good.’
Willard frowned, looking at the street beside them.
‘You sure? We’re only on 81?’
‘Yeah. I’ll stretch my legs.’
Willard shrugged and nodded then pulled to a halt. Archer grabbed the handle and pushing the door open, stepping out and closing it behind him.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
He walked around the car to the sidewalk and started walking off, feeling Willard’s eyes on his back.
‘Hey.’
Archer stopped, then turned.
From behind the wheel, Willard smiled and raised a hand.
‘Nice to meet you man. Have a good one.’
Archer raised his own hand, and the squad car moved off up the street. At the lights, Willard turned left and headed left down 81 towards 2 Avenue, and the car disappeared out of sight.
The moment he was gone, Archer sagged and sat on a bench, shaking his head, taking off the hat. He’d thought he had problems before, but now he was on a whole new level.
He’d be at Flushing airport at 7:30 pm.
He’d have to be, to save the hostages.
On one side there would be Siletti.
And O’Hara.
Farrell.
Ortiz.
Regan.
And Tate.
On the other, there was one man.
Archer.
Him, all alone.
He leaned back on the bench, sunlight shining down on him, the street around him quiet, and looked straight ahead, assessing his odds.
Six on one.
And knew it was going to take a damn miracle to stop them.
*
A hundred and twenty eight miles south from where Archer was sitting, the Atlantic City hotel room Tate was booked into under a fake name was plush and expensive. Tate always liked to skim a little off the top when he came down here. One night in the best suite normally cost close to five hundred bucks, but that was a drop in the ocean considering the amount of cash that was soon to be coming their way. It made the whole trip just like that little more enjoyable, like a mini vacation. It was an executive suite for a business executive. Tate was down here on business, so technically he qualified.
He’d been here for thirty-six hours. He’d been in the casinos till three am last night and had cleaned the last of the stolen Chase cash, and had just taken an hour long bath. He’d drunk two beers and watched a Pay-Per-View replay of the welterweight title fight from the Garden last night. He walked out of the bathroom, having towelled off and pulled on a white bathrobe, and strode barefoot across the padded white carpet.
Across the room, four zipped up bags sat in a line, neatly organised. Although this wasn’t New York City, he still had to be careful when he came down here. He had a rule not to take more than $100k into any one casino at any one time. The FBI would take a great interest in what he’d been up to down here in the last year, and he didn’t want to leave a paper trail.
But he’d traded all the cash. The notes were clean, loaded up in the bags, a million and a half. He checked the time on the digital clock on the bed-side table. 11:54 am. Just before midday. He was planning on getting something to eat, then packing up the car downstairs and heading back to NYC for the extraction later tonight. He grabbed a phone and dialled room service and asked for a steak, medium-rare, and a chocolate sundae. Once he’d eaten, he’d pack up all his shit, get out of here and head back to help out the rest of the team.
Walking over the thick carpet to the bed, he examined the outfit he’d be wearing later tonight. He’d laid it across the bed, making sure the stitching was tight, no loose fibres or chinks in the armour. He tapped it with his knuckle and it gave a dull clunk. There was enough Aramid and steel-plating under the cloth to stop pistols, machine guns, shotguns, even semi-automatic rifles from a reasonable distance. Tate wouldn’t be directly in the firing line, but he figured they’d be taking some heat before they got up in the air and it never hurt to be prepared. They’d come a hell of a long way as a team. He didn’t fancy getting popped just as they were making their final getaway.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
Room service. His food. Tate smiled. He reached for his pistol resting on a side cabinet, then thought better of it and tucked it under the sheet. He turned and walked forward towards the door, looking forward to his meal. Out of habit more