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. One 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.
As with the neighboring structure, the iron frame of a fire escape zigzagged across the front of the apartments. An upright ladder accessed the sixth floor deck, but Kismet had no time to find it and execute a correct descent.
"Over the side." He did not wait for Irene's inevitable statements of disbelief, but quickly stepped over the parapet and dropped onto the catwalk below. The steel structure groaned with the sudden impact. A second later Irene landed alongside and clutched his arm for stability. He steadied her, and then hastily located the ladder. Two of Grimes' men were staring down from the edge, shouting and threatening with their guns, but for the moment Kismet was unconcerned; the grill-work of the fire escape would make it nearly impossible for a bullet to find them. The men must have realized this, for they put their guns away and climbed over the side to give chase.