The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) by Tom Barber

thumbed through them and saw each separately-stapled stack had a mug-shot stuck to the top right corner of the page. Five separate profiles and rap-sheets.
    Returning to the first page, Archer looked down at the first photo.
    It was a man. He looked tough and mean, a flattened nose and uncompromising dark eyes over a stubbled jaw - line and a mouth that showed not even a hint of a smile. He had a closely shaved head and a hard face that looked pissed off that he had to stand there and have his mug-shot taken. The black and white height-chart behind him said he was six-two. Archer shifted his gaze, looking at the name on the file prin ted in a box on the left.
    Sean Farrell.
    ‘You want to talk me through them?’ he a sked, looking down at the file.
    Gerrard nodded.
    ‘That’s Sean Farrell, the leader of the bunch. Rough piece of work. He did eight years on Riker’s for murder. He was convicted a month before his eighteenth birthday, so he escaped the electric chair.’
    ‘Who did he kill?’
    ‘Another kid his age. Walked up behind him on a basketball court and blew his head off with a shotgun, point blank from behind. Sound familiar?’
    Archer looked u p at him sharply.
    Now Gerry had his attention.
    ‘Motive?’
    ‘The guy slept with his ex-girlfriend. Farrell didn’t like it and decided to let the guy know how he felt.’
    Archer dropped his gaze back to the sheet, looking at the man’s li st of convictions. It was long.
    ‘He was an up and coming boxer once, hence the nose that looks like a pancake. He wasn’t good enough to turn pro, so he started cornering other fighters. He owns a gym over in Queens ,’ Gerrard continued.
    Archer scanned the other details on the page as Gerrard continued to talk. His D.O.B, place o f residence, family, rap-sheet.
    ‘He did another six months last year for GBH, so he’s two strikes down,’ Gerrard said. ‘And let me tell you, it’s just a matter of time before he swings dry for a third. He is walking, talking trouble, that man. Trouble follows him everywhere he goes. He’s got a lot of enemies bo th Federal and police-wise, not to mention guys from his own neighbourhood that he’s managed to piss off over the years. He’s one of those guys that never backs down to anyone, no matter the situation, no matter the odds. Legacy of being a fighter. A good thing in the boxing ring, but not so good out on the street. That attitude’s already landed him almost ten years in prison.’
    Archer nodded. He took another look at the guy’s photo, repeating his name in his head.
    Sean Farrell.
    Then he turned his file to one side, examining the next in the pile.
    To his surprise, this one was a woman, but in her mug-shot she looked just as tough as Farrell. Maybe even meaner. Her dark hair was tightly drawn back in corn-rows lining her head, and she had a lean, hard face, rock-solid cheekbones and angry brown eyes. She looked Hispanic or Mexican, and tough as the nails that had been hammered into his father’s coffin.
    ‘That’s Farrell’s girlfriend. Carmen Ortiz.’
    ‘ Latina ?’
    ‘Dominican. As you can tell by the photo, she makes her boyfriend look like a damn teddy bear. She cage fights out in New Jersey every few weeks, Farrell as her corner-man. She’s got a perfect record as a pro, fifteen wins, no losses. She finished all but one of those fights, and handed out a string of concussions and three broken arms on her way. She’s a savage, Sam. Difference between her and her boyfriend is that she do es it legally inside the cage.’
    Archer listened, but continued to examine the woman’s photograph.
    ‘In the bank, she works as muscle,’ Gerrard said. ‘Farrell controls the room whilst she makes sure everyone inside listens to what he says. Her signature is busting up bank managers and armoured truck drivers. Breaks their nose, puts a shotgun to their balls and tells them to open up. Works every time. Gets them compliant real fast. She’s sent nine of them to