by Sean Ellis
The driver of the Buick evidently failed to appreciate what this would mean in terms of road surface. Undaunted, he aimed the car into the heart of the growing obstacle and sped forward. The front bumper plowed into the mound of trash, but then the tires lost traction and the car skidded haphazardly across the narrow street. The sedan's rear end crashed into the wall of a six story apartment building, leaving a trail of sparks as metal scoured brick, before it came to a halt, effectively blocking the street. A second car screeched into the alley, and its driver hit the brakes too late to avoid plowing into the first sedan and disabling both vehicles.
Kismet's triumphant grin lasted only a second. Irene suddenly stomped the brake and the garbage truck's wheels locked. This time he was caught unprepared and was thrown forward, landing on his shoulder and rolling several yards down the street. The fabric of his suit jacket afforded some protection but was nearly shredded by the rough asphalt.
"Damn it, Irene," he rasped, struggling to his feet. "What the hell—?"
As he looked down the alley he saw why she had stopped. Illuminated in the beams of the truck's headlights, behind a fence of blue and white wooden barricades, was a mountain of steaming rubble. A glance to the sidewalk revealed that one of the structures had recently burned and been gutted. Furniture, appliances and other large pieces of debris had been dragged into the street, where they now effectively blocked the way.
Kismet sagged in defeat. Irene's head popped out of the open door of the cab, her face desperate for an answer to the question she framed. "What now?"
Behind them the doors of the wrecked sedans flew open, disgorging seven armed men eager to finish the pursuit on foot. They were less than half a block away.
"Looks like you were right," Kismet muttered, turning to his companion. "I can't be right every time, and I'd say my luck just ran out."
FIVE
The first of Grimes' men to attempt the mountain of garbage found the obstacle more daunting than he had anticipated. After only a few steps, he lost his footing and vanished into the heap. Seeing this, his comrades approached the slippery mass with more caution, but they too had difficulty crossing. Kismet could hear them shouting to one another that the best course lay in trying to go around the perimeter of the spill. Time was running out.
"You've brought us this far," Irene urged. "Don't give up now."
He darted toward the driver's side door of the truck and snared Irene's wrist, pulling her without explanation from behind the wheel. "Right. We're not dead yet."
Despite his assurance, he had not yet settled on his next course of action; he only knew that they had to keep moving. He glanced at the heap of rubble, then at the street around them. Just ahead was the shell of the building that had been ravaged by flames. Its windows were boarded over and smoke stains were visible on the brick of the upper three stories. The skeletal remains of a fire escape hung mockingly above the entrance. Because the edifice shared walls with adjoining buildings, the fire damage had spread out, blackening the exteriors of the neighboring apartments. The damage appeared extensive enough that the structure was almost certainly vacant. As he took stock of his surroundings, the thread of a plan materialized. With Irene's hand locked in his own, he charged toward the steps.
"Where are we going?"
"I wish you hadn't asked that," he muttered. Then, more loudly as if to reassure her, he added: "I've got an idea."
A voice from behind them commanded that they halt. The order was punctuated by the crack of a gunshot. The bullet, perhaps intentionally aimed high as a warning, smacked into the wall overhead, spraying chips of brick and mortar. Kismet steered toward the front porch of the burned out building and bounded onto it in a single leap. Irene slipped as she tried to keep up, landing painfully on her knee, but nothing more than a grunt of discomfort escaped her lips. Through what must have been a monumental display of self-restraint, she did not ply him for the details of his obviously desperate bid for survival.
Four slats of wood blockaded the doorway—a poor substitute for the heavy wooden door that had been hacked apart with a fire-axe and now lay in fragments on the front porch of the building. Kismet did not even slow down as he crossed beneath the lintel, smashing the thin boards apart as if they were strips of paper. The first floor landing was slick with water and debris. He navigated toward the stairs, slowing down just enough to keep Irene half a step behind him.
"Hold on to the rail!" he shouted.
She slipped, landing again on the same knee, but nodded in agreement even as she muttered frustrated curses. The stairs, at least two-dozen steps to the next landing, were structurally sound, but bore the irreversible side effects of the tragedy that had befallen the whole building. The carpet adorning them was swollen and mildewed from the deluge of water that had been used to battle the flames, and the bare wooden banister was coated with slimy, wet ash. As they reached the top of the staircase, their gun-toting adversaries were exactly one flight behind them.
Kismet did not hesitate or look back. He used the railing to launch himself around the turn onto the second floor landing, and held on to it as he ran along the flat balcony to the next flight of stairs. Bullets erupted through the floor, splintering the landing. The shots had no lethal effect, but did trigger a surge of adrenaline in both Kismet and Irene, and subsequently a burst of speed. They gained the third floor before the first of their foes had rounded the bend of the second. Kismet could hear more gunshots, loud in the confines of the stairway, but saw no evidence that the shots had penetrated the walls or steps to endanger them.
The third story appeared to have been the birthplace of the fire that had devastated the building. The walls, which had partitioned several different small residences were gone; only a few blackened and fragile upright posts remained. Beyond those charred timbers was a scene of total destruction; nothing recognizable remained. For the first time since entering the building, Kismet wondered if anyone had perished in the fire. It was a passing thought, and one he did not dwell on as he charged ahead; he was focused intently upon reaching the base of the next staircase. His single-mindedness nearly proved fatal.
Six feet from the end of the landing, his left foot came down, and then went right on through the floor. His weight crumbled the burned wood, and after his leg broke through, the rest of him quickly followed. As his torso went forward, smashing the hole even wider, he flung his hand out to the balustrade. His right leg slipped through the opening, and he found himself dangling over the second story balcony.
Irene knelt at his side, eager to render him whatever assistance she could. The boards beneath seemed soft, almost insubstantial, and suddenly she realized that they had run from one danger, namely the pursuing gunmen, headlong into a potentially greater threat. Now, as Kismet had earlier realized, even a single mistake might prove disastrous.
In his tightening grip, Kismet realized that the fiery kiss of the conflagration had touched the wood of the banister railing to which he clung. Though not completely destroying its integrity, the flames had severely compromised it, and he was certain that it would break apart at any second, delivering him to the waiting arms of the gunmen below. A downward glance revealed that two of the men, realizing that their quarry had run into a dead end, were waiting beneath him. The rest of the gang was doubtless close on their heels.
Irene waved her hand in front of his face. "Take it," she urged.
Kismet pushed it away with his free hand, and winked at her. "Be right back."
He let go of the railing and dropped to the second story landing. The two men standing there had been anticipating his fall, but he landed purposefully, swinging his fist at the nearer of the two. The man was caught totally by surprise, raising neither hand nor sidearm in his own defense. Kismet's blow knocked him back against the wall, stunning him.
The second man tried to aim his pistol, but hesitated for a moment, concerned about accidentally shooting his friend. Kismet moved in quickly, knocking the gun hand aside, and
then delivered a quick one-two punch that laid the man out. The first man however had rapidly recovered his breath and wits, and hurled himself at Kismet, wrapping both arms around him from behind. Kismet struggled in the hold, trying alternately to break the man's grip and throw him off balance. The second man, still gasping to catch his breath, rose to his knees, then stood. Kismet noted with satisfaction the trickle of red that leaked from the corner of his foe's mouth. The man wiped at it disdainfully as he balled his fists and stalked toward him.
As the man drew back to strike, Kismet stopped struggling against his captor. He sagged in the man's arms, dropping his full weight against the hold. Even as the man's knees locked to keep his burden upright, Kismet lifted both feet into the air and planted them squarely in the chest of the man in front of him. The force of the kick launched the man backward, his arms windmilling in a futile effort to find a handhold. He slammed into the hip-high railing, and then both he and a long section of the banister went over the side, crashing onto the flight of stairs just below.
The attack worked in the other direction as well. The force of the impact caused the man holding him to stumble backwards and ultimately to fall with Kismet's full weight landing upon his torso. Kismet heard his opponent's wind driven from his lungs in a single wheezing cough. He rolled off of the man just as Irene appeared at the base of the stairs.
"No!" he shouted. "Back up—"
The words were cut off as a pair of hands wrapped around his throat.
Although winded, the man that had held him was not giving up. Kismet drove his right elbow back, striking the man in the sternum, but to no avail. The fingers squeezed tighter. Kismet began to panic. Instead of trying to deal with source of the problem, he found he was able only to focus upon the immediate threat. He reached up to his neck, fumbling to pry loose the choke-hold. Bright spots of light began migrating across his field of view, a warning that his efforts were failing.
There was a muffled crack, like the sound of a hammer striking a tree trunk, and instantly the fingers fell away. Kismet rolled free, coughing and gasping, but ready to fight should the man try again; he would not, for several hours at least. Another figure stood over the sprawled form of the unconscious man, holding a pistol by the barrel.
“I thought you could use some help," remarked Irene, tossing the impromptu cudgel aside. Kismet nodded, unable to thank her because of what felt like a pound of gravel in his throat. He got to his feet and gestured toward the ascending stairs.
"No good," Irene supplied. "The floor up there is a death trap."
"We can't go back down," Kismet wheezed. "Trust—"
"I know, trust you." She grimaced as a fit of coughing overtook him.
Kismet shook off the spasm and mounted the steps once more. At the third floor balcony he slowed, testing each step as he went. Irene's appraisal was correct; the entire floor seemed on the verge of collapse. Floorboards that had held them up moments before now seemed unable to bear their weight. Nevertheless, he trod across the ruined surface, cautiously making his way toward the next staircase.
Irene glanced up and saw that the flight leading to the fourth floor was incomplete. Halfway up, the stairs ended in empty space. Everything above that level had been reduced to cinders. "There's nowhere to go."
"Not the stairs." He pointed past the end of the balcony to a boarded over window frame.
"You're kidding."
Kismet did not answer, but took two more steps and stood before the window. His fingers pried two of the boards loose, creating an opening just big enough for a person to squeeze through. He carefully raised his left foot and stepped out into night, three stories above the street.
"The fire escape," he explained, grinning back at Irene. "Come on, but watch your step."
With some reluctance she crossed the treacherous landing and took the hand he offered. She stuck her head through the opening and gazed out at the night. The fire escape looked nearly as precarious as the burned out edifice to which it was attached. Below them however was a scene that seemed even more threatening. Beyond the truck and the heap of garbage strewn behind, a third sedan had joined the two wrecked vehicles. Its occupants were likely already charging up the stairs behind them. Additionally, two police cars, their lights flashing a multi-hued spectacle up and down the block, were stationed across the end of the alley to prevent anyone from entering or leaving, and in the distance the sirens of reinforcements en route were audible.
"Even if we get down, we'll never get away."
"We're not going down," Kismet replied grimly. "Up. To the roof. From there we can get to another building, and just maybe find somewhere to hide."
Without further explanation he implemented his new plan, carefully ascending the steps of the fire escape. Despite the structural damage, the iron framework was sturdy enough. They quickly made their way up to the platform that ran beneath the sixth story windows. A vertical iron ladder was bolted to the brick face, leading up to the roof. Kismet crossed to it and climbed up.
As he looked over the scorched brick parapet, he saw that the rest of the roof had been burned away. Seven paces to his left was a neighboring building, constructed with a common wall. The fire had partially damaged the apartments along that side, but otherwise, the building appeared to be sound. He pulled himself onto the low half-wall, straddling it so that one of his legs hung down into the ruins. "This could be a little risky."
"What a surprise," Irene grumbled, watching as he leaned forward and began crawling along the narrow brick ledge. "You've done this before, haven't you?"
He paused, looking at her sideways, and then answered with complete sincerity: "I don't know. Probably."
At the end of the parapet, he placed one hand firmly on the ledge of the neighboring building and pulled himself over. There was evidence of some damage here, but for the most part the covering of black tar was intact, as was the structure beneath. He turned back to Irene, assisting her until she was safely beside him.
"What is that smell?" She wrinkled her nose.
"Probably something from the fire."
"No. It smells like..." She looked over the side of the building. "Ugh, garbage."
He followed her gaze. She was right. The trash he had dumped into the street was beginning to release the unmistakable fragrance of rot. Their escape route had brought them back up the block, so that they now stood directly above the slippery mess. Below them, more than a few neighborhood residents were gathering to observe the second plague that had befallen their street in less than one week's time.
"I think we've worn out our welcome," Kismet observed. "Let's head down and find a way out of here."
Irene silently agreed and followed him toward the small rooftop structure that housed a doorframe leading down into the building. He was still a few steps away when the knob rattled and the door swung open.
Kismet immediately extended his arm to block Irene's progress, and began backing away as three figures emerged onto the rooftop. The first was a policeman, his blue uniform jacket bulky over a bulletproof vest, his hand resting but ready on the butt of his holstered sidearm. Kismet's impulse to rush over and beg for protection from the menacing gang that had pursued him across the city evaporated when he saw the second man step out from behind the officer, one of Grimes' stooges. Evidently an alliance had been forged between the black-suited minions working for Grimes and the New York Police Department. The third man to venture out onto the roof was none other than the panting mastermind himself: Halverson Grimes.
"Great minds think alike, do they not, Mr. Kismet?"
Kismet took another backward step. "Don't flatter yourself Grimes."
"Ah, so you know me also." Clutching his side, Grimes advanced. Beads of perspiration trickled from the top of his balding head and ran down his face and neck. He was clearly unaccustomed to dashing up seven flights of stairs. "Please stay where you are, Mr. Kismet. I have no desire to harm you."
Kismet glanced over his shoulder. On
e of the men he had battled with in the burned-out stairway was now ascending to the roof of that building, having followed the same route as he and Irene. That avenue of escape was no longer viable. Kismet turned back to Grimes, taking another backward step. Irene, pressed close against his back, moved synchronously.
"Look, Grimes, I really would like to trust you, but you and your men have been chasing me all over the city, shooting at me. That's no way to begin a working relationship." He nudged Irene back another step. The front wall of the building was only a few yards away, perhaps six steps if they turned and ran.
"If he moves again," stated Grimes to his underling, "shoot him where he stands."
"Whoa," the policeman intoned. "Slow down. He's got nowhere to go. Nobody's going to do any shooting."
"That's right Grimes. There's no need for violence. If you wanted my help, you should have just called my office and set up an appointment. I would have preferred that to having to sit through the ridiculous ranting of your lap dog Harcourt."
Grimes' face hardened and Kismet saw that his verbal barb had stuck. He risked another step back, but Grimes' man jumped forward, brandishing a pistol.
"Perhaps you are right," Grimes said with a sigh. "Sir Andrew insisted that he could persuade you. I was wrong to let him try. He has a tendency—"
"To believe in fairy tales?"
"To be overeager. That is why I want you involved in this project. You are a man of action. You get results." He gestured for his man to lower his weapon. "We can make history if we work together, Kismet. I swear to you, this time you will not have your prize snatched away."
"I wish I could believe you. But I don't work for kidnappers and murderers."
The policeman raised an eyebrow, and turned to Grimes. "Murderers? What's he talking about?"
Kismet went into motion, whirling and seizing Irene's hand. He ran straight toward the parapet overlooking the street. The man he had fought in the stairway was jumping down onto the roof, attempting to intercept, but Kismet ignored this threat, peering instead over the side of the building.
