Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (35 page)

‘Good luck, Arch.’

Archer nodded. Then he turned and walked out of the freshly repaired office.

He walked into the briefing room and saw his team-mates there, all of them save for Fox and Chalky. He said goodbye to them all one by one, embracing and shaking hands, then turned and headed downstairs to the exit. By the stairs, he saw Nikki was waiting for him. He walked forward and stood there in front of her, both of them looking at each other silently. Then Nikki moved forward and hugged him.

‘Thank you,’ she said, quietly, into his ear.

After a few moments they parted and she wiped tears from her eyes.

‘Shit. This is embarrassing,’ she said.

‘It’s OK. I have this effect on most women,’ he joked. She laughed, then her smile faded and she looked at him.

‘Come back soon, you hear?’

‘I will.’

He smiled and reached forward, taking her hand and squeezing it. Then he released it and headed down the stairs towards the lower floor and the exit.

He took a last look down the corridor, then pushed open the main door.

And ran into Chalky, leaning against the wall outside. 

He was standing there alone in the morning daylight, dressed in jeans and a navy blue polo shirt.

'There you are,’ Archer said. ‘Thought I'd missed you,'

Chalky shook his head and kicked off the wall, standing there beside his best friend. There was a long silence, the distant sounds of early morning London filling the air. Chalky broke it.

'So you're really leaving?'

Archer nodded. 'Yeah. Afraid so.'

'When will you be back?'

'I don't know. But guess I'll have to come back sometime soon. You need someone here to keep you out of trouble.'

Chalky grinned.

'Tell you what, I think that guy with the knife did you a favour, Arch,’ he joked. ‘I always told you your face needed some work done to it.'

There was a pause as Archer smiled.

Then the two best friends stepped forward and embraced. They parted, stepping back, and shook hands.

‘And thanks,’ Chalky said.

‘For what?’

‘For everything.’

Pause.

'I'd better head up. Don't want to piss off Cobb or Porter or I’ll be joining you,' Chalky said.

He nodded.

‘Take care, Arch.'

'You too.'

Archer nodded as his best friend turned and headed into the building, moving up the stairs and disappearing out of sight. Slinging his holdall back over his shoulder, Archer took one last look at the police station, the Armed Response Unit, his home for over two years. He smiled and took a deep breath of fresh air. He felt good.

Ready.

Excited.

Then he turned on his heel and started walking through the parking lot towards the exit. Suddenly, he heard a voice call after him.

'Your girl never did meet someone else, did she?'

He turned and saw Chalky back at the front door.

Archer looked at him for a moment.

He grinned.

Chalky shook his head.

‘You always were a bad liar,’ he called. ‘Ask her if she has any hot friends.’

Archer smiled and waved. Then he turned and walked across the parking lot. He
turned
right down the street, and headed off into the morning London sunlight.

His bag slung over his shoulder and his eyes looking straight ahead.

THE END

###

About the author:

Born in Sydney, Australia and raised in England and Brunei, Tom Barber has always had a passion for writing and story-telling. It took him to Nottingham University, England, where he graduated in 2009 with a 2:1 BA Hons in English Studies. Post-graduation, Tom moved to New York City and completed the 2 Year Meisner Acting training programme at The William Esper Studio, furthering his love of acting and screen-writing.

Upon his return to the UK in late 2011, Tom set to work on his debut novel,
Nine Lives
, which has since become a five-star rated Amazon UK Kindle thriller. The sequel,
The Getaway
, has been equally successful, garnering five-star reviews in the U.S and the UK.

Blackout
is the third novel in the Sam Archer series.

For update
s on all new r
eleases, follow @TomBarberBooks.

Silent Night

By

Tom Barber

The new Sam Archer thriller.

Now available on Amazon Kindle.

*****

ONE

No one was in
Central Park
to see the man die.

It was Friday 17
th
December, a week before Christmas.
New York City
was a majestic place during the summer but it was equally captivating in the winter. Festive cheer was everywhere. Shop windows were adorned with imaginative seasonal displays, each store trying to outdo the other. Bars served strong punch containing warming liquor, fruit and spices. Speakers were rigged up on lampposts in several neighbourhoods in the outer boroughs through which familiar carols were played during the day. And saplings planted in small soil patches on the sidewalks all over
Manhattan
were decorated with lights, contributing to the red and golden hue the city adopted every twelfth month of the year.

With soft snow powdering the grass and golden lights sprinkled in trees all over its 843 acres,
Central Park
epitomised the feel-good seasonal ambience of the city. During the day and early evening, the ice-skating rinks in the Park were in constant use. People could either rent skates or wear their own, some gliding around the ice gracefully, others wobbling their way round far less confidently, treating each completed lap as a small victory. There was the constant
click-clock
of horse’s hooves as they pulled carriages along the roads, tourists or couples sitting in the back, taking photographs or enjoying a romantic tour. Small two or three-piece brass bands took up positions beside the paths and worked their way through a repertoire of Christmas songs. And amongst all this, there was a constant stream of people just exploring the sights and admiring the scenery around them. Thirty five million people made their way into
Central Park
each year and a significant portion of that number came during the winter months.

Nevertheless, once the sun went down the Park started to quieten. A few remaining horse-drawn carriages trundled past, but the activity from earlier in the day quickly decreased as the air grew colder and the night got darker. The Park was open until 1am, but it had been a chilly December and that particular Friday evening was the coldest of the month so far. People were not inclined to hang around.

Coming up to 10pm, the lamp post-lit paths and sidewalks were now eerily quiet.

Snow had just started drifting down from the sky again, adding an extra layer to the white powder that had already blanketed the grass and naked branches on the trees.

During the summer one of the most popular areas in the Park was Sheep Meadow, located to the West between 66
th
and
69
th
Street
. Fifteen acres in total, the large field hosted hundreds of people every day from early May to the end of September, but apart from the paths running around the perimeter it was shut off during the autumn and winter
months to protect the ground and preserve the grass. That night the Meadow was dark, empty and quiet.

Save for the falling snow and one solitary figure.

At the north perimeter, a groundsman was slowly trudging his way along the fence, heading west. He was working alone. Before starting his shift he’d wrapped up well. He was wearing four layers of clothes accompanied by a scarf, a thick set of gloves and a knitted woollen hat. He’d read somewhere that a human being could lose something like fifty per cent of their body heat through the top of their head, so during the frostier months he always made sure that the beanie was firmly in place before he started work.

Being of Mexican descent, he didn’t enjoy the
New York
winter for a number of reasons. One of them was the emptiness of the Meadow at this time of year. Even though the summer period tripled his workload he still far preferred the warmer, and therefore busier and more sociable time of year. Some places were designed for activity; without it, they seemed neglected and forlorn.

Pausing by the fence, he looked out at the dark field. It had the same deserted feel of a large school on a break for the holidays or an airport Terminal at night.

It was unnatural.

He didn’t like it.

Six hours after beginning his shift, the groundsman was almost finished for the evening. He had a number of jobs to attend to in his area of the Park, but emptying the trash cans would be the last tonight. When he was done, he’d punch his timecard, take the A train back up to Spanish Harlem and enjoy a bowl of his wife’s homemade soup. He walked along the fence pulling a wheeled cart behind him, a handful of black trash bags tossed inside. Just two more bins to empty. The drop-off point for removal of the bags was at the south-west corner of the Meadow, so once he’d gathered the last two he would dump them all there, return the cart to storage and get his ass home.

He approached the penultimate can, his thick boots crunching in the snow as he walked. He could see the black bag inside was about three quarters full. Coming to a halt, he pulled the bag out of the can, tied off the ends and then tossed it into the cart behind him to join the others. He drew a fresh bag, pulling it off a roll he’d stashed in the cart and replaced the old one.

But just as he was about to move on something on the ground caught his eye.

It was pretty well camouflaged by the snow. He’d almost missed it.

Stepping forward and bending down, he wiped off a layer of snow with his glove.

It was a black shoebox. It looked like someone had tossed it at the trash but missed and walked away, leaving it there on the ground. He was about to scoop it up to throw it inside the newly-replaced bag, but hesitated. He could hear something.

The box was clicking.

The groundsman looked around. All he could see was
falling
snow and a dark, quiet Park. Whoever had left the box here had long since gone.

Maybe there's an animal inside,
he thought.

It was common practice in the city for unwanted pets to be dumped like this. He couldn’t just leave the poor creature out here to freeze to death.

He reached forward, pulled a string securing the box and lifted the lid.

The moment he did, the clicking stopped.

There was a
whump.
A small cloud of yellow gas spewed from the box and hit him directly in the face. He instinctively recoiled but inhaled at the same time, the mustard-coloured gas sucked into his mouth and nostrils.

And immediately, he started choking.

He couldn’t breathe. Coughing and gagging, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a horrific pain in his chest. It felt as if it was on fire. Every desperate breath he tried to take made the searing, burning sensation worse. He coughed harder, his whole body starting to jerk, blood spraying out of his mouth onto the white snow. He staggered back then collapsed to the ground, doubling over. He curled up in a tight ball in a vain effort to stop the agony, but it was getting worse.

He started to retch, his body spasming violently, blood and pieces of lung tissue spewing from his mouth onto the snow around him. The agonising and uncontrollable spasms increased in intensity, contorting his body and growing more and more violent. Suddenly, there was a loud
crack.