Kismet saw no sign of their enemies on the street below, but knew they were likely running down from wherever they were in order to cut off the escape. The two men on the ladder, only a few steps behind them, were effectively herding them toward the street, where Grimes would either have them shot or arrested. It was time to hasten their descent.
When he reached the third floor deck of the fire escape, he drew to a stop, and waited for Irene to reach him. She stepped down and looked at him for direction.
"Shortcut!" Before she could utter a word, he wrapped one arm around her waist. Irene suddenly realized what he was up to, and Kismet heard the beginning of an oath, spoken in Russian, which had something to do with his mother.
Her foreign curse notwithstanding, Irene seemed to comprehend that what Kismet was about to attempt would require her full cooperation. She synchronized her movements with his own; bending her knees, tensing her muscles as he did, and springing forward when he shouted: "Jump!"
They flew out into the open space above the street, arcing at first, until gravity's pull exceeded the lateral thrust of their leap, and then they plummeted. Irene's skirt filled with air, like an umbrella in a windstorm, and flew up around her head, baring her legs to the world for one and a half heavenly seconds.
Immediately as they jumped, Kismet released his hold, thrusting her away so that they would not collide upon landing. Irene seemed to float an arm's length away, her face eclipsed by the cloth of her dress. An instant later, they hit.
The garbage bags were not as soft as he had hoped for, but sufficiently broke their fall to prevent injury. Upon hitting the pile of trash, Kismet pitched forward, sinking deep into its reeking midst. He righted himself and looked for Irene. She had landed nearby and already freed herself from the mire. As she rolled down to the street, a few fragments of damp paper tumbled from beneath her skirt. Kismet picked his way across to slippery mess to join her.
Suddenly his head snapped sideways. A bright flash scorched his vision, followed by a ringing in his ears. He turned his head back to face Irene, and found her massaging the knuckles of her right hand. A moment later, his jaw started smarting and he raised a hand to gently probe his left cheek. He was almost convinced that he could feel it beginning to swell. Irene regarded him with smoldering rage. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I swear I'll do more than just hit you."
He raised a disapproving eyebrow, though he was secretly impressed by how tough she was proving to be. The trials they had faced since escaping the underground church hall were virtually Herculean, certainly more than enough to overwhelm the endurance of most men. Yet this woman that he hardly knew had survived it all and still had the mettle to put him in his place.
Muted popping noises echoed between the buildings, punctuating the impact of bullets on the street all around them. Kismet hastily pointed to the refuse hauler they had earlier abandoned and shouted: "Back in the truck. Move!"
"But the street is blocked!" Irene shouted. He ignored her and was not surprised when she slid into the passenger seat at the same time he pulled his own door shut. He worked the ignition then revved the engine several times.
"We're not going forward," he explained, shifting the gear lever into reverse.
Irene glanced backward. "That way is blocked, too."
"Not for long." Kismet floored the accelerator then slipped his foot off the clutch pedal. The vehicle shot backward with a violent lurch that threw Irene forward onto the floor.
A loud noise rang through the cab as a bullet struck the heavy steel roof of the truck, directly between them. Another shot shattered the windshield, showering fragments of glass upon Kismet and Irene. The truck's huge rear tires, further weighted down by the upraised container, plowed into the mound of trash and either scattered refuse in all directions or simply mashed it flat. Kismet felt his control over the vehicle diminish slightly, but continued to maintain pressure on the accelerator.
The rear end of the truck slammed into the sedan that had crashed sideways across the lane. The Buick spun around and broadsided the truck. The second car, which had crashed into the first, was devastated as the right edge of the holding canister raked along the doorposts, smashing both the front and back windows and obliterating everything on the driver's side.
Although he managed to avoid striking the third car, the driver of which had been foresighted enough to park close to the sidewalk, Kismet was unable to thread his way between the two police cars that had blockaded the way to the intersection. He barely had time to warn Irene before they hit. The truck lurched with the impact but refused to stop. The driver's side wheels climbed up onto one of the cars, crushed its fenders and twisted its frame into scrap metal. Kismet corrected his steering and the wheels dropped back onto the pavement, causing the entire vehicle to bounce violently.
With that final pang they were free, bursting backward into the intersection, where policemen had already stopped traffic. Kismet braked, then shifted into second and steered back onto the avenue. Within moments they had left the scene of the confrontation behind.
"Irene, are you all right?"
She looked up cautiously from where she was huddled down on the floor. "I don't know," she confessed. "Have we escaped?"
"We're not across the finish line yet, but things are finally looking up."
She shook herself, trying to dislodge shards of glass from her hair and clothes. Her seat was similarly littered with sharp splinters, which she cautiously removed before sitting down. Kismet navigated straight ahead, slightly faster than the flow of traffic. Two minutes later he saw the first sign of pursuit: a string of flashing police lights, a few blocks behind and closing fast.
"Uh, oh. That's no good. Where are we?"
Irene scanned a street corner for a signpost. "Madison Avenue. We just passed 34th Street."
Kismet thought for a moment, and then his eyes brightened. "Perfect."
They continued north for several blocks, but as they approached 42nd street, the way became choked with pedestrian traffic. Though midnight was still a few hours away, thousands of native New Yorkers and tourists were braving the inclement weather to ring in the New Year at the Times Square extravaganza. While it would be impossible to fight through the human flood in the stolen truck, Kismet immediately saw an opportunity to gain an advantage on their pursuers, and halted the vehicle.
Irene looked across the cab at him. "Well?"
"What do you say we watch the ball drop?"
She raised a dubious eyebrow, but followed his lead when he opened the door and dropped down onto the pavement. The shouts of annoyance that greeted their abandonment of the sanitation truck were quickly swallowed up by the crowd noise and the swell of music echoing down the rain-slicked streets. After a few steps they could no longer hear the sirens of the approaching police cars in the din of the celebration.
They did not completely blend in with the masses however. People gave a wide berth to the reeking, soot-stained duo, parting like the sea in a Biblical epic. In no time at all they had traversed three blocks and were within sight of the main stage and the legendary lighted ball that would drop at the stroke of midnight. It was impossible to tell if they were still being pursued, but Kismet was sure of one thing; their presence would leave an impression on all those who crossed their path. Simply trying to blend in with the crowd would not suffice.