“Man, I don’t have any. But that’s a long exposure and, if they see you, an easy shot, and if the bullet doesn’t kill you, you land on your back or head and break something important and permanent. And maybe that queers the hostage deal.”
“You forget the best part. I’m scared to death of heights.”
“All right, I’d relocate about fifty feet to your left. There’s a support beam between the balconies. Looks like it’s decorated with some kind of phony turn-of-the-century-according-to-Disney shit. Maybe it has enough hand- and footholds.”
“Good work.”
“Do you have buds for your phone?”
“Yeah. In the box at home.”
“Okay, I can’t talk you up. I’ll watch and-”
And what? There was nothing McElroy could do but watch.
“Good luck, Marine. Semper Fi, all that.”
Ray put the phone away and low-crawled the fifty. He knew he didn’t have much time. He knew he couldn’t make any noise. He knew he couldn’t sweat, grunt, breathe heavy, swallow, anything. This was just pure acrobatics against a lethal height in front of an audience of killers, who, he hoped, weren’t in the habit of looking up. Fortunately, since the happy architects of Silli-Land had planted the grounds with those interfering trees, direct vision across or up was always impeded by the fluffy weaving of artificial leaves. One word: plastics. That might help.
He pulled himself up, made a last check.
None of the Somali guards was in a particularly alert status. They lounged, gathering in little groups-probably against their general orders-and seemed somehow quite happy. If any wondered where pals A through D had gone to, they weren’t showing it.
Okay, he told himself, go.
I don’t want to go, his self answered.
What was it Molly always said with a smile on her face? Too bad for you.
First he pulled himself up to the balcony railing, securing himself by hand to the pillar, which was itself about six inches wide, the same sage green as everything else in this green metal universe. Then he planted his foot on a nub of scrollwork, a filigree to the conceit of New Orleans balcony wrought iron overlooking Bourbon Street, and indeed, it held, and he hoisted himself up, aware at the same time that his entire weight was supported by just a stub of fake wrought iron. He rose by pulling, felt secure enough to free his off arm, and reached up. Once a tremor came to his foot; he slipped but somehow managed to check himself before he went by getting ahead of the slippage and jamming the foot in hard. He stabilized, holding tight, then brought his other leg up, searching for a foothold with his toe.
Where the fuck was it? God, there wasn’t one. Meanwhile, his twisted fingers, all that were between him and the serious intentions of gravity, began to cramp in pain. They slipped too, costing him a little purchase, so that if he wasn’t on by fingertips quite, it was only the last joints of one hand that secured him.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
Ray stabbed again with his free leg, like a show horse stomping out its age in the dirt, one-two-three, higher each time, until almost at full extension, it lit on something just big enough to hold him, and he hoisted again.
Very quickly this turned into a bad career move; he was supported in his two-hundred-pound entirety by the leverage of about a toe and a half, wedged against the meekest of protrusions, and with a hand he reached high, searching for a grab-on, aware that his purchase was slipping, slipping, slipping, and in the second before he knew he’d go, swing inward, and torque his support hand free and send himself into outer space, his fingers closed on some kind of steel tube, clamped hard upon it, and this stretched him a little further into extension and his foot also found a mooring point, and up he shot.
He rested, still, feeling the tracks of sweat running from hairline to eyes and nose, down from his armpits, the breath coming in hard gusts, even as his primal fears of falling expressed themselves vividly and he saw himself as in a ’60s movie’s crummy special effect, spinning laterally, getting further from the lens as he descended until at last he plunked hard to earth, broken, like a doll or a toy. And then he heard a scream.
That’s it, he thought. I’m dead. He tensed against the shot that would hit him and bring him down.
It cannot be discovered who first saw him. But it is known that Esther Greenberg, sixty-nine, stockbroker, mother of none, mentor of many, supporter of dozens, was the only one who figured out what had to be done and had the stone guts to do it.
Someone poked her and leaned close.
“They’re here,” came the whisper. “Commandos. Cops. Somebody.”
She nodded, frozen, suddenly overwhelmed by this new reality.
“Up above,” came the whisper.
Slowly, as if she were merely stretching, she elevated her head, and she saw him. At first she thought, It’s one of them. But then she thought, No, it can’t be. He’s trying to move slowly, he’s not black, he’s one of us.
She looked over and saw two of the gunmen jabbering, until they grew uninterested in each other. The tall one was the dangerous one. He disengaged from his buddy and began to look around innocently, the way a young guy will let his eyes roam out of boredom. He looked left, right, and then began to look up and “Noooooooo!” she screamed. She stood up. “I can’t take it anymore,” she yelled as if there were one thing on earth that frightened her. “Please, please, let me go.”
She ran at the tall boy with the gun, who watched her come with lightless eyes, even as other hostages tried to grab her to stop her from suicide. But she made it to him, and he smashed her in the head with his AK-74 between puffs of his cigarette.
Crazy American bitch, he thought. What was that all about?
No shot came. He heard turmoil and scuffling below but was in no position to check it out. Instead he waited a second, the panic passed, again he reminded himself to not look down, and he hoisted one foot up, up, up, found a toehold, God knew what, and again launched himself upward, feeling the pain of exhaustion sizzle through his arms and the yearning of his fingers to cease their death grip.
And then it occurred to him that he was there, he had made it. He was now resting on the solidity of the fourth floor, except on the wrong side of the balcony, and it just took an adroit but controlled roll and spin, and he was over and landed on the floor of the next story. He sucked at air, waited for his racing heartbeat to diminish, and finally, sliding next to a wall, stood, got himself up.
He looked up at the skylight, not nearly so far away now, and waved, and the figure that must have been McElroy waved back. Ray got out his phone, pressed the button.
“Jesus, I thought you were going there for a second,” said McElroy.
“God looks after fools, I guess,” Ray said. “Do you have an angle to the corridor?”
“Not enough of one. I can only see about fifteen feet down it.”
“Okay, I’m going to move down there, set up. If something happens and they start shooting hostages, I’ll step out and drop the ambushers and move into that First Person Shooter place.”
“It’s on the left, about halfway down.”
He then called Lavelva.
“Okay,” he said, “I made it up, somehow. I’m just inside the balcony, to the right of the corridor. What have you got?”
“Nothing. I’m just waiting here.”
“Good. If I give the signal, you shoot the door frame, not the lock. You have to blow away the lockwork, which is only buried in wood and plasterboard, then you kick in the door, then you drop back. That should draw them, and I’ll put them down and go to the store. When you hear my shots, you’re clear to follow. Sweetie, are you up for this? You don’t have to go. You can just back on down the stairwell.”
“I am so up for this.”
“You are a true warrior princess, bravest of the brave. Okay, in just a few, it’ll be our turn for some first person shooting.”