Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (36 page)

His spine had snapped.

Immediately going into shock, the groundsman gargled as fluid filled his ruptured lungs.

And thirty seconds after he’d inhaled the gas, the man drowned in his own blood.

His jerking and convulsing ceased.

He was still, blood and bits of lung spattered both on his clothes and on the ground around him.

Crimson against the white.

He was the only person in the Meadow. No one else was around.

And the snow continued to fall silently from the sky.

Across the city, they’d been working on the guy for almost three hours before he cracked. There were two people torturing him, a man and a woman called Wicks and Drexler. Inside the dark house Wicks walked over to the bed and put his hands on his knees, looking down at the bloodied man who was strapped to the frame. The guy had lasted longer than they’d expected. They’d worked their way through every sharp implement they could find in the kitchen, and by the second hour had gotten creative.

Wicks reached forward and ripped a strip of duct tape off the dying man’s mouth. He did it fast, like pulling off a band aid. Then he peered in close. The guy’s eyes were hazy from blood loss and shock trauma.

‘Something you wanna tell us?’ Wicks asked.

The man coughed weakly, blood around his mouth, his arms and legs taped securely to the wooden bed posts. He mumbled something that was just a whisper.

‘Louder.’

‘Macy’s.’

‘Go on.’

He coughed.

‘B
..
Bryant Park,’
he said, blood bubbling out of his lips. He must have ruptured a lung.

‘And?’

‘Pier…17.’

‘What time?’

‘Around…11. 30.’

Wicks looked into the man’s eyes for a moment,
then
rose.

Drexler stepped forward, a suppressed Glock 21 in her hand and gave the man on the bed six slugs, three to the chest,
three
to the head. She pulled the trigger fast, the man’s body jerking as he took each round, splinters coughing up from the bed frame and floor under the bed as the bullets buried
themselves
in the wood. The spent cartridges jumped out of the ejection port, tinkling to the floor, each one bouncing and eventually rolling to a stop. Looking at the dead man, Wicks pulled his cell phone and dialled a number. Someone answered on the fourth ring.

‘It’s me. He talked. We’re in business.’

He listened, nodding, then ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket. Then he turned to Drexler.

‘What time is it?’

Still holding the pistol, the dark-haired woman shot her cuff.
‘6:25. The sun’ll be up soon.’

Wicks nodded.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’