flashing past. In New York City, the traffic lights system often lit up one after the other sequentially in order to try and alleviate traffic and Archer struck gold, the car torching it down Central Park West, the Park and all its trees flashing past on the left.
106.
104.
100.
95.
90.
They flew all the way down to the early 80’s.
So far, so good, beating the clock.
But then his luck shifted. He hit his first red on 80and was forced to slow to a halt, just as Farrell called out the time.
‘Four-minutes-thirty. Better move.’
Archer swore, willing the light to flick green, sensing each passing second tick away. When it did, the car leapt forward and turned right, speeding over the crossing and moving along 80, taking another quick turn on the crossing on the next left and headed onto Columbus Avenue, which would turn into 9 Avenue in a few blocks. He hit another series of greens, and they roared on downtown.
Past the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot.
Past the Juilliard School.
Past the Lincoln and Time Warner Centres.
‘Three-forty-five. Better hurry,’ Farrell said.
Archer pushed his foot down and the car sped on faster.
They roared down 9, boxing Columbus Circle and avoiding the traffic there. But there was a problem, Archer realised, his mind racing as fast as the four wheels on the car. Herald Square was on Sixth, so they needed to be three avenues over. Archer had to keep going down 9 though. If he tried to get across now, he’d hit all the traffic around Times Square and that would be the end of it.
He was forced to slow as a cop car passed the other way, but once it had passed Archer sped on.
50.
49.
48.
Into Hell’s Kitchen, the streets suitably sunny and hot.
‘Two minutes,’ Farrell said, pushing the gun tighter into Archer’s ribs.
They hit another red on 47. Archer swore. Some school-children moved over the crossing slowly, chewing up his time, laughing and playing together, no idea that a man’s life was at stake.
The clock ticked on.
‘Ninety seconds,’ Farrell said.
The light hit green and Archer sped down.
45.
43.
41.
They zoomed towards the Port Authority Bus Terminal and Archer got lucky. They should have been held up there by the buses moving in and out of the station, but they hit a gap in-between them. Eight blocks later, they hit a red at 34, Madison Square Garden straight ahead and to the left.
‘One minute,’ Farrell said.
Archer willed people across the crossings, but there seemed be an endless stream of them.
‘Fifty seconds.’
The light turned green, and Archer pulled left.
Pedestrians were starting to cross here, but he roared through a gap, inches from a woman walking over the white-lined tarmac. She started shouting obscenities and flipped them off but Archer ignored her, the car burning down 34.
They were three avenues away.
‘Thirty seconds!’ Farrell said.
Disaster struck.
They hit a red at 7.
Archer could see Herald Square one avenue away, the giant building of Macy’s running the entire block to his left.
He was so close he could see faces of people in the Square ahead.
‘Fifteen seconds,’ Farrell said, pulling back the hammer on the pistol with a click. ‘You’re not going to make it.’
Archer couldn’t move.
It was a red and people were crossing.
But suddenly, a fire engine appeared from behind them, the lights blaring.
It was a gift from heaven. Cars parted, moving out of its way, but Archer waited, ready to pounce.
He took his shot.
As the truck moved forward, he tucked in behind it, crossing over the lights. There was more honking and shouting behind him, but he didn’t hear any of it.
He was a hundred yards from his destination.
‘Seven,’ Farrell said.
Archer floored it.
‘Six!’
‘Five!’
‘Four!’
‘Three!’
‘Two!’
‘One!’
The car skidded to a halt, both men jerked forward in the seat then falling back with the momentum as the car stopped, the pistol still jammed in Archer’s side.
They paused and looked around the car.
Macy’s was behind them.
Herald Square was in front of them.
They’d made it.
Archer held the wheel tight, panting, then released it slowly. He exhaled, sweat on his brow, taking deep breaths. Farrell looked around them through the windows, then lowered the pistol slowly and tucked it back into his waistband, not saying a word. Outside them on the streets, it was noisy, but the only sound inside the car was Archer catching his breath.
They sat there in silence.
Then Farrell turned to him, and nodded.
‘Congratulations. You’re our new driver,’ he said.
EIGHT
The next morning, Wednesday, Archer stepped out onto Steinway Street from the west entrance to the subway, and started walking north up 34 Avenue. The