Never Go Alone

by Denison Hatch

  “Where’d you get that?” Jake asked.

  “Stole it, obviously,” Rory replied.

  “From who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Without any further ado, Castle pulled the shelving as close as he could to the entrance. He climbed into the dumbwaiter channel and closed the doors. The small area, now extremely so, turned pitch black.

  “If that was the maintenance closet . . . where’s the penthouse?” Jake asked.

  “Right here,” Rory said. Rory folded his hand into a fist and knocked quietly on the wall closest to him.

  “It’s walled over,” Jake said.

  “Right, in the early eighties. Two major renovations ago.”

  “How are we gettin’ in?”

  “First, we drill our holes.”

  Rory pulled out a small drill. He took a few measurements against the wall and compared them to a schematic he’d loaded on his phone. He checked the bit then began to slowly and carefully drill a tiny hole into the boarded-up side of the channel.

  “How do we know they’re not in there?” Jake asked.

  “Castle, tell him,” Rory said.

  “They’re all at the opera right now. Instagram is a helluva social network,” Castle said. He held his cell phone towards Jake, who was greeted with a giant selfie of not only Mayor Berg and his wife but also Arthur Metropolis and his model-of-the-moment, Isabelle.

  Rory finished drilling the hole. He placed his eye to the opening, confirming a good field of view into the room. Then Rory inserted a tiny camera through the hole. Only the lens entered. Rory taped the unit’s battery pack and small monitor to the backside of the wall. He confirmed the device was recording.

  While Jake and Castle settled in for a long wait, Rory began drilling a second, slightly larger, hole at the other end of the dumbwaiter opening . . .

  ▪

  Sitting—or rather, hanging—from the rafters inside a hotel for a few hours while in close proximity to two other large men wasn’t the easiest task to accomplish. But the three of them succeeded, their peace of mind aided by the fact that Cassandra Berg seemed to update her Instagram every half an hour. Finally, the group appeared to be headed back from the theater.

  And just a few minutes after that, the camera began to track movement inside the Waldorf’s penthouse suite . . .

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ARTHUR METROPOLIS GRUNTED AS ISABELLE removed his Ermenegildo Zegna suit and hung it from a chair by the door.

  “What is it with those things? Always feel like a million dollars when you’re in the changing room, and then within two months you can’t fit into them anymore.”

  “It’s not the suit, honey,” Isabelle answered.

  “Enjoy the show, Arthur?” Ronald Berg asked while preparing a cocktail.

  “Can’t pay attention in those things . . .” Arthur replied.

  “How come? Too intellectual?”

  “I dunno. Just me. The way I am. ADD or something.”

  “Undiagnosed,” Isabelle popped in.

  “It’s like when my parents forced me to go to church down south. I daydream. Can’t help myself. Honestly? I spent a lot of the time thinking about glass.”

  “Whale Square?”

  “Yeah. The tower.”

  “All you can think of is your buildings—probably why you’re always winning, Arthur. Hey. I’m just here to make it nice and easy for ya,” Berg announced. He sipped his martini with haste.

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  “But I am a little nervous about the heat . . .”

  “The robberies?”

  Berg nodded.

  “You don’t need to worry,” Arthur said. “They’re on ice. I’m making sure of it.”

  “Making sure or made?”

  “Ronald, this is not your problem. It’s not really even my problem. Who cares about a bunch of burglars?”

  “I do,” Berg said.

  “You only need to worry about one thing. And it’s a beautiful thing. That is—what you’re gonna buy with all the greenbacks I’m about to place in your possession.”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” Berg said.

  “And also, C1-7.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No try,” Arthur said. “The property must be full-on mixed use, with air rights. C1-7. Can you do it?”

  “Absolutely. Ralphie used to do numbers at Disneyworld ’til I came into office.”

  “Literally?” Arthur asked.

  “I saved him from the mosquitos and fatties, and now all he has deal with is a bunch of pricks. At least those ones come in nice suits and give sweet presents.”

  “All right. And . . . I still haven’t forgotten about the big one . . .”

  “The subway,” Berg nodded. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that ain’t a simple ask. It’s infrastructure . . . Billions. Has to make sense from every direction.”

  “I get it,” Arthur said. “I’m prepared to start a nonprofit. A couple of them. Whatever. My name won’t be anywhere. It’s all about the people in the community who need public transportation. That’s your message. You sure could help. The people that live there need to get to work quickly. That’s important to them, which means it’s crucial to me. I think, like, 20, 30 percent upside on units if we get the station.”

  “I’ll do what I can . . .”

  Arthur chuckled a little. He patted the seat next to him. Berg took a sip of his drink and sat down. Arthur wrapped his arm around Berg’s shoulders, physically dominating the man. “You do what you can, and then you do more. Pretty please. You do everything you need to do to get me that subway station, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure that no one knows about the three-point-four-seven million in cash that I’ve handed to you over the years.”

  “Yes,” the mayor grimaced.

  “Wonderful,” Arthur’s face broke into a huge smile. “Because even though you might think I’m obtuse, I’m a good counter.”

  ▪

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the penthouse door. Cassandra Berg walked over and opened it. Ziros paced in. He handed a large suitcase to Metropolis, who unzipped it. Arthur tilted the bag towards Berg—it was stuffed with cash.

  The sight of all that green mixed with the fresh scent of money recently emerged from a bank vault made the mayor very, very happy. He did his best to restrain the urge to touch it. He was definitely the bitch in this situation, but that didn’t mean anyone was going to see him slobbering like a dog.

  “I’ll just leave it right here,” Arthur said. He placed the bag behind the couch.

  “Thanks, Arthur,” Berg grinned.

  “Stian, get yourself a drink,” Arthur commanded.

  “Can’t drink too much. Need to take the trash out later,” Ziros said as he poured a few gulps of bourbon into a small glass.

  “Ah yes, of course,” Arthur said. “Well, cheers . . . to our happy little family.”

  All three men, along with Isabelle and Cassandra, raised their glasses into the air. The crystal edges kissed, and then fell away. The first glass hit the ground directly on the bottom. It didn’t shatter, but the sound was loud enough to shock them all. They were unable to respond. They couldn’t move. They couldn’t do anything—except stare at one another in dumfounded silence.

  Something was happening—a very bad thing.

  An evil substance was gripping their nervous systems with a vice-lock grip. The two women fell to the floor first, followed by the mayor. Within milliseconds of resting their heads on the wooden floor, they were out. Unconscious.

  “The money . . .” Arthur muttered as he fell.

  As Ziros hit the ground, he was holding his breath. His vision was blurry, and the simple process of moving his arms felt like Olympic weightlifting. But at least he was still conscious. He could smell the stuff all around him and he knew exactly what it was. He dragged himself along the hotel room floor towards the bag of cash. He held the bag in his hands as he rota
ted towards the door. He lifted his left knee. It was an arduous process, like the end of an Everest ascent. He managed. His body was running out of oxygen, but the door was just four bounds away. Ziros stumbled ahead, against all the odds—an experimental rat not responding as intended to stimuli. The rodent raged forward. The doorknob was this close . . .

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  NITROUS OXIDE IS A HELL of a drug. It didn’t take a genius to know this. But witnessing the effects of the gas firsthand, Jake was definitely worried about the future of civilization. If more criminals got their hands on it? Chaos on the streets.

  “It’s not taking Ziros,” Castle said, watching the surveillance feed.

  They watched Stian Ziros struggle in slow motion to reach the door.

  “Patience. It will,” Rory replied.

  But there was clearly something within Ziros' Scandinavian DNA that was not cooperating. Now he was just a few feet from the doorway and gaining on the doorknob.

  “We gotta stop him . . . now,” Rory said.

  Castle groaned. Pushing the dumbwaiter doors open, he fell back into the small supply closet. Rory hastily turned off the gas, stopping the flow of nitrous oxide into the penthouse. There was no time to pull the camera or drop the ropes, but as they left, Jake made sure to fasten the cabinet and pull the shelving back over the entrance.

  ▪

  Castle barreled out of the service entrance and into penthouse’s entrance hall—a transformation akin to portal-ing from the Third World to a land of alien luxury. The entire hallway was decorated in various levels of velour, from the richly luxurious purple beneath their feet to the slick tan wallpaper coating the vertical surfaces. Castle took the hallway like a linebacker inside the slot, and he reached the penthouse door just as it opened.

  Ziros stared at Castle with wide, curious eyes. He couldn’t comprehend exactly what was going on around him, nor even 20 percent of such. He held out the bag of money for Castle—he wasn’t even sure why.

  But the intent on Castle’s eyes was pure fury. Castle leaned through the impact, his shoulders colliding directly with Ziros' center mass. Both men flew back into the room. The bag of cash arced through the air and thudded on the other end of the living room, near massive windows overlooking the city.

  ▪

  Just a few seconds later, the service elevator to the penthouse floor opened. A maid—the same one who had spotted Castle in the laundry room—emerged. She was pushing her own laundry cart. She stared quizzically at the empty cart positioned directly in front of her.

  ▪

  Tony Villalon glanced nervously at his watch while he drove through the city. He didn’t have long before Susan would pick up on his absence. He peered at his cell phone as he drove, attempting to track the blinking dot that appeared on the map of Manhattan in front of him. He pulled up to a curb and placed his flashers on. He was right on top of the blinking dot, but Jake was nowhere. All he could see, quite unmistakably, was the towering mass of the Waldorf Astoria hotel just ahead of him. Tony shook his head. That wasn’t one of the five locations. But . . .

  Tony stepped out of the car and stared into the sky, wondering where Jake was right now.

  ▪

  Ziros mumbled on the ground. He was immobilized but trying to roll over. The other four were completely out cold. Jake raced to the mayor and checked his pulse.

  “What’re you doing, noob?” Castle asked.

  “I’m not here to murder anyone.”

  “They’ll wake up in a few minutes. We need to hurry up and make it look like a robbery.”

  “Aren’t we way past that?” Jake asked.

  “No one wants this cash to exist,” Rory said and pointed to the black duffel bag. “Not us, and not them. So we have to give the esteemed mayor and Arthur something to complain to the police about, right?”

  At that point, a complete and utter marauding of the room took place.

  Castle paced to the master bedroom. He picked up piles of Cassandra Berg’s hastily arranged jewelry and dumped the spoils into a small go-bag.

  Rory stared down at the mayor on the floor. After a few moments, he kneeled down and pulled a gold Rolex off the Mayor’s wrist. He looked up at Jake as he rose. “For my brother,” Rory said.

  Jake nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel comfortable participating. But he did feel accepted. The irony was deep and unfunny. Being involved, like this, was exactly what he had been seeking all along. Not only that—it was his mission. No one could take that away from him. Susan’s greatest expectations couldn’t hold a candle to what he’d accomplished. But Jake was well aware that he might not have the canopy of the law above him. It wasn’t all clear in the fog of war. He was ready for a break, but it wasn’t around the corner. He just knew that he needed to get Mona back safe, and perhaps then he could relax.

  ▪

  The suspicious maid walked along the penthouse hallway, pushing her hamper full of towels. Hearing major commotion on the other side of door, she stood quizzically in front of the penthouse. She took a breath then stepped towards the door and knocked. Once. Twice. A few more times.

  “Maid service!” she yelled loud and clear.

  All of the noise emanating from inside the chamber ceased suddenly, but no one responded to her command. The woman keyed into the door.

  ▪

  She took one step into the room and became a witness. She stared at them. They stared at her. She opened her mouth and hers was a wild scream, a berserk one, filled with fear. She sprinted out of the room and down the hallway to the service elevators before Jake, Castle, or Rory could even respond.

  “Guess that’s our sign,” Rory announced.

  Castle angled a chair against the suite’s door handle. Then he approached the region of the wall where the dumbwaiter opening had been covered years ago. He kneeled down to inspect the two holes Rory had drilled earlier. Castle reached into his pocket. His hand emerged with a small container of fast-dry spackle—the size of a small tube of toothpaste. Castle squeezed the spackle over the two holes and rubbed it in with his gloved hands. Jake glanced at the repair job—not perfect but impressive. It was very likely that CSI would miss the holes later.

  Jake walked with the two men onto the penthouse’s outdoor patio.

  Behind them, Stian Ziros had recovered and was kneeling on the floor. He stared at the men on the balcony but decided against heading that direction. Instead, he stumbled out a back entrance and into the service stairs.

  ▪

  At the exact same instant, the maid’s emergency call reached the security room on the second floor of the hotel. The Waldorf’s head of security, an Irishman named Alastair Albany, rose while still holding the phone against his right ear. He motioned towards three burly security guards who were sitting at various monitors and desks throughout the room. Able to read the sense of panic on Alastair’s normally ultra-zen face, they all stood. Alastair addressed his troops. “There’s a smash ‘n’ grab in Penthouse A. Let’s git up there lickety-split. And somebody call 911!”

  Alastair crouched down to the personal safe underneath his desk. His finger tapped a scanner, and the vault opened. He pulled out a pistol. Then the four men—in black suits, black shirts, and black ties—sprinted out of the security room and towards the elevator bank.

  ▪

  Nikolai skidded the Sprinter van to a stop on the side of Park Avenue. He ducked down and hustled through the center aisle to the back of the van, stepping to the side of an enormous roll of cable as he did. He reached forward and opened the back doors as wide as they would rotate. Nik stared across the street. Framed above him—about a football field away—was the grand Waldorf Astoria.

  ▪

  Inside the NERV truck at Fifteen Central Park West—a mile and a half northwest of the Waldorf—Susan, Markle, Fong, and the other techs were focused on a small radio system replaying a 911 call. It was one of Alastair’s men from the hotel. As the call continued, the entire place blasted to attention.
Susan looked around.

  “Where’s Tony?”

  “I . . . dunno,” Fong replied. “I think he went to get some food.”

  “Find out . . . and drive me to the Waldorf, big guy.”

  ▪

  Villalon approached the front desk of the Waldorf Astoria. A rotund and sunburned man was complaining loudly about the volume of liquor bottles in his fridge. Tony glanced at his cell phone again. As before, he was right on top of the location dot. He couldn’t bear listening to this filthy roll of lard—a modern Jabba the Hut—in front of him any longer. He reached for his wallet and flipped his badge out as he stepped up to the desk himself. The desk attendant instantly became alert.

  “Sir . . . it’s the penthouse.”

  “What is?” Tony asked.

  “The penthouse. We’re supposed to bring you guys up there.”

  “Who?”

  “Huh? You. The cops.”

  ▪

  Jake heard the sirens before he saw them. It took only one brief lean over the penthouse’s railing to notice three police cars churning down Park with sirens blazing.

  “We got problems,” Jake said.

  “Not really,” Rory replied.

  “How are we gettin’ off here, Rory?”

  “That’s not your concern, noob,” Rory said.

  Jake’s eyebrow jacked up.

  “You’re not coming with us,” Rory finally said.

  “I didn’t rock the boat . . .” Jake said.

  Jake heard a loud buzzing behind Rory’s head. It was the Phantom drone. Operated by Nik below, the flying robot careened through the air, directly towards the three men standing on the balcony.

  “He’s gonna kill her,” Jake said.

  “Nope. I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t know that . . .”

  “Mona’s not really my . . . first priority, noob. That’s where you got everything wrong. That girl, bless her heart, but has she caused me so much consternation. You were the biggest mistake I ever made. And she was the reason for it!” Rory yelled.