The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (26 page)

It was Farrell.

Katic and Siletti had opened their doors, but turned, watching Archer take the call. He hid his shock at hearing Farrell’s voice
and smiled.

‘Oh hey, how are you?’ Archer
said, warmly, his mind racing.

‘You’re a dead man.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You ditched us.’

‘Really?’ he said
, still cordial, thinking hard.

‘Where are you?’
Farrell asked.

‘Around.’

‘Bring us the money and I’ll let you live.’

Archer smiled, as he looked at Katic. His mind was racing as fast as he’d driven from the Garden, Katic’s gun in his ribs.

‘OK. I’ll be in touch,’ he said. He ended the call.

‘Who was that?’ Katic asked.

‘Just a friend. Let’s go.’

Siletti looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable.
Archer didn’t make eye contact.

He took another l
ook at the man’s suit instead.

They all climbed int
o the car, shutting the doors.

And what happened next was fast and violent.

In the front passenger seat, Archer smashed his left forearm into Siletti’s face, then slammed his head forward against the wheel as hard as he could. He wasn’t ready for it and his head smashed into the wheel like they’d been in an accident, and he pulled back, gasping from the pain. Archer grabbed Siletti’s pistol from the holster on his hip, jamming into the man’s ribs, like Katic had done to him. It was an Heckler and Koch USP, not FBI issue, not his service weapon. He flicked off the safety catch and pushed it into the man’s side hard, grabbing him by the slick hair.

‘
What the hell are you doing?’
Katic yelled. She pulled her own pistol and put it on Archer. ‘Drop the gun!’

‘That was Farrell. They’re not locked up. He called me from the street.’

‘What?’

Archer looked at Siletti, who was covering his nose, blood leaking through his fingers
and soaking his thin moustache.

‘He’s lying, Katic. They didn’t take down the thieves. They’re still out there. He’s the rat. Did you murder my father?’ Archer asked, jamming the gun into his ribs harder, causing him to gasp. Siletti’s nose was bleeding profusely, staining his shirt. ‘Was it you?’

‘You’re a dead man,’ he said. ‘We’re going to kill you.’

Archer punched him with his left fist, hard, spraying blood from Siletti’s nose onto the dashboard. Then Archer hesitated for a split-second.

He’d said
We
.

‘Who are you working with? Who else is in on it?’ he demanded.

‘What are you going to do, kill a
Federal
agent? You just assaulted me, asshole. You’re screwed.’

Archer paused, thinking, as Katic watched from the back, her Sig still aimed at Archer. He then jerked forward and grabbed Siletti
’s tie, pulling it off roughly.

‘Keep a gun on him,’ he told Katic. She looked at him, confused. ‘Do it.’

She complied, and nestled her
pistol in Siletti’s lower back.

‘Hands at 10 and 2,’ Archer said. Siletti swore at him and spat blood. Archer hit him again, hard, and reeling from the blow, Siletti complied, blood spilling from his nose. He grabbed the tie and wrapped Siletti’s hands up, tying them to the steering wheel and pulling the
knots tight.

Next, he grabbed the keys and turned to Katic, who looked scared and confused.

‘We’re out of here.’

‘You can’t hide. We’ll find you,’ Siletti told him, spitting out blood.

Both of them froze and looked at him as they heard this. Archer hit him again, then he and Katic stepped out, slamming the doors. But before she did so, Katic holstered her pistol, and Archer pushed the magazine release catch on Siletti’s weapon and caught the mag as it dropped from the weapon. He pushed the top-slide, catching the bullet that popped out, and then tossed the unloaded pistol on the backseat, tucking the mag and spare round in his pocket. Stepping outside, Archer slammed the door and moved to the trunk of the car and slid the keys into the lock, Katic beside him, confused. He twisted and pulled it open and they both looked inside.

There were a number of items in the trunk. Items that alone wouldn’t have cause concern, but at that moment painted a terrible picture.

A roll of duct tape.

Ten or so red bricks.

A load of plastic bags.

And a power saw.

The sharp serrated blade of
the saw was red with wet blood.

It had been used recently.

Beside him, Katic gasped. A taxi passed them on the right and Archer hailed it. The driver stopped, and looked through the open window.

‘Where to?’ he asked.

‘Anywhere,’ Archer said. The guy looked at
him, then shrugged and nodded.

Archer and Katic climbed in quickly, and the vehicle sped off down the street and into the night.

FOURTEEN

‘What the hell is going on?’ Katic asked, as the taxi sped downtown. ‘Siletti’s the rat?’

‘He lied. About Farrell. Why would he do that? And you saw all the shit in the trunk. He was waiting for us to show him where the money was. Then he was going to kill us both, chop us up with the saw and probably dump the pieces in the sea, weighed down with the bricks. And my guess is Gerrard is already down there.’

‘What? Why?’

‘He was wearing Gerry’s suit.’

Katic looked at him, her eyes wide in disbelief, trying to process the
situation.

‘Are you sure? How could you know that?’

‘Positive. Had the same stain on the right collar. I saw that stain go on there on Wednesday. He killed Gerrard tonight, probably within the hour. He got some of the mess on him. He didn’t have time to get home and change, so he swapped clothes with Gerrard instead. That’s why his hair was wet. He had to clean himself off.’

Katic thought for a moment. Realised she’d been played.

‘That son of a bitch. I trusted him.’

‘And it almost got you killed. I didn’t like that guy the moment I saw him. And he said
we
. He’s not the only one involved’

Katic didn’t respond. She shook her head slowly, her eyes unfocused, still trying to wrap her mind around it all. Archer pulled his phone and tried Gerrard again, more out of vain hope than anything else.

No one picked up.

Oh shit, Gerry
, Archer thought, the image of Siletti executing him flashing into his mind.

‘Wait,’ Katic suddenly told the driver, regaining her clarity. ‘Stop here, please.’

The driver complied. They were just before
Columbus Circle
, on 60
th
and Broadway. Archer and Katic got out on the Park side, both shuffling out through Archer’s door. She paid the fare, and the taxi departed, and she rushed across the street, Archer following. As they stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street, Archer took Siletti’s car keys, the magazine to the USP and the spare bullet, wiped them off with the lapel of his coat and dropped them all in a trash can as they passed it.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked her.

‘Siletti’s going to be looking for us,’ she said. ‘Especially you. He was right. You just assaulted a
Federal
agent, Archer, unprovoked. If we don’t find justifiable cause for that, you are going to be in a whole new world of problems.’

‘So where
are we going?’ he asked again.

They had stopped outside a huge building on the west side of
Columbus Circle
. He glanced to his left and saw a silver-coloured giant globe mounted on marble block, then looked back up at the structure in front of them. He knew what it was. His father had taken him here for a slice of cake one Saturday afternoon almost twenty years ago. He looked straight ahead and saw the name of the place printed on the golden
awning above the wide entrance.

Trump International Hotel and Tower.

‘Parker lives here,’ Katic said.

‘Parker? As in the guy from your team.’

‘The very same.’

Ar
cher looked up at the building.

‘He lives here?’

Katic nodded. ‘He’s Siletti’s partner on the team. Let’s go up there and talk to him. Tell him what just happened. Perhaps Parker can tell us more and we can get some back-up. Three’s better than two, right?’

‘He might be in on it.’

She poi
nted up at the expensive hotel.

‘Do you really think he needs the money?’

The building was impressive from the street, but Archer was stunned as he walked into the lobby of the Trump hotel. It looked like a movie s
et or something out of a dream.

Inside the lobby and reception area, the polished walls and decorations were lined with golden metal, the floor and reception desk fashioned from immaculately cut marble, not a single speck of dirt in sight.
Crystal
chandeliers hung from the ceiling, opulent and beautiful, extravagantly luxurious. To the left was a seating area, couches and armchairs with embroidered cushions that all together would probably cost him a year’s salary. Neat bouquets of white flowers had been placed on the tables in front of the seating area and also on the marble desktop of the reception counter, their fresh smell scenting the air.

As he saw guests moving past him through to the exit or headed to the bar and restaurant up ahead, he suddenly became aware of how scruffy he looked in his overcoat, t-shirt and sneakers. He figured there could be cops or security lurking who might have access to the NYPD scanner, or maybe a report had gone out over the television networks breaking the news on the Garden heist, so he kept back and let Katic take the lead. His feelings of sartorial inadequacy were confirmed when he saw the expression on the face of the woman behind the reception desk. From her seat he saw her look him up and down, and she seemed distinctly unimpressed.

Katic approached the woman, flipping her badge and spoke in lowered tones with her, asking what floor and room Parker occupied. After a brief conversation, Katic thanked the woman and led Archer forward through the lobby to the elevators, moving over the polished marble floor. Katic pushed the button for the elevators and they waited, Archer l
ooking around the place in awe.

‘I need to join the FBI,’ he said.

‘That’s highly unlikely, given our current predicament,’ she replied.

He smiled as the elevator arrived. She was right. She turned and winked at him as the doors opened. They let an elderly couple out of the cart, then stepped inside, and Katic pushed the button for the 41
st
floor.

After the elevator moved up the building and arrived on 41, they got off and Katic led them down the corridor. Up here it was equally impressive, lots of cream-coloured carpets and golden lighting lining the white walls.

’41 F,’ she told Archer quietly, as they moved over the smooth carpet,
headed right from the elevator.

Soon enough, they arrived outside the polished wooden door,
41 F
printed on a gold
en oval-shaped tag on the door.

Ka
tic went to knock, but stopped.

At the same time, she and Archer both looked down.

The door was already open.

It was slightly ajar, the lock resting against the metal frame. One simple push from the inside would lock it, but no one seemed to have done so. Without a word, Katic stepped back and pulled her pistol, flicking off the safety. She thought for a moment, then reached behind her back into her waistband and passed Archer back his Sig. He nodded appreciation and flicked off the safety catch, both of them holding the weapons double-handed. She looked at him, raising a finger
to her lips. He nodded.

Then she pushed the door back gently and they moved into the apartment.

It was astonishingly opulent inside. It was a large suite, highly polished furniture and chairs on top of luscious cream carpet and flawless decoration. Through the windows, the view of the Park was spectacular, a sea of greenery alongside the looming building work structures of
59
th
Street
to the right. The room seemed to have a golden glow, like everything else in the hotel, and it was silent. The two newcomers moved in silently, tip-toeing softly, their pistols moving everywhere their eyes went, avoiding touching anything and not making a sound. Katic
didn’t call out Parker’s name.

They didn’t know who else could be in here.

Archer turned left. The door to the main bedroom was open. He moved inside, smooth and quiet, the 9mm Sig up, his finger tight on the trigger, his footfalls soft on the carpet. He saw the bed was made, undisturbed, pristine white sheets, duvet and pillows tucked and folded by house-keeping. Like the main room, the bedroom was empty. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Katic reappear. She shook her hea
d, her pistol down by her side.