The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (37 page)

As
Farrell ground to a halt on the grass by the truck
,
Regan leapt out of the car. He had five long lengths of plastic explosive strips in his hands, the kind used for demolitions, the M16 slung over his shoulder. Laying the strips on the grass, he waited as Ortiz ran forward, as fast as her body armour would allow. He had his back to the rear of the truck, and she didn’t slow as she approached him, putting her boot on his hands and jumping as he hoisted her up onto the truck with a grunt from the extra weight of her armour. He reached down and passed her up the demo strips one-by-one, and she laid them in a hexagon on the side of the truck, ca
refully avoiding the gun ports.

That done, she jumped down and ran for cover behind the black car, joining Farrell and Regan who were already
there.

The three of them crouched behind the
car, covering their ears.

Farre
ll had a detonator in his hand.

He pushed it.

There was a loud crack, and a groan as the metal fractured from the shock of the explosion. Whoever was inside would have been incapacitated, like someone had tossed a flash-bang grenade inside. Ortiz and Regan ran forward. He hoisted her up again, then used the wheel to clamber up himself, whilst Ortiz stamped on the damaged metal side of the vehicle. It fell away after the fourth stamp, and she dropped down inside. The four guards were sprawled on the floor, their ears bleeding, rolling around in pain and agony, their assault rifles forgotten. Ortiz passed the AR 15’S up one-by-one quickly, and Regan tossed them to the grass. She plasti-cuffed the four men, and none of them put up a fight, all four disorientated and in pain.

Outside on the grass, Farrell passed four black holdalls up to Regan. He took them and dropped them down to Ortiz, who started loading the money from the shelves into them. The explosion had softened up any cages or cases that were locked up, and any that were still intact needed
just a hard kick to open them.

Outside on the grass, through the visor of his bulletproof helmet, Farrell checked his watch.

‘Thirty seconds,’ he shouted.

Ortiz was just finishing zipping up the third bag. She passed them up to Regan, who tossed them to the grass, Farrell loading them into the car. Ortiz packed up the fourth bag, pushing it up to Regan, who tossed it onto the grass then reached down, pulling her up. Ortiz dropped down to the grass, but on top of the truck Regan looked ahead on
Perimeter Road
.

‘Oh shit!’

An NYPD squad car, the lights flashing, was bearing down on them, having pulled
in fast from the east entrance.

Without a second’s hesitation, Regan lifted his M16 and fired, the weapon tight in his shoulder. The fire-rate was set to automatic and he emptied the magazine into the front of the car. The bullets shredded through the windshield, stitching the two cops in the front seats and killing them instantly, blood spattering all over the windshield, the glass and headlights smashing from
the hail of bullets, the car sle
wing to a halt forty yards away. The harsh sounds of machine gun fire echoed around the park, breaking the silence.

As Regan reloaded his empty clip, Farrell
stowed
the last bag in the car. Regan dropped down from the truck and ran over to the getaway car, pulling open the door. Just then, another NYPD squad car appeared, moving fast, pulling off the road onto the gras
s to move around the first car.

Still on the grass, Ortiz raised her M16. She emptied the mag into the front of the
police
car, then moved to the second attached weapon on the front of the M16 under the stock, the 203 grenade launcher. She aimed and pulled the trigger and the grenade landed smack on the windshield. It exploded on impact and the shockwave reacted with the petrol in the fuel tank, exploding into a fireball and erupting
with a force
that made her look away and shield herself.

She ran over to the car, jumping into the front seat, Farrell behind the wheel, Regan in th
e back, the money in the trunk.

‘
GO! GO!’
Ortiz shouted, pushing the catch on the M16 to let the old magazine drop and smacking a fresh one inside, doing the same with the grenade launcher. Farrell put his foot down and the car
sped
forward. He moved off the road and onto the grass. Any witnesses and onlookers were already out of the way, screaming and running fo
r cover, so the path was clear.

‘Woo!’
Regan said, pumped up and excited from the back seat. ‘
Home stretch, baby!’

Farrell sped along the grass, the Industry Pond approaching on their right. They needed to get out of the Park and head north on the Van Wyck, straight to the turn off for the abandoned
Flushing
Airport
and their last ride out of here.

But suddenly, five more cars roared into view from the
entrance, blocking their path.

Four NYP
D squad cars and a black truck.

Farrell looked closer and swore.

There were three
letters printed in white on the side of the black vehicle,
three
letters that alone meant nothing but together spelt a shitload of problems.

ESU
.

Things just got a hell of a lot harder. They hadn’t been expecting this. The NYPD standard-issue Beretta and Ithaca shotgun wouldn’t get through their Aramid and steel plate body armour, but
ESU was the NYPD’s
SWAT
team.
The officers inside the truck would be armed with sub-machine guns and assault rifles that stood a far greater chance of getting through their armour. Farrell shouted with frustration, and braked hard, grabbing his weapon and climbing out. The other two joined him, and together, all the frustrations and anger of the
failed Garden heist reappeared.

And together, the trio opened fire.

The police cars and the ESU
truck had pulled to a halt. They were forced to, as the three thieves just unleashed a lethal hail of bullets. The officers ducked for cover and rolled out the far doors, shielding themselves from the barrage of bullets, as the sound of automatic gunfire echoed around the Park.

Ortiz was fired up and angry. She walked forward, firing down on one of the squad cars. Two of the cops started firing back with their pistols and she drilled them both, emptying her magazine and shredding their car. Behind the other four cars, the other officers started leaning over the vehicle and firing down on her. They managed to hit her a few times, but each round pinged off her armour and helmet. She realised they were aiming for her legs. The
North Hollywood
duo had screwed up by not protecting their ankles and feet. Farrell’s team had learnt from that and the three of them were covered in Aramid and plating a
ll the way down to their boots.

Regan was shooting at the other cars, whilst Farrell was pinning down the
ESU
team. He emptied his mag, then fired three grenades one-by-one, firing and reloading. The task force were forced to huddle behind the truck, taking cover, as the grenades exploded against the front of the truck. The ferocity of the assault had taken them all by surprise. As Ortiz took over and fired down on all of them, Farrell rushed back to the car and climbed in.

‘Let’s go!’
he shouted to Ortiz and Regan, who were still
firing down at the ESU
truck.

Ortiz gave them another grenade and moved back as she fired, then ducked into the car, pulling her door shut as Farrell sped to the left around the cop car and the two dead officers blocking their way. As Ortiz reloaded, Regan took over, keeping up continuous fire. The five vehicles had been shredded, most of the cops behind them injured, but Ortiz suddenly pulled three grenades tucked into the doorframe beside her, passing one to Regan whilst holding the other two herself. They were flash-bangs, not explosives, designed to stun and incapacitate.

Farrell saw what she was planning and slowed. She pulled the pins on both, the same time as Regan did on his. She passed them to Farrell, who threw the grenades rapidly out of the window towards the cop cars, one after the other, as Regan did the same. The three of them leant to the side, covering their ears and shutting their eyes as bullets pinged off the car.

The three bangs was muffled, considering they had covered up, and after three seconds, the three of them were back in action. Farrell pushed his foot down and the car sped off. As they drove away, Ortiz
saw cops and members of the ESU
team in black gear either grounded, writhing on the floor, or staggering, blinded and stunned. She had reloaded her M16 and fired as they sped forward, killing three of them as they stumbled around, trying to recover their senses.

Farrell roared through the gate and out onto the
Van Wyck expressway, the I-678.

‘C’mon!’ he shouted, ecstatic. ‘Everyone OK?’

Beside and behind him, Ortiz and Regan nodded, reloading their weapons. Their car was riddled with bullet holes, the windshields smashed, but the highway was pretty quiet
as
they sped up the expressway. The turn off to
Flushing
Airport
was just a couple of miles away. Farrell pushed his foot down as hard as he could, and glanced at a watch on his wrist.

7:23 pm.

In seven minutes, they were out of here.

Archer was in a car too, burning his way down the
Grand Central Parkway
, headed towards the airport. He had unloaded all the cash from the cop car then locked up and headed back to the Marriott Hotel
after making a quick stop at a
store
on the way
. He had gone up to the hotel room, pulling his Sig and dumping the bags in the corridor and eased the key into the lock. He burst inside, his pistol aimed, but no one was inside. They were all gone. He grabbed Katic’s car keys from the side, then left immediately with the bags and headed to the basement and the car park.

Traffic had been typically unpredictable and bad, and he’d been held up, delayed on his way to the airport. He checked the time and swore. 7:24 pm. He needed to be there in six minutes o
r the three hostages would die.

Suddenly, he heard a wailing siren from behind, and an ambulance appeared in his rear-view mirror. He waited for it to pass, then immediately pulled in behind and followed it down the highway, moving fast.

7:24 pm.

Six minutes to go.

Farrell didn’t slow as he turned off the highway and sped on towards the deserted
Flushing
Airport
. The place was empty, having been shut for almost thirty years, and the car hit the chain-link fence, breaking the lock and smashing it open, the vehicle speeding
on into the abandoned airport.

The entire airfield was made up of old tarmac, empty hangars and overgrown concrete lined with weeds, but up ahead they saw a black helicopter that was waiting on a space in the tarmac outside one of the hangars. Farrell and Ortiz had come here on Thursday night and moved it out of the hangar. It was resting on wheeled supports either side, and all they had to do was roll it outside gently, cover it with a giant tarpaulin, then lock the gate again and l
eave. No one ever came in here.

As they got closer, they saw Tate standing by the helicopter. He was in his full tactical gear, balaclava and helmet on, his car parked out of the way to the right. Farrell saw the side to the helicopter was open, the money from the previous heists already stashed inside. Tate stood there, his M16 in his hands, and waited for them to
pull up
.

The car torched forward then screeched to a halt to the left of the helicopter. The three of them climbed out quickly. Farrell opened the trunk and the three of them each grabbed a bag and took it to the helicopter, packing the money away inside. Farrell ran back and got the fourth and brought it over. When that was inside with the rest, he jumped back out and pulled off his helmet and balaclava, taking a deep breath of air and running his gloved hand over his head.

‘Holy shit! We did it, you assholes. We did it!’ he said.

He walked over to Ortiz and Regan, who also pulled off their headgear and the three of them hugged, one at a time. They each turned and saw Tate standing there, watching them silently. He still had his gear on, and he hadn’t moved to join them the three of them standing there in a line in celebration.

‘We did it, man,’ Farrell said. ‘We made it.’

Tate looked at him for a moment.

Didn’t speak.

Suddenly, he raised his M16.

None of
them
had time to
register what he was doing
.

And he fired.

Tate used controlled, three-round bursts, all aimed at the head, the three of them unprotected without the helmets. Farrell, Ortiz and Regan took the rounds before they could react, and blood and brains sprayed on to the tarmac behind them as they all fell back, dead, each shot
several times through the face.