Jerome ran towards a stairwell door, startling the other two men. He slammed his shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. He stepped back and slammed into it again. Then again. It was a steel fire door set into a steel frame. “Even if I could get through this door, which I doubt, it’ll take time.”
“We don’t have time.” The only illumination in the hallway came from two windows. Leopold pressed his face against a window and peered down into the street below.
Alarm showed on the normally stoic bodyguard’s face. “Please tell me you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“We have to get off this floor so we can call for help.” Leopold unplugged the vacuum cleaner. The extension cord was fifty feet long, so that it could clean the entire length of the hall carpet without changing plugs. Long enough for what Leopold had in mind.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
In 1975, the Old Lady had been a beat cop in Hell’s Kitchen, then one of the worst neighborhoods in New York City. It was there that she caught a fourteen-year-old kid breaking into a cigarette machine. He was just a dumb kid trying to impress some equally dumb kids on a dare. These days, if you tried to get tough with a teenager, he was liable to pull out a gun and start shooting, but back then, cops still tried to scare kids straight. She handcuffed the kid, read him the Miranda rights, and told him a couple of horror stories about life in juvie hall. She patted him down and found a pocket knife. When the kid broke down and started blubbering, she let him off with a warning. Because she never charged the kid, the knife didn’t get turned in as evidence.
The phony security guard opened the door, gun in hand. The cleaning women were still sitting in the same corner. The Old Lady was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, wringing a lace handkerchief in her hands.
“Okay, bitches. On your feet,” he commanded. “We’re going for a walk.”
The cleaners jumped up instantly. The Old Lady was much slower. Her joints creaked as she rose at a glacial pace.
“Move it, granny.”
“I’m moving as fast as I can. I’m just an old lady.
He waved the gun casually in her direction. “Come on, already.” She shuffled along, slowly, and he lost his patience. “Do I have to shoot you?” With his free arm, he grabbed her by the shoulder.
She pitched forward, hit the floor and wailed. “Owwww! I think I broke my hip.”
“Are you shitting me?”
He bent over the prostrate figure. As soon as he was close enough, the forty-year-old switchblade came out from under the hanky. With a click of a button, the blade appeared and the Old Lady pushed it into the softest part of his throat with her right hand. Her left hand shoved the hanky into his mouth, muffling his screams. Blood gushed from the wound. He didn’t drop the gun but his grip loosened. The Old Lady pulled it from his hand and pumped two bullets into his midsection. He fell back onto the floor and lay still.
She took the gun from his dead hand. It was a .38 Police Special, just like the revolver she had used on the force. She flipped open the cylinder. There were still four rounds. She closed it up and held it out in front of her. It was heavier than she remembered. “Okay, you two. We’re getting out of here. Stay close behind me.”
She headed down the hall with the two women on her heels. She stopped at the stairwell and the women bumped into her. “Dammit, when I said stay close, I didn’t mean up my ass.”
Simultaneously, they said, “Sorry.”
“Stay here.” She stepped into the stairwell, checking both up and down to ensure it was empty. Her heart was pounding. She hadn’t done anything like this in a long time and she really hoped she didn’t have a heart attack before it was over. “Let’s move.”
Down the stairs and into the lobby. The Old Lady breathed a sigh of relief. It had been years since her police days, but her training still stuck with her. Rule number one: protect the civilians. “You two scram. Call the cops and then get as far away from here as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Once they were out the front door, the Old Lady took a look at the security desk. It looked like the cockpit of a jet fighter. There were buttons and switches and lights and she didn’t have a clue what most of them did. A few were labeled. Six switches were marked with labels reading Elevator 1, Elevator 2, Elevator 3, et cetera. Those she understood. Most of the rest was a mystery. She found the security camera feed. She checked out the twenty-ninth floor. DiMauro was still alive, thank God. Three people stood over him while a fourth stood staring down an elevator shaft. That man had the height and build of Frankenstein’s monster. When he turned away from the elevator the Old Lady saw his face and recognized him. “Oh, shit.” DiMauro was in more trouble than she thought.
She did a quick scan of the other floors to see if there were any more intruders. On eighteen, she saw Johnny Chavez with two other men.
The Old Lady found her phone on the desk. She dialed Chavez’s number. An electronic voice told her “We’re sorry. The party you are trying to reach is not in our service area.”
What the hell? She thought. He’s right over my head. She considered using the PA to speak to him, but then the others would know she was free and the police were on the way.
She turned the elevators back on.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
“How much so far?” Nasrin asked.
Salazar never took his eyes off the computer screen. “Seven mil and eight hundred grand so far.”
DiMauro’s fingers were a blur as they tapped away on his keyboard. He certainly wasn’t deliberately going slowly. It was all going well, but she wouldn’t be complacent. DiMauro had already surprised her once. Despite his obvious terror, he deliberately antagonized Irwin just to make a point. The point was well taken. He seemed to know exactly what button to push - a button marked “Biff,” apparently. The name seemed to suit him. Irwin was a typical, macho, self-involved, American meathead whose maturity seemed to have stalled in high school. He was useful, but only so long as he obeyed. She was an expert at getting men to do what she wanted, but DiMauro proved he could manipulate, too. Fortunately, he seemed more interested in saving his own neck than in interfering with her plans. He would escape if he got the chance. She had no intention of giving him the chance.
Nick was taking too long. She tried calling him. No answer. “Conor.”
“Yes?”
“Nick isn’t answering his phone. Go downstairs and find out what’s wrong. Call me right away.”
Conor got on the elevator and headed down.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“Who am I, Spider-Man?” Chavez asked incredulously.
Leopold tied one end of the extension cord to a door handle. “It’s simple. We knock out this window, lower ourselves to the floor below, knock out that window, and we’re in. Then we can call for help.”
“Are you nuts? We’re eighteen stories up.” Chavez held up his injured arm. “Besides, I’m not doing any mountaineering with this.”
“We can lower you.”
“Please reconsider this.” Jerome tried to talk sense to his employer. “The wind at this height will make a controlled descent impossible. You’ll get blown around and smashed against the side of the building.”
Leopold removed a fire extinguisher from the fire station to break the window. “I’m doing this. If you two want to stay here, that’s fine with me.”
“Hey,” Chavez called. “An elevator is moving.”
The indicator above elevator three showed it was rising from the lobby. Was the phony guard finally coming after them? Jerome pointed his gun at the doors, ready to fire as soon as they opened.
“Uh-oh.” Said Chavez. “Here comes another one.”
Elevator five was also moving, coming down from the twenty-ninth floor. Leopold pointed his gun.
Elevator two arrived with a ding. The doors opened and Jerome found himself pointing his gun and a tiny, wizened figure.
A gravelly voice said, “Damn
, you’re a big one.”
“Boy, are we glad to see you, beautiful.” Chavez said. “Tell me you brought the cavalry.”
“The police are on the way.”
“Thank God.”
“Excuse me.” Leopold was still pointing his gun at the other elevator. “We still have a situation here.”
Jerome joined Leopold and aimed his gun as well. They all held their breath as elevator five slowly approached the eighteenth floor … and then passed.
Chavez asked, “Where’s Gil? Is he okay?”
“He’s being held on the twenty-ninth floor. I killed the man at the front desk. There are four others, three men and one woman. Oh, and get this. One of them is Irwin Lutz.”
“You mean that guy Gil used to call Biff?”
“The very same.”
“Not good. That guy is bonkers.”
Leopold asked, “What’s the floor plan on the twenty-ninth floor?”
“Are you seriously thinking about going up there?” Chavez asked. “The police are on the way.”
“We can’t wait. All the money they steal will end up in the hands of terrorists. We have to stop them now. The big question is, how do we get upstairs without being gunned down the moment the elevator doors open?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Nasrin could hear the fear and frustration in Conor’s voice over the phone. “Nick is dead and the broads are gone. Oh, God. What do we do?”
She spoke in a gentle, soothing voice. “Calm down, Conor. I knew this was a risk and prepared for it. We have to assume the police are on the way. I want you to do exactly as I say, and then get back here right away. Okay?”
“Okay?” He felt better after having talked to her. She always knew what to do. He got to work and, as per her instructions, prepared a message for the police.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Three police cars arrived in front of the building. Police officers climbed out of their vehicles and crouched behind them, using them as barriers and they pointed their weapons at the lone figure sitting in front of the building.
Inspector Hiro called to the man through a bullhorn. “This the police. Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head.”
The figure didn’t move. He sat cross-legged in front of the double doors of the main entrance. He had a shotgun in his lap but he was not aiming it, which is why the police hadn’t yet opened fire.
“Do you hear me? If you do not surrender immediately, we will open fire.”
Still no reaction.
“This is your last warning.”
Nothing.
Hiro raised her gun but advised her fellow officers, “Nobody else shoot.” She raised her weapon and fired a single shot near the man. It gouged a chunk of concrete out of the pavement just two feet from where he sat.
He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.
“What the hell?” Hiro was wearing a Kevlar vest. She slipped on a riot helmet and lowered the protective mask. Despite the protest of her fellow officers, she left her cover and approached the man, her weapon aimed at him.
When she reached him, she didn’t have to check his vitals to see he was dead. There was a note scrawled in a shaky hand pinned to his chest.
“WE HAVE HOSTAGES. CALL ME.” And a telephone number.
The dead man had a cell phone in his shirt pocket. She took them both and returned to her place behind the line of police cars.”
“Call for a hostage negotiator,” she told a Sergeant crouching next to her.
“There’s already one on the way.”
“Good. We’d better not wait, though. Might as well get the ball rolling.” She dialed the number.
“Is this the police?” A woman’s voice asked.
“Yes. I am Inspector Hiro of the San Francisco Police Department. May I ask who I am speaking to?”
“You may ask.”
“So, who am I speaking to?”
“I said you may ask. I didn’t say I would answer. My name is unimportant. What is important is that I represent the People’s Army for Quantum Realization Liberation. Our demands are few, but if they are not met, there will be consequences.”
People’s Army of what? Was this person crazy or was she screwing with her. “What consequences?”
“We have hostages. If you do not meet our demands, we will transport our hostages to a different plane of reality, one from which there is no return.”
Seriously? “How many hostages do you have?”
“Numbers are an illusion.”
Hiro had no idea how to respond to that. “What are your demands?”
“Number one, we want a helicopter with enough fuel to reach Venezuela. Call me back in twenty minutes with a progress report. Goodbye for now.”
“Wait.” The line went dead.
The Sergeant had been listening in. “Is this some kind of cult or is she just a nut?”
“Neither. It’s bullshit. A delaying tactic.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Conor returned to the twenty-ninth floor just in time to catch the tail end of the conversation. “We’re getting a helicopter? Do you know how to fly a helicopter?”
“The helicopter is just a ruse. I have a different escape route in mind. We’re going to escape underground.”
“Underground? How?”
“Don’t you know your San Francisco history?” Nasrin cooed, obviously pleased with herself. “Where we are now used to be water over a hundred and fifty years ago. Downtown San Francisco was built on top of landfill made of sunken ships abandoned during the gold rush. Those ships are still there. Before the police storm the building, we’ll make our escape through the basement and into those ships. Moving from the hold of one ship to the next, we’ll make our way to Pier 39, where a ship is already waiting for us.”
“Genius.” Conor had no doubt she had everything worked out.
Salazar was less certain. “That all sounds kinda dodgy to me. Are you sure about this?”
Nasrin stuck out a pouty lip. “Do you have an alternative plan?”
“I guess not.”
Nasrin started to walk. “Hey, where are you going?” Asked Salazar.
“The little girl’s room. Keep watching our friend Gil. We’re almost there.”
DiMauro’s fingers ached from all the typing. As soon as Nasrin was out of earshot, he tried to reason with his captors. “You don’t believe all that stuff, do you?”
“Be quiet and keep working.” Salazar poked DiMauro with his pistol for emphasis.
“Ships under the building? You can’t possibly believe that stuff. She’s lying.”
“You’re wrong, mister.” Conor was a true believer and wouldn’t be swayed. “That thing about the ships is true. I heard about it on the History Channel.”
“But you can’t get there from here. This building doesn’t even have a basement.”
Conor might have unswerving faith, but Salazar was getting suspicious. He was about to go looking for a map of the building when Irwin came running in.
“Hey, one of the elevators is moving. Someone’s coming.”
Salazar grabbed DiMauro’s chair and pulled him out of reach of the computer. To Conor, he said, “Watch him. Don’t let him touch his computer till I get back.”
Irwin and Salazar marched to the elevator banks and aimed their weapons at elevator number four, which was moving. The elevator reached the twenty-ninth floor and the doors opened with a ding. The two men were pointing their guns at nothing. The elevator was empty. The doors closed, again, and the elevator started its journey back down.
“Look.” Salazar pointed to elevator three. Now it was moving. Again, ding, the doors opened and the elevator was empty.
Elevator number five was moving. They swung their guns to those doors. Ding. Opened. Empty.
“What the hell is going on?” Irwin demanded.
Elevator three started back down. Elevator one started up. It arrived as empty as the others.
“Rose!” Sa
lazar hollered. “Rose, we’re in trouble. Where are you?”
No answer. Elevator one started down. Elevator three returned. Elevator five started down.
Every time an elevator door opened, the men pointed a gun at an empty space.
“Rose,” Irwin called. “She bailed on us.” He stormed off.
“Wait. Come back. Don’t leave me alone.” Elevator five opened, again. Once again, Salazar aimed his gun at the empty space.
While Salazar focused on the empty elevator five, Jerome dropped down from elevator one’s service hatch. Salazar spun around and Jerome shot him twice in the chest.
Leopold dropped down from elevator five’s service hatch. Looking down row after row of cubicles, a head popped up and, for a moment, Leopold was reminded of that old television show, Hee Haw, where the heads of hillbillies would pop up from a cornfield and tell terrible jokes. Leopold aimed quickly and pulled the trigger. Conor’s head disappeared.
“Did you get him?” Jerome whispered.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Crouching low to use the cubicle walls as cover, the men headed in different directions, intending to circle around and box in the others. They both wound their way through the maze of cubicles. Jerome was just passing by the ladies room when the door burst open and a huge, hulking figure plowed into him, knocking him off his feet, and sending his gun skittering across the floor. Irwin aimed his gun, but Jerome’s leg slashed like a saber. His foot struck Irwin’s hand, and his gun also went flying.
Jerome leapt to his feet. Irwin pulled himself to his full height and put his right fist into his left hand. It sounded like a thunderclap. “Come on, shorty. Let’s you and me dance.”
It was rare that Jerome faced an opponent bigger than he. Irwin was both taller and broader.
Irwin threw the first punch. Jerome dodged it easily, nailing Irwin in the back of the head as he flew by. Roaring with rage, Irwin jabbed an elbow into Jerome’s side, and then a fist into his gut. The fist felt like a cement block. He had real power behind his punches.
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 17
