only just met and she was already nagging me like we’d been married for ten years.’

Archer shook his head and laughed, his low mood evaporating, all thoughts of Katic and New York disappearing. His best friend’s real name was Danny White, but everyone apart from his mother called him Chalky, an ironic nickname given his dark features. He used to hate it, but had now got used to it, and he never used his first name anymore. He and Archer had met when they both joined the police at eighteen and had been inseparable ever since. They were a perfect foil for each other. Chalky's
exuberant
personality meant he often needed someone to keep him in line, which is where his best friend came in, but in return he had a knack for lifting Archer’s mood no matter how shitty he was feeling.

Across the range, there was another
bang
as Porter fired. This one went straight through the target’s torso, around where the liver would be, and the paper gently billowed from the impact of the bullet. A kill. Porter looked up and smiled as Fox swore, then racked the bolt and pulled the magazine from the weapon. As he inspected it and made sure it wasn’t loaded, Archer checked his watch.

‘Oh shit.
We need to go, lads
,’ he called. ‘
It’s eight o’clock.
’

Across the range, Porter finished inspecting the weapon, then applied the safety catch. He folded down the tripod and carried the weapon and the magazine carefully to a black equipment case, stowing
them
inside. He clicked it shut and lifting it, he and Fox walked over to join the other two men to return their binoculars and ear defenders to the racks.

Archer and Chalky rose, draining their drinks, and after tossing the foam cups in the bin, the four men headed to the exit, Fox pulling a ten pound note from his pocket with his free hand and passing it to Porter with a shake of his head as they walked.

Given the difference in time-zone, 8:00 am in London was 3:00 am in New York City. Although it was known as the city that never slept, it often dozed, and as it was the middle of the night on an early Thursday morning most of the city's eight million residents, spread out across the five boroughs, were fast asleep. Above the still-open bars and bodegas and shimmering lights that glowed all night down below, the high-rise apartment buildings of Manhattan housed the wealthier of those eight million people.

And one new member to this club was a dark-haired man in his early forties, a man who still couldn't believe that it had happened to him.

He worked as a bodyguard-for-hire, not normally a job that came with an impressive pay
packet
. Truth be told, it was typically shitty, thankless work which involved a lot of hanging around and unpaid overtime. But he was a solid professional, well-trained and good at what he did, and a year's worth of employment with an Arab oil Sheikh and a sequence of ever-increasing salary bumps had meant the man could finally move out of his old, beaten-down, two
-
roomed apartment in Brooklyn and take up residence in a Manhattan high-rise. He now lived in a comparatively luxurious place, on the twenty second floor of an East 41st apartment building overlooking the East River, Queens and his old neighbourhood in Brooklyn across the water. The apartment had two bedrooms, an en-suite bathroom, a lounge, kitchen and washroom. The building had a gym and a
large roof-space available to all the residents, and he found himself living in the same building as lawyers, accountants and businessmen, a world away from his old neighbourhood in Brooklyn. Finally, after twenty years of toil and graft, the man felt like he’d made it.

Working for the Sheikh was a dream come true. The bodyguard still couldn’t believe his good fortune at landing it. He had been referred to the Arab through a businessman he’d worked for during a conference in New York in 2010, and when the offer of steady employment had been put on the table he had jumped at the opportunity. At that point, he’d been out of work for almost two months, living on canned food, and was watching his meagre savings slowly dwindle away. And so far, the job had been everything he had hoped for and more.

He had been on numerous trips to the Middle East, basically paid vacations, flying First Class alongside the Sheikh every time. His boss liked to stay at expensive western hotels on the coastline, so the ample sun, sea and exotic women on view didn’t hurt. And the cheques he received each month were ten times what he had ever earned before, despite being mere drops of water in an ocean to a man as wealthy as his employer. The bodyguard had always been diligent in what he did, never afraid of a hard day’s work, but now he couldn't help but feel that life was finally starting to pay him back.

The Sheikh was staying across town at the Trump International Hotel, by Columbus Circle, and his protector would be back over there at six a.m. sharp, ready and waiting to do what he was paid for and protect his boss when he went out and about. After all, he couldn’t afford to get sloppy or careless. A man as wealthy and powerful as his employer would always have enemies, and if the bodyguard let his guard down all this could be over. He worked five days on, two off, and he'd hit the sack around midnight, early for him, wanting to get a good night's sleep and start his upcoming five day shift
,
rested and alert.

The man was flat-out in the wide double bed in the main bedroom, fast asleep, snoring gently, the open curtains of the high-rise apartment showing just a solitary tugboat moving slowly up the East River outside in the darkness far below. He had no wife or girlfriend or even a dog and was all alone, his hard and scarred body stretched out on the soft and accommodating Egyptian-cotton sheets. The silence was rhythmically broken by gentle snoring from the man in the bed, the only sound in the apartment. The place was dark and still.

The door to the apartment had no latch, only a lock on the handle.

It was silently picked with ease.

The door was pushed back smoothly and slowly, and a large figure in black moved silently into the apartment, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. The intruder was wearing dark gloves and medical wraps on
his
feet, and carried a stubby silenced pistol in
his
hands, a round in the chamber, the safety catch off, his finger on the trigger.