but the blond man heard a rustle behind him as his friend immediately swiped it up. He shook his head and walked out of the room, heading towards Cobb’s office.
Cobb was Director of the Armed Response Unit, the man responsible for taking charge and ownership for the entire detail. He was a good man and an even better leader. The run-in with the terrorist cell during the winter had strengthened the bond between everyone involved in the squad, and especially in their collective gratitude for Cobb’s leadership. Everyone who worked here had respected Cobb before, but now they viewed him as a necessity, the perfect man for his role. Cool, collected and dependable, he was one of those people who was born to take charge as if it was in his DNA, a quality you couldn’t teach. Archer had never worked with Cobb in the field, but he knew if it ever came to that, he’d follow him through fire in a heartbeat if he had to.
Cobb’s office was located across the level, overlooking the operations room and his tech team. The walls to the room were made of transparent glass, so Archer saw his boss sitting at his desk, waiting for him, dark-brown features over a black suit and white shirt with navy-blue tie. Cobb saw the younger man coming, and beckoned him inside. Archer pushed the door open, stepping into the office and letting it close behind him.
‘Morning sir.’
‘Good morning.’
Archer noticed immediately from the expression on the Cobb’s face that something was bothering him.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
Cobb paused, then motioned to a chair the other side of his desk.
‘Take a seat.’
Archer sat.
He saw Cobb take a deep breath. Whatever was coming next didn’t look like it was going to be good.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. I just got a call from an FBI detective in New York twenty minutes ago,’ he said, slowly. ‘He told me the NYPD found a body last night in a parking lot in Queens.’
Pause.
‘It was your father.’
Archer looked at him, still, silent. He didn’t react, didn’t blink, didn’t move.
A long silence followed as he absorbed the news.
‘I’m sorry Arch,’ Cobb added.
Archer swallowed and felt light-headed. Surreal. As if this was all a dream, and soon he’d blink and wake up. Across the table, Cobb sat still, a compassionate look on his dark-featured face, waiting for the life-altering news to sink in a little deeper. He had lost his own father five years ago, and understood how hearing the news for the first time felt.
‘How did he die?’ Archer asked, his mouth dry.
Cobb looked across the desk at him. He seemed about to speak, but held back.
‘How did he die?’ Archer asked again, reading Cobb’s hesitance. ‘C’mon, sir, I can handle it.’
Cobb nodded. So be it.
‘He was shot from behind. Point blank. A single shotgun round to the head. He died instantly, so he wouldn’t have known anything about it.’
Archer didn’t respond. He felt dazed. But against his will, his mind started conjuring images from what Cobb had just told him. Awful images.
A shotgun round to the head, from behind.
Not an accident.
Not a freak occurrence.
A cold, calculated execution.
Someone murdered him.
Cobb continued, talking quietly.
‘I want you to take the week off,’ he said. ‘Compassionate leave.’
He pushed a printed piece of paper across the table.
‘I booked you on a flight to New York from Heathrow. It leaves later on this afternoon. The Bureau have organised the funeral and it’s taking place tomorrow so you don’t have to worry about setting anything up. I just want you to be there. To…say goodbye.’
Archer looked up at him, his mind reeling, a thousand thoughts rushing around his head, all jarring for attention. He didn’t respond. Cobb nodded and continued.
‘I also booked you into a hotel. The Marriott Marquis. Times Square. It’s a good spot. I’ve been there before myself. Stay there until you come back.’
‘Sir, I can’t accept that.’
‘I’m not asking you to. It’s an order. Besides, it’s on the Unit’s funds. Marked down as necessary expenses. The Prime Minister told me to handle our budget at my own discretion and that’s exactly what I’m doing.’
Archer paused and tracked back mentally in their conversation. He blinked and frowned. He was confused, and about more than just his father’s murder.
‘You said the Bureau, sir?’
Cobb nodded.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Archer continued. ‘My father’s a- I mean he was- a sergeant in the NYPD. The FBI wouldn’t organise a funeral for him. Why would they? The cops and the feds