Roaring Shadows

by Colleen Gleason

  Now, his feet planted solidly against the column, holding himself in place with the suspenders, he was well above the heads of anyone below. And as the covered light bulbs that lit the galley hung from long wires from the high ceiling to bring the illumination close to the ground, he was above them and their shades. This left a good bit of darkness in which he could hide.

  By this time, the gunmen had made everyone line up and they were going down the line, two by two, with Tommy guns still trained on the crowd, and divesting each person of any jewelry, money, or firearms they might have.

  The jewels and money went into two large canvas sacks, and the weapons were piled in the center of the marble floor. Grady saw that Al Capone was not immune from being frisked, nor was Colonel McCormick, nor even Mr. Vanderbilt.

  “Well done,” said the authoritative voice once all of the weapons had been removed and the valuables collected. “And not one casualty. What a well-behaved group you are.” He was still holding the woman in the red dress, but now, all at once, he released her, shoving her roughly toward the other victims. “I’m finished with you for now.”

  She stumbled but caught herself and staggered into the crowd, sobbing softly. That was when Grady realized it wasn’t Macey who’d been the hostage, and he found himself scanning the cluster of people in hopes of catching sight of her.

  Maybe she’d escaped notice as well, and had gone to contact the authorities. Or—and this he hoped wasn’t the case—she was lurking in the shadows as he was, looking for an opportunity to put a stop to this robbery. For bullets were just as deadly to a vampire hunter as they were to any mortal. While she might be brilliant with a stake—though he’d never seen her in action—this wasn’t Macey’s area of expertise.

  “Now, everyone—this way.” The leader made a gesture to the right, and his gunmen lined up on either side to direct the crowd toward one end of the long, narrow exhibition.

  It only took Grady a moment to see what was going to happen. The hostages were being herded past the tall metal security gates that reached from floor to ceiling and barricaded that end of the gallery. Thus he wasn’t surprised when, once all sixty or so of Chicago’s elite—and a few of the not so wealthy and powerful—were hustled through, the gunman pulled the gates shut with a loud clang.

  “This should keep you all nicely put,” said the leader as one of his men stood aside, holding a slew of heavy chains. Three other gunmen trained their weapons on the crowd so as to keep them from rushing the doors as it became clear the chains were meant to lock them inside.

  But it was the last thief who’d caught Grady’s attention. He was dragging in a large black object about the size of a travel trunk. Grady couldn’t see what it was from his vantage point, but it looked like some sort of engine or machine.

  Something very unpleasant trickled down his spine. Up until now, Grady had felt confident things would end nonviolently. Clearly, these men were thieves and were taking advantage of the exclusive gathering of the rich and powerful to relieve them of their valuables…at least, that was what he thought until he saw the black machine.

  He’d figured, being on this side of the metal gate, he’d easily be able to free everyone quickly and readily, and perhaps even contact the authorities before the thieves made their escape.

  But this big black machine…this changed everything.

  Because it looked an awful lot like a bomb.

  TWENTY

  ~ In Which We Meet Betsy ~

  Macey had had to keep herself from searching for Grady during the entire jewelry heist. Though she caught sight of Carol McCormick (“nice gal”), her uncle the “Colonel,” Capone, Mr. Washington, and even the odious Mr. Badgley, Grady was nowhere to be seen.

  She’d left him behind when the lights went out, relieved to have the opportunity to escape the rest of that conversation—whatever it might have been. She wondered what he’d been about to say…and where he was now.

  She gave a mental head shake. Focus, Mace. She had much more important things to think about now—like an opportunity to keep these bold jewel thieves—all of whom had been acting as waiters until they simultaneously threw off their kimonos and pulled out their weapons—from making off with all their valuables, whether she knew where Grady was or not.

  At first—when the lights came on and the partygoers had, one by one, noticed the terrifying tableau before them and gone silent—she’d been consumed with somehow keeping the young female hostage from being injured. But with armed gunmen everywhere keeping strict eyes on all of them, Macey hadn’t had the opportunity to do anything yet.

  Thank goodness the young woman had been released unharmed. And now that she’d joined the rest of the crowd, Macey’s current biggest concern was stopping the criminals before they escaped with their loot. Yet having been taken completely by surprise—at least with vampires, she would have sensed their presence—and having no weapons, Macey was nearly as helpless as the rest of the hostages.

  And the last thing she wanted to do was cause a disruption that would get herself or someone else killed. Still…she felt as if she should be doing something. And from the sidelong look Capone was giving her, he felt the same way too. Perhaps he was right—who would think of a slender, petite young woman doing anything to challenge these thieves? It was the mobsters like Capone and his ilk that needed to be more carefully watched.

  Which was clearly why each person had been searched from head to toe, with the men’s hands thankfully being impersonal but thorough. Even Capone’s second pistol, tucked into his stocking behind the knee, had been removed.

  When the stake Macey had slipped into her garter was discovered, the man searching her held it up and looked at her as if she were mad. “What da hell is this for? A wooden stake? Ya growin’ tomatoes?” He tossed it away without a second look.

  Clearly, the man had never read Dracula.

  Now, having been corralled into a smaller portion of the galley, it appeared the hostages would be locked up and left there until the next morning, when someone would come to free them, unless Macey could break them out sooner.

  She was strong enough…maybe, she thought as one of the gang began wrapping heavy chains around the opening of the gate. Looking up, she saw that the gates went all the way to the ceiling—so there would be no climbing over them once they were locked in, even if someone could manage to scale the tall brass spikes.

  A sudden stillness fell over her fellow hostages, who had been whispering and muttering among themselves, and Macey jolted around to look at the gunmen beyond the gates around which they crowded.

  “Now that I have your attention once again,” said the leader, “I would like to bid all of you a wonderful evening. And a fond farewell.” He gestured to a large black machinelike object that sat on the floor several feet from the gate. “I’d like to introduce you to Betsy.”

  Macey’s belly lurched. There was something ominous about Betsy, about the way she looked, and the way the man smiled affectionately at it.

  He walked over to it and, with a flourish, produced a finger-sized brass key from his pocket. The entire room held its collective breath—even the gunman wrapping the chains around the gate paused—as he fit the key into something on the top of the mechanism. He turned it and the machine began to tick…tick…tick.

  With another dramatic flourish, he withdrew the key and tucked it back into his pocket. “Just in case,” he said with a jaunty wink at the crowd of people behind the gate. “You won’t be able to get out, but in the unlikely event someone makes their way in here—”

  “What da hell is it?” demanded Capone. He was standing at the front of the gate, face thrust against the bars, his powerful fists gripping them.

  “Betsy? Why, she’s a little present from me. An explosive—heh heh—gift. She’s going to make sure none of you are around to identify us, or the fact that we’ve acquired all of your valuable possessions. That would be very unpleasant for us, you know.”

  He spread hi
s hands regretfully. “I’d love to chat further, but the fellas and I must be leaving right away. We have five minutes less—oh let me see…” The man leaned over the top of the machine and looked at a small white clock set into it. “Five minutes, less twenty seconds. No, twenty-one…no, twenty-two—well, you get the idea. Tick, tick, tick.” He smiled widely at the crowd of captives, then looked at his companions. “Which means it’s time for us to finish—”

  “Heyyyy…where’d everybody go?” came a loud voice.

  Someone gasped and the gunmen spun to look at a disheveled figure staggering from the shadows. From the looks of it, he was either injured or drunk. His white shirt hung half untucked from his trousers, which sagged without the help of their suspenders.

  Drunk. Clearly drunk. And very confused.

  Seemingly oblivious to everything going on around him, he staggered across the marble floor, his bare feet—bare feet?—making soft flopping sounds with every step.

  Then Macey saw his face. It was Grady.

  Her heart stopped. Literally. And a cold wash of something rushed over her as her pulse started up again.

  “Whashhh thish?” Grady asked, looking at Betsy, then spinning unsteadily around, bumping into the leader as he did so. Macey froze, unable to breathe.

  “Get the hell away from me,” said the thief, giving Grady a good shove. The force sent him sprawling onto the floor, his hands landing with loud smacks on the marble.

  “What in da hell is wrong with you?” Grady cried, his words thick and slurred as he pulled himself gracelessly to his feet.

  “Get him in there with the rest of ’em,” ordered the leader, clearly rattled. “We’ve got to get out of here before that thing goes off.”

  Macey realized her fingers were clenched into her palms. The bandits could just as easily decide to put a bullet into Grady to get him out of the way as unravel the chains and add him to the group—but for whatever the reason, they didn’t.

  Maybe they were afraid the sounds of gunshots would bring help. There were probably some guards or night watchmen still stationed outside or around the museum. Capone himself had men waiting in the car just outside…

  The chains were unraveled, ticking against the bars in their own darker, duller way than Betsy’s more demure countdown clock, and the gates were opened just far enough for their captors to shove Grady inside with the rest of the hostages.

  Macey exchanged glances with Capone and she felt him tense next to her—obviously ready to try to barge his way through the ajar gates.

  But the nose of a Tommy gun poked between the bars, prodding Al back from where he stood, and he and the rest of the crowd had no recourse but to step back or get blown to pieces.

  “Let’s go,” said the leader sharply as one henchman slipped the padlock into place while the other held the chains.

  The decisive click of the lock closing seemed to be an underscore to the ticking of their sealed fate.

  The leader, clearly relieved that all had gone as planned despite the intrusion of Grady, cast one last friendly wave. Ignoring the sudden pleas for release, the demands to be set free—even offers of money—he led his gang quickly from the galley without a backward glance.

  All was silent for a long moment except for the tick-tick-tick. Someone was sobbing quietly, but no one else seemed to move, as if frozen in shock.

  Why hadn’t Grady done something when he was outside the gate? Macey thought desperately. Surely he wasn’t truly drunk…he’d been perfectly sober when she saw him less than an hour ago.

  Hell, why hadn’t Macey herself done something?

  Aw, and what could Grady have done anyway—inebriated or not?

  He could have gone for help…but by the time anyone arrived, the bomb would have gone off—killing the hostages, as well as anyone who’d responded to the emergency call.

  She felt cold and empty. They were well and truly done for.

  They were really going to die.

  There was simply no way out unless she could use her brute strength to bend the bars of the gate. And even then…there wasn’t enough time for everyone to get out.

  All of these thoughts ran through her head as the gang of thieves hurried out. Macey looked for a place where the bars seemed a little further apart. But they all seemed perfectly positioned, and immeasurably strong.

  Nevertheless, she gripped two of them and began to pull even as several people began to shake the metal gates with desperation and violence. This made it more difficult for her to do what she was trying to do, and the bars weren’t moving apart anyway.

  “I need a hairpin. Now.” A sharp, familiar voice cut through the crowd, but before anyone could respond, someone was there, pulling at Macey’s hair.

  “Grady?” She spun, clapping a hand to the side of her head where he’d just yanked a hairpin—and several strands of hair—free.

  Their eyes met and she saw at once that he definitely wasn’t drunk. He smelled of spirits, but he was sober as the day was long.

  “Move,” he said. “Out of my damned way!” Grady wasn’t talking to her; he was shouting at the people gathered around the opening of the gate, which was chained closed.

  “What’s he going to do?” someone whispered.

  “Does anyone have a gun? We could put a hole through the padlock.”

  “He’s picking the lock!”

  “Give the man some space,” snapped Colonel McCormick. “Grady knows what he’s doing. Move back—and that’s an order!”

  “Hurry!” someone whimpered. “Please hurry.”

  “How much time do we have left?” whispered someone else in a quavering voice.

  “Three minutes.”

  “Less than three minutes by my watch,” argued a different voice.

  “Shut up and let the man work!” Capone snapped.

  Silence fell and Macey felt the entire room breathing together: in and out, trying to keep from panicking as the incessant tick, tick, tick filled their ears…counting down the moment till their death.

  Yet, despite this hopeful moment, she recognized they were fighting a losing battle. Even if he got the lock open and the gates unchained, the bomb was going to go off in a little more than two minutes. There was simply not enough time for everyone to get through the gates and out of the museum—or even away from the explosion.

  But at least he was doing something. Trying something—which was more than Macey could say for herself.

  She had forgotten what it was like to feel helpless—but now the feeling came back in a rush of terror…and, surprisingly, acceptance.

  A soft click echoed through the dead silent chamber and a wave of soft, hopeful gasps and whispers filtered through—and then everyone started to move.

  “Let me out!”

  “Get the gates open!”

  “Stop!” cried Macey and Colonel McCormick together as Grady rose from his bent position. Already, the crowd surged forward, slamming Grady, Macey, and several others into the metal bars.

  “We’ve got less than a minute!” cried someone. “Let us out of here!”

  “Let us out!” shouted another voice, and the cries echoed in the high-ceilinged galley. The desperate surge of the crowd became stronger as Grady worked rapidly to unravel the chains, his work being hampered by the pushing and shoving.

  “Give him room to open the gates,” the Colonel boomed, but his voice was strained. He had clearly come to the same conclusion Macey had.

  They’d made progress, but few of them would clear the bomb in time. Yet Macey stood next to McCormick, and, surprisingly, Capone joined them, and they made a sort of barrier to try and keep the rest of the crowd back, protecting Grady from getting smashed against the gate.

  Just before Grady dropped the last part of the chain, he looked up and over his shoulder at Macey and McCormick. “I have the key to the bomb. Hold them back, just in case—”

  Those were his last startling words as he yanked the last bit of chain through and quickly bolte
d through the open gates.

  A roar went up from the crowd and they surged again, sharp and hard, desperate and wild. Macey, light of weight and small of stature, was thrown into the metal bars. She crashed into them, hitting her head with a sharp clang as McCormick shouted over the chaos: “Hold! Hold back! He’s turning off the bomb! Hold back, I say! Move back!”

  Somehow, his words penetrated the mob, and though a good portion of the group continued to shove their way up to the opening and wormed through, many of them heard the Colonel and edged back—and still others saw Grady as he turned and rose from next to Betsy, holding a brass key in his hand.

  There was a calm smile on his face and the ticking had stopped.

  They were saved.

  * * *

  “I picked his pocket,” Grady explained. For about the hundredth time. “When I bumped into him. I saw where he’d put the key, and I retrieved it.”

  Everyone was lauding him as a hero—an appellation he knew he deserved, but it still felt uncomfortable wearing it.

  In a surprisingly overt display, Carol had flung her arms around his neck in the midst of all the backslapping and hand-shaking of congratulations, and now she’d attached herself to his arm as if she were going to take him home with her.

  The Colonel was standing off to the side, looking as proud as a parent. Probably not so much because of Grady’s actions, but because of the exclusive story his paper was going to print in tomorrow’s first edition. He’d already muttered, “Meet me at the office as soon as you can,” when he leaned forward to embrace Grady in congratulations.

  That was no problem; he couldn’t wait to get to the typewriter. This bloody story better be above the damned fold.

  Big Al Capone had shaken his hand again, thanked him once more—this time for saving his life instead of saving his cash—and reiterated his offer of a job. Grady’s decline was less abrupt than previously, simply because he was feeling slightly more benevolent.