Maiden Lane

by Christopher Blankley

  Eve nods. She puts the thing she pulled out of her pocket onto her head. It’s some sort of black cap. “Let’s go.”

  We push on the great, thick vault door. As promised, it’s unlocked. The vast door swings open. We’re in a basement, ornate, art deco stairs climbing up.

  I take them three at a time.

  We emerge on the bank’s main floor, behind the counters. No one sees us until we’ve pushed through a security door out into the main lobby. Customers scream at the sight of us and our guns, as we sprint for the main doors.

  Eve comes up short, a few steps from the exit. She catches my arm as I run by. “Wait, look,” she says, point with her gun out the door. Black SUVs are pulling up, followed by police cars.

  I look down at my gun, then back as customers scramble for cover. “This doesn’t look good,” I say.

  “Well, when in Rome...” Eve says. She pulls another black cap out of her pocket and tosses it to me. “...try to look like a Roman.” She reaches for her cap and pulls it down over her face. I realize it’s not a cap but a ski mask.

  Eve turns and takes up her machine gun. She fires a burst of automatic fire into the ceiling.

  People scream.

  “This is a robbery!” Eve yells over the terrified wails of the customers, now hostages. “Everybody be cool!”

  I panic. Now we’re robbing a bank? I hurriedly pull my own mask over my face. I raise my weapon, trying to look intimidating. “What are you doing?” I growl at Eve out of the corner of my mouth.

  “Buying us time,” Eve growls back. “You!” She points her gun at a bank teller. “You! I hope you didn’t push the silent alarm!”

  The teller stares back at Eve, shaking her head in terror.

  “Don’t lie to me!” Eve shakes her gun. The teller’s head shake turns into a nod. Eve visibly relaxes, lowering her gun. She turns to me. “That means the real cops will be on the way. Those guys out there won’t dare make a move until the real cops show up.”

  Eve strides off, heading for the back of the bank.

  “Where are you going?” I yell after her.

  “Well, we can’t get out that way.” She points back to the front doors with her gun. “Or back that way.” She points toward the stairs leading to the vault. “So there’s only one way to go.” She shakes her gun over her head.

  I look up at the ceiling.

  For the first time I realize I’m going to die. Eve is going to get me killed.

  I look back at the bank’s front doors. Outside, dozens of Secret Service agents and New York City cops are leveling their guns at us.

  I’m going to die.

  And Eve is going to get me killed.

  Chapter 10

  “What’s on the roof?” I ask, looking up at the floor indicator above the elevator.

  “Trust me,” Eve replies. She removes her ski mask, her hair flying wild and loose. She tussles it and throws her head back. My heart skips at least three beats.

  “There is absolutely no way on this planet that I trust you,” I say, watching the indicator count down, heading for us.

  “Then rely on blatant self-interest,” Eve counters. “There’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof, ready to whirligig us the hell out of this place.”

  “A helicopter?” I ask, incredulous. “Was that the plan all along?”

  “It’s the plan now,” Eve answers, cryptically.

  “And Red Shield, out there?” I look back, toward the lobby of the bank.

  The elevator dings. The doors open. I have a sudden sense of déjà vu. Didn’t all this start in an elevator?

  “You worry about answering my question,” Eve says. “And I’ll worry about Red Shield.”

  We step into the elevator, Eve pushes the button for the top floor.

  “Well, you’re doing a bang up job of it so far,” I smirk.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” Eve sighs, shaking her head.

  We ride the elevator to the top floor in silence. Eve removes the magazine from her gun and checks the ammunition inside. Satisfied, she returns the magazine to the gun.

  Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two. The floors tick off. This is a tall building. Where are we? I have no sense of where I am in New York. I try to think back to how I got here. Bank, tunnel, bomb, basement, police station, patrol car, Lincoln Tunnel...it doesn’t help. We could be anywhere.

  We reach the twenty-seventh floor. The elevator dings, and the doors open. Instantly, I can hear the helicopter thundering above us. I feel a great sense of relief. At least that turns out to be legit.

  “The stairs to the roof are over there.” Eve points down the penthouse corridor, toward a fire exit. She’s climbing out of her body armor, tossing it aside.

  This time I’m determined to watch the costume change – she’s not going to surprise me. How many layers does she have on? It’s like a magic trick.

  It’s another uniform under the bank robber outfit. But this time, not a cop. The pieces fall into place as we push through the door, out onto the rooftop; The helicopter hovering over us has a wide red cross emblazoned on its side. A medevac chopper. And Eve is changing into a paramedic’s uniform.

  The feeling that I understand what’s going on is short lived. It’s gone the instant I see the first red laser dance across Eve’s paramedic’s shirt.

  “Watch out!” I call out. But the guns are already thundering. Machine guns fire, bullets whiz past us both.

  Eve stumbles, falling to the rooftop. I scream in panic. Automatically, my machine gun comes up. I fire blindly left and right, shooting until it’s empty.

  When I pause to reload, I see Eve pulling herself back to her feet. Half out of her bank robber’s outfit, half in her paramedic’s uniform, she charges toward the helicopter, firing her machine gun.

  When I have a new magazine back in my gun, I chase after her. I can’t see where the bullets are coming from, but I hear them whizzing by my head. I fire and fire and fire, shooting from the hip.

  Eve is almost to the helicopter. She drops to her knee, raising her gun to her shoulder. She lays down covering fire as I sprint across the roof. My gun is empty. I toss it aside.

  I run past her and leap for the hovering helicopter. I catch its skid and pull myself up. Quickly, I’m in the open side door and turn back to Eve. She jumps to her feet and runs. A hail of bullets hit the helicopter. I fall back, the helicopter banks. By the time I’m back to the door, the helicopter is climbing away from the rooftop. Eve is hanging one-handed from the skid.

  I reach down and grab hold of her wrist. She looks up at me, that same fire in her eyes. I scramble to get hold of her arm, but her fingers are already slipping away from the skid. The helicopter climbs fast, bullets pounding its hide. She can’t hang one. I lean out, almost falling from the helicopter myself. But it’s no good. In an instant, Eve’s fingers slide from the skid. They slip through my fingers and she’s falling.

  In slow motion, I watch her tumble toward the streets of New York below. She’s watching me as I watch her fall. The fire in her eyes never seems to fade, not for an instant, as she plummets into darkness.

  The helicopter banks left, climbing, to clear a nearby skyscraper. I lose sight of Eve’s falling form. By the time the helicopter banks right, she’s gone. Lost in the black of the street below.

  “Eve!” I scream out, calling down into the nothingness.

  She’s gone. Really gone. I close my eyes, trying to wish away what just happened. When I open them again, she’s still gone. I’m alone in the back of the helicopter. All alone. Outside, New York is hurtling by, turrets and rooftops only inches below me.

  Instantly, I make a decision. Maybe not a good one, but a decision nevertheless. I swing my feet around and plant them firmly on the skid. Timing it just right, I leap forward and jump clear of the helicopter. I fall, a rooftop rushing toward me.

  I feel like I’m already dead, even before I crash into the copper roofing of the skyscraper. The pain from the impact causes
some animal part of my brain to take over. I scramble, trying to find a fingerhold as I slip across the smooth, green tiles. But there’s nothing to grab onto. The edge of the roof rushes toward me. Before I can scream, I’m over the precipice, falling, about to join Eve, dashed against the cold, dark streets of New York. But my arms flail out, and I catch hold of something – a thin gutter. I lock onto it with both hands, hanging on for dear life, but it groans and creaks under my weight. In a second, brass nails snap free from the stone wall. I’m falling again, down, now with a great length of guttering between my palms.

  I see windows rushing by, a blur as I’m picking up velocity. Then my feet hit something, folding underneath me. I roll instantly off another sudden drop, arms and legs flying, but the broken-off length of gutter catches on something.

  I stop in my descent. Hanging in midair by a foot or so of bent gutter.

  I look down and regret it. My eyes come up to the building in front of me.

  There’s a window right at eye level. Art Deco smoked glass, but most definitely a window. I don’t waste a moment, I kick off the windowsill, swinging on the gutter, and come back into the glass with my feet out before me. It gives in, and the gutter comes loose above me. I fall, but forward and inside. The next thing I know, I’m sitting on a Persian rug, surrounded by broken glass.

  I look around, dumbfounded. I’m in some sort of study. There’s an unlit fireplace, a comfortable looking leather chair and a great number of books. I climb to my feet and brush the glass off my suit. I have only a vague comprehension of how I’ve ended up in the room. I think maybe I hit my head, leaping from the helicopter.

  Then the memory hits me like a punch in the gut: Eve falling, her burning eyes looking up at me as I reach for her. She’s gone. She’s really gone. Halfway in the middle of her costume change between bank robber and paramedic, halfway between the rooftop gunfight and the helicopter. Eve said she had a plan, but I don’t think any of this was part of it.

  I drop down heavily into the comfortable, leather chair. I’m bodily exhausted. I should be dead a dozen times over. I exhale, looking down at my handmade shoes. They’re wet, torn, smeared with dirt, and the left shoelace has snapped in two.

  I hardly have time to consider my loss. From somewhere deep inside the penthouse suite, I hear a bell announce the arrival of an elevator.

  I look up at the study door, pensive. I consider throwing myself out of the broken window. But that seems pointless. Perhaps there won’t be a lucky length of gutter to save me a second time.

  Eventually the door opens. The three Secret Service Agents in dark suits step into the study. I have no idea how they could have found me so quickly, but I’m past the point of being surprised.

  “Mr. Gant,” the center agent says. “I’m glad we finally caught up with you.”

  It’s pointless to run. No matter what I do, they’re going to get me eventually. And the chase has already killed Eve.

  The agent smiles, realizing that he finally has me cornered. “It’s not too late to make it to that party.”

  Chapter 11

  There’s a fresh black SUV waiting at street level. I’m bustled into the back seat, with an agent to my left and right. The one on my right keeps the barrel of a black pistol thrust in my ribs. The third agent climbs into the driver’s seat. There’s no cops around, no sirens or flashing lights. If there was a bank robbery in progress, I could see no signs of it. The black SUV pulls out into the street and starts north. Slowly, I begin to see recognizable landmarks of midtown roll past our tinted windows.

  No one says a word. Just that black gun, a few inches from my heart.

  They take the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Then the parkway. The brownstones and tenements of New York begin to give way to the tree-lined boulevards of Long Island. An hour turns into two as the black SUV winds its way out into the countryside. Where are they taking me? I dare not be too curious. The two agents beside me are ever vigilant, watching me from behind their dark glasses.

  They’re not going to shoot me, I tell myself. I’m far too valuable to Red Shield. The whole evening had been one long attempt to catch me unharmed. They need me and my mathematics for something I can’t quite fathom. Something to do with the Fed. Now that they have me, they’re certainly not about to shoot me dead. But I didn’t feel like I could overplay my hand. Accidents happen, after all, and guns go off. I decide to sit still and let thing unfold.

  Eventually, the SUV pulls off the parkway and follows a country road back and forth for many miles. The two-lane road turns to one lane, then into a dirt track. That ends in a grand gate, with a certain man’s name emblazoned on it in gold letters.

  I look at the agent to my left, then at the one on my right, holding the gun. They really are Secret Service Agents. I’d only seen the badge for a second, but here we are, driving up to one of the President’s personal estates at the Great Gatsby end of Long Island.

  The President of the United States, working for Red Shield. It’s incredible. Unbelievable. But it explains a lot.

  The grand gate, baring the letters T.U.S.K. obligingly open for us. The black SUV heads inside. It’s darkness beyond, and takes the car many minutes to navigate the long driveway. Eventually, lights break through the undergrowth.

  And we drive right into the middle of a party.

  There’s a formal ball taking place all around, inside and outside of a palatial mansion, overlooking the Long Island Sound. The black SUV pulls up to the shining, gold main doors, falling into line behind limousines depositing formal guests. I feel decidedly underdressed when my turn arrives, but the agents shove me out of the SUV’s door.

  I stumble up the mansion’s front steps in my torn suit and ripped shoes, and give the black SUV a choice hand gesture. A butler in a tuxedo gives me a shocked look and I realize that I’m now in more refined company. I straighten my suit, turn toward the main doors, and step into the party.

  It really is a party – a grand party of a scale I can only barely understand. Formal gowns and beautiful women with men in black tie. All evening, in the back of my mind, I’d been thinking that the three dark-suited agents were using “party” as a euphemism for jail, or torture, or something even worse. But here I am, in the middle of a real, honest to goodness party. The man in the limousine, the three agents, had all been talking about a real party. In a way, after everything I’ve gone through, what I’ve lost, ending up at a real party was more disconcerting that ending up in a cell. Why all the subterfuge? Why all the car chases? Why all the guns? If the President of the United States really wanted to invite me to a party, send an invitation, with gold calligraphy. I’d probably have ignored it, but at least nobody would have gotten killed.

  I take a glass of champagne from a waiter. I stagger about, bewildered. No one pays me any attention. Here, probably more than anywhere else, I really am a nobody. I see senators, generals, and famous movie stars. This party is a who’s who of America. What am I doing here? I find a quiet corner and sip at my champagne. Hey, isn’t that guy over there third in line to the British throne?

  “Mr. Gant?” A voice comes in my ear. I turn and find myself face-to-face with a beautiful woman in a long, fashionable gown. I’m momentarily shocked that she’s talking to me, then I spot the earbud. She’s holding a clipboard. I realize she’s staff, not a guest. “Mr. Gant?” she asks again.

  “Yes,” I try to casually take a sip of my champagne. But when the glass comes away from my mouth, it’s swirling with blood. I put it aside, quickly.

  “If you’ll follow me,” the woman says, looking at the clipboard.

  “Where are we going?” I think to ask.

  “The President would like a private word.” She’s already walking away, not waiting for me to follow.

  I hurry to catch up. “President? President Tusk?” I ask, just wanting to be absolutely clear.

  She laughs, “Do you know any other presidents?”

  “No, but...” I scratch my head. “Why does he
want to talk to me?”

  She doesn’t answer. She just opens a door and beckons me inside. It’s a library. There’s a large desk and a TV on one wall. Shelves lined with books are left and right, looking like they’ve never been touched. There are large, glass door behind the desk, leading out to a conservatory. Over the fireplace, there’s a massive portrait of the President, enthusiastically giving the whole room a double thumbs up.

  I look up at it in terror.

  “The President will be with your shortly,” the woman says and closes the door behind me.

  President. President Tusk. I’m in President Tusk’s house – in his office. This is his desk, I realize, looking at the desk before me. President Tusk. Oh Lord, I begin to panic, why me? Are they taking that “Je Suis Charlie” T-shirt I wore in college seriously?

  Then I can hear a voice outside the door, that thundering voice that could only belong to one man. I only have a few seconds before he’s inside the room. I frantically scan the desk in front of me. My eyes fall on a golden letter opener, laying on the desk. It’s about ten inches long, with a bold eagle on its hilt. It looks like a pretty formidable weapon.

  Someone is turning the handle of the door. Thundering laughter explodes from the other side.

  In the last instant, I reach out and grab an autographed baseball off the desk and slide it quickly into my jacket pocket. I turn to face the door, as it swings open. President Tusk, all red-faced and orange-haired, storms into the room. He’s flanked by men in tuxedos. He’s laughing at one of their jokes – or they’re laughing along with him at one of his. Yes, that’s more accurate. Almost as an afterthought, Tusk notices me, standing before the desk.

  Chapter 12

  “Who the hell is this?” Tusk points at me in disgust. From somewhere, the woman with the earbud appears and whispers to the President. He nods, remembering, and clears his throat. He swaggers forward, offering me a big slab of a hand. “Roderic Gant,” he says, “I hear great things about you. Wonderful things.” I shake his hand, and he yanks on my arm so hard I think I hear my shoulder pop. “Your country needs you, young man. Badly. Very badly. Very, very badly. It needs smart men like you. And me. But today, mostly you. I’m glad you could come to this excellent event we’re hosting here tonight.”