Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,66

I’d like to keep you around on advisory roles.’

They looked at each other. Neither was convinced.

Maddy turned to Shepherd. ‘To be honest, I just want to go home.’

‘It might be dangerous.’

‘I don’t care.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘OK. I understand.’

He looked at Kruger, who nodded. ‘Me too. I just want a shower and to put an icepack on my face.’

‘Very well. But some detectives go with each of you for the time being. Until this is over, you both have protection.’

Outside Kearny Medical Wicks, Drexler and another man listened in silence as Finn finished outlining his plan. They were standing just outside the entrance, their arms folded against the cold. The newcomer had arrived fifteen minutes ago. Wicks and Drexler had met him before. They were happy to see him and also knew without a doubt that they could trust him.

Finn finished his explanation, then turned to the newcomer.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘Shit, Finn,' the man said. 'Where’s this side of you been hiding? You’re cleverer than I thought.’

Sway grinned.

‘This ties up all the loose ends,’ he said. ‘When this is done, and Bobby’s loaded up the canisters, we’re out of here. There’s plenty of room for you if you want to hitch a ride. Bob’s got some buyers interested in Juarez. We’ll sell the virus then be out of Roller before the end of the week.’

‘That sounds good. I’m sick of this place.’

‘So you’ll do it?’

‘Of course.’

Sway looked at Drexler.

‘You?’

She hawked and spat, nodding. ‘I’m in.’

He turned to Wicks, who nodded, taking a drag on a cigarette. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Great. Now listen close. I’ll outline it one more time.’

THIRTY ONE

Saturday night in any Manhattan bar was easily the busiest time of the week. Make it seven days before Christmas and pretty much every place with alcohol and a dance floor was packed. That night Tonic East was no exception. The place had three floors. There were bars on 1, 2 and 3, televisions mounted all over the walls on 1 and 3 whilst 2 was dominated by a large dance-floor and DJ booth. Although it was winter the place was buzzing, the heating and the proximity of other human bodies helping to keep everyone in the place warm.

Shepherd and Marquez were parked around the corner with Jacobs, getting him ready. But they had a man on each level inside the bar. Jorgensen was on 3, Josh on 2. Archer was on the ground floor, facing the entrance, his back to the bar and ignoring everyone around him. Seeing as the building was heated he’d left his jacket in the car outside and was dressed in a grey hoodie and blue jeans, blending right in with the mass of NFL fans scattered around him. He had his right hand by his hip, covering the Sig in the holster hidden under the loose-fitting top. He didn’t want anyone touching or grabbing it by accident. The team were all hooked up with ear pieces and mics tucked into their sleeves so they could communicate instantly without having to pull out a cell phone.

The two doormen checking for ID had been informed of the situation. The manager of the bar had needed a lot of persuasion to convince him to let the detectives take their weapons inside and to allow the trade to happen. But at the end of the day this was an NYPD operation and the outcome was inevitable. He’d accepted he just had to shut up and put up.

Leaning against the bar, Archer shot his cuff and checked his watch.

9:54 pm.

Jacobs would be sent inside any minute now. Archer had scanned everyone he could see from his position, but there was no sign of either Rourke or Sway anywhere.

Shepherd’s voice suddenly came up over his ear piece. ‘Report.’

‘Nothing up here,’ Jorgensen said.

‘Me either,’ said Josh.

‘No sign,’ Archer said.

‘OK, get ready. We’re sending Jacobs in. Sway or Rourke could appear at any minute.’

In the Ford, Shepherd watched Marquez place a sticky mic under the collar of Jacobs’ suit. As she worked, Shepherd glanced at the English senior partner’s face. He looked strained and had been asking to speak to his son. Earlier, he’d been permitted to call a woman looking after the boy and had asked her to watch him a little longer. She’d agreed pleasantly, completely unaware that he was making the call from an NYPD interrogation cell with a group of detectives staring down at him.

‘I want to speak to my son,’ he repeated to Shepherd. ‘Please.’

‘Once this is over,’ Shepherd