I climb out slowly, dropping as quietly as I can onto the roof below, and landing in a crouch. I look across at the other window, which is about a foot above my eye level. There’s a small gap, maybe five feet across in between. I edge forward, looking down to the ground below.
The fall wouldn’t kill me, but the landing sure wouldn’t tickle.
I take a deep breath and look back up at the ledge. The window itself is the same style as the one I just climbed out of, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to just slide it up and climb in.
I stand, readying myself for the jump. I take one last look over my left shoulder, down at the street, but anyone who is walking by hasn’t looked up at me yet.
It occurs to me how scary it is that terrorists could actually meet to plan God-knows-what in the middle of Manhattan, and no one would ever know… walking around in blissful ignorance as, potentially, world-threatening plans are being made right under their noses.
Just as I’m about to jump, Clark’s voice sounds in my ear.
“Adrian, wait a minute,” he says.
I relax my body again and crouch down. “What is it?” I ask.
“There’s movement inside. The eight guys are still in the meeting, but two of the men from downstairs have gone up, and are walking toward the guy standing outside the room you’re about to break into.”
“Shit. Any idea why?”
“No. There’s been no interior or exterior movement prior to it that would’ve alerted them to anything.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“The two outside are still manning the door. There are now four downstairs dotted around, with two having moved upstairs. One seems to have stopped at the top of the stairs. The other is standing with the guy outside the room.”
I think for a moment. “Might just be a status update or something,” I suggest. “Like you say, they’ve no reason to suspect anything’s wrong, so it could just be procedure.”
“Perhaps. Sit tight, see what happens.”
I stay crouched and focus on keeping my breathing slow. I’m still not entirely sure what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but the way I see it, getting inside is the hard part. Once I’m in there, I only need to get hold of Hussein, and I can probably negotiate my way out by holding my gun to his head, without needing to shoot anyone…
I almost kept a straight face as I thought that!
Instinctively, I reach behind me, drawing my gun and checking the clip is full. Sixteen in the mag, with one in the chamber. Including the drivers, I have sixteen potential targets and seventeen bullets. Take Hussein and whoever he’s meeting out of the equation, as I can’t shoot them, and I’m down to fourteen… One bullet each, with the three for grace.
I’ve done more with less.
Clark speaks, breaking my train of thought. “Okay, those two guys are heading back downstairs,” he announces. “Looks like you were right.”
“Okay, let me know when they’re gone, and I’ll make the jump.”
I stand again, readying myself once more. I crack my knuckles and rub my hands together, giving them some extra warmth, and checking the blood’s flowing, ready for the grip.
“You’re clear,” says Clark.
Without a word, I take two steps back and dash forward, jumping as my front foot hits the edge. I step through, clearing the gap with ease and getting a good, solid grip of the window ledge. I brace as the momentum slams my lower body against the building, closing my eyes to suppress an involuntary grunt from the impact.
Composing myself, I glance down, making sure my legs aren’t dangling in front of the window below me. Happy they’re not, I relax my arms.
“Any sign of movement?” I ask, my voice straining from the effort.
“Still looking good,” replies Clark.
I heave myself up, using my feet to push myself as best I can, and rest my elbows and forearms on the ledge. Happy with my grip, I lift my head up and look through the window into the room. My view is limited, as the sun is shining through the low, gray cloud and reflecting off the glass, meaning I can only really see myself. But the important thing is the room appears empty.
I steady myself and press my right palm flat against the glass. I push against it, and then try to slide it up, hoping the window will move. It’s a struggle, and I put plenty of pressure on it, but it doesn’t budge. The window’s locked.
Well, shit…
13
“Ah… Bob?” I say.
“What’s wrong?” he replies.
“The window’s locked.”
“Oh, shit…”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I’m dangling thirty feet above Manhattan — a little help wouldn’t go amiss.”
“You should really plan things a little better. Did you not consider the possibility of the window being locked before you jumped?”
“Well, obviously I considered it… I just believe positive thinking creates opportunity.”
“Adrian, you’re an idiot.”
“Bob, if I wasn’t hanging from a window ledge, I would absolutely kick your ass right now. Enough with the lecture — fix this.”
“What do you want me to do, exactly?”
“I don’t know! Josh would’ve thought of something by now…”
“Well, I’m not Josh, am I?”
He falls silent. My arms are starting to ache.
“Bob, I’ve clearly hurt your feelings here, and I feel I should apologize,” I say. “But I won’t. Stop being such a fucking old woman and find me a way into the building!”
I can hear him go to say something, then stop himself, audibly catching his breath and his words. More silence on the line, and my arms are really starting to hurt, to the point where my grip is slowly weakening.
“Any time you want, Bob…” I say, trying to hurry him along without antagonizing him further.
“Well, I hate myself for saying this, but given the circumstances… why don’t you just break the window, climb in, and shoot anyone who comes looking? You know you want to.”
I smile to myself. About damn time.
“Bob, you’re a good man.”
“Whatever… just don’t shoot the targets, okay?”
“Cross my heart.”
Using my feet, I scramble up the wall as much as I can, renewing my hold on the ledge, then slowly reach behind me to get my gun. Holding it in my right hand, I look left as much as I can, to shield my face from any shards of glass that might go flying. Then, I slam the butt of the gun hard into the center of the window. The glass breaks first time, and I quickly heave myself up and through, dropping to the floor of the room while avoiding the few pieces of glass still sticking out from the frame.
In a crouch, I remain still; aiming my gun at the door, waiting for the guy outside the room to come barging in to investigate the noise. My heart rate is increasing as the adrenaline kicks in. I take some deep breaths to try to regulate it, so I can use it to my advantage.
Three seconds pass before the door swings open. The guard stands there, a look of shock and confusion on his face, probably not expecting to see someone in the room. He must be one of Hussein’s men, as he looks Eastern European, and is dressed in jeans and a sleeveless, insulated jacket. In his right hand is a submachine gun — looks like a MAC-10, with a suppressor attached. Using the split second of hesitation to my advantage, I fire once, putting a bullet in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back and he slumps straight to the floor; a light, crimson stain appears on the wall opposite, across the hallway.
I creep to the door, quickly searching the dead guy for anything useful. I retrieve a driver’s license, which states his name is — sorry, was Joseph Jameson, from Ohio. Presumably a fake…