The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) by Tom Barber Page A

the emergency room since we began this case.’
    Archer looked at her stats and history on the file.
    Father killed in gang-shooting, 2001.
    Mother raped and shot dead, 2003 .
    ‘Jesus. Rough upbringing.’
    Gerrard nodded. ‘Product of her environment I guess. Doesn’t give her an excuse to start robbing banks or smacking around truck drivers though. But needless to say, that’s one bad bitch.’
    Archer took one last look at her photo, then turned over the next file.
    He saw another hard face and closely-shaved head. This man was like a smaller version of Farrell, the same flattened nose, the same harsh expression but slightly t hinner. He glanced at the name.
    Billy Regan, the file told him.
    ‘That’s Regan. Farrell met him in the joint on Riker’s. He was only on a five monther for breaking and entering, but he and Farrell were cell-mates towards the end of Farrell’s bid. They got real tight. Farrell treats him like he’s his little brother. They’re always knocking about together.’
    ‘His role?’
    ‘In the bank, he gets the tapes, takes care of any security guards and helps Ortiz with the cash in the vault.’
    Archer took a good look at the guy, then nodded, turning over.
    The next man was different. He had brown hair, normal length, but the same angry expression. Like the others, he looked to be in his late-twenties, and looked just as pissed off about life in general.
    ‘That’s Tate. Muscle. He’s a local kid, grew up in the neighbourhood with Farrell before he went to prison. They’ve used him as a hostage before, seeing as he looks less threatening than the others . He goes inside the bank before the job. The crew run in, Farrell picks him out, puts an empty gun to his head, says don’t move or I pull the trigger . Gets everyone obedient and means they can take him with them.’
    ‘And make a clean getaway,’ Archer finished. ‘Smart moves for a group of fighters.’
    Gerrard nodded as the younger man turned the page. He found himself looking at the last member of the crew. This guy looked kind of like Tate, but had black hair instead of brown and more stubble.
    ‘That’s Brown. The wheelman. Another local kid from the block. He’ll lift a getaway car a couple hours before the job, then after they hit the bank or truck, Brown will get them the hell out of there. We’ve been trying to work out where they’ re dumping the bent cars, but so far, no luck. It’s like the damn things are vanishing into mid-air. Hard to run forensics over a stolen getaway c ar when you can’t even find it. ’
    Gerrard shook his head and finished his coffee as Archer scanned each file again, one-by-one.
    ‘They are eight jobs down with a 100 per cent success rate,’ Gerrard told him. ‘ One hundred per cent . Five trucks, three banks. Totalled up, they’ve snatched c lose to three million dollars.’
    ‘Are they working for anyone higher up?’ Archer asked. ‘Someone who’s setting up the jobs, buying off information, providing truck rotas, blueprints of the banks?’
    Gerrard shook his head.
    ‘For the most part, they seem to be working alone,’ he said. ‘They do their research, and I’m sure they’re paying people off to give them the info you just mentioned. They’re smart and slick as hell. They’re always disguised, and they know our response times and security measures. They take Tate as a pretend hostage so no one moves, and are five miles away before anyone face-down inside the bank so much as coughs. They always leave the bait money and dye packs and always work to the clock.’
    Arc her looked up at him, confused.
    ‘You said they use Tate as a fake hostage? Witnesses can’t ID him later?’
    ‘He’s always disguised, shades and baseball cap. Not enough to alert suspicion, but enough to cover his face and head. The crew are never there long enough for the witnesses to get a good look, and that’s not including the fact that everyone inside is shit scared and face-down on the