9:44 p.m.
New York City
Manhattan
Jacob grabbed his phone from the Mustang’s dashboard. “Talk to me, Higs. You’re on speaker.”
“I’m ready to execute on your command. All cameras and alarms will be disabled. No personnel in the building will know your whereabouts or have the capability to dial 911. I will be running a remote signal jammer that will scramble cellular communications; however, internal hardwired lines will still be operational, so phone calls from office to office will go through.”
“Copy that.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. St. Christopher, Miss Stockwell…that means I won’t be able to monitor the situation or provide crucial information on enemy combatant numbers and positions. You’ll be blind in there.”
“We have the architectural plans you sent for the building. Plus I have an excellent sense of direction.”
Stockwell rolled her eyes at him.
Higs: “Of course you do. It’s your common sense that is most concerning to me.”
“You said nothing about common sense when I took this job. If you want that from me, then we need to renegotiate my salary.”
“One more thing,” continued Higs. “Gambrisi used Cartwright Security a few years ago when he overhauled the building’s security measures. I was able to ascertain from the company that they have two separate systems they install—one for residential and another for offices. The business system uses a keycard the size of your average credit card. You will need one of those if you come across any restricted areas.”
“Got it. Anything else we should know?”
“Your communication earbuds are tied in to my headset, so we’ll be able to communicate, until the signal jammer is engaged.”
“Okay. Is that all?”
“Affirmative…Mr. St. Christopher, Miss Stockwell…Godspeed.”
“Thanks Higs.” Jacob disconnected the call and stared at the front of the building, which sat on the corner of an intersection. From his vantage point, he could see one side of the structure and the front door, which seemed to be guarded by a burly man in a black suit.
Stockwell brought up the floor plan. “Are we going in the back door? We might be able to access the underground garage. The penthouse suite is on the sixtieth floor, so we’ll need to use the elevator. We can’t hoof it for sixty floors.”
“True.” Jacob eyed the guard, who had stepped outside for a cigarette. A minute later, the man tossed the cancer stick, held his hand next to a small box, opened the door and disappeared.
Stockwell faced Jacob. “So what’s it going to be…stealth? Or hard and fast?”
Undoing his safety belt, “Actually,” he retrieved his cred pack, “I thought we’d knock on the front door.” He held up the leather wallet. “Let’s see how far this gets us. Leave your MP5.” He pulled on the door handle. “We want a more low-keyed approach. After all, we’re just here to talk.”
… … … … …
For the second time, Jacob pounded on the door of Gambrisi International, according to the sign over his head.
The same man who had taken a smoke break passed through the first set of doors and approached Jacob’s shield, pressed against the glass. He scrutinized the credentials, unlocked and opened the door. “What do you want?” The man had a deep baritone voice.
Jacob stowed his wallet. “We’re here to speak with Mr. Don Gambrisi.”
“What’s this about?”
Jacob shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. It’s a matter of national security.”
The same height and build as Jacob, Baritone flicked his eyes back and forth between the agents. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Gambrisi is not seeing anyone this late at night.”
“I see. That’s too bad,” Jacob glanced at Stockwell before squinting at the man in the doorway, “for you.” His right hand stuck, clamping around Baritone’s throat. Jacob pumped his legs and drove the man backward, slamming him into the interior set of doors. Grabbing Baritone’s tie and yanking, Jacob kneed the man’s stomach, doubling him over, before he delivered a horizontal elbow strike to the temple. Baritone ceased resisting and slid sideways down the glass, crashing to the floor.
A split-second later, Jacob was on him, rummaging pockets. He stood and held up a keycard, “Jackpot.” After opening the interior door, he gave Stockwell a quick look and, “I believe Mr. Gambrisi will see us now,” darted into the building’s lobby. He tapped his earpiece. “Hit it, Higs.” He heard a high-pitched squeal in his ear, “Ow!” and shut off his communication device.
Stockwell killed her device, “Ow! That hurts,” and caught up to Jacob.
Jacob pointed his Coonan 357 at a man behind a long reception desk. “Put it down.” He motioned with the weapon. “Put it down.”
The man stared at Jacob, a phone receiver in one hand. The other hand poised to press buttons. His eyes went back and forth—the gun leveled at his nose, the dial pad, the gun, the dial pad.
Jacob jogged forward. “Don’t do it. Just put it…”
The man’s hand flew across the buttons, while he brought the receiver to his mouth. “Someone’s broken into—”
Jacob planted a hand on the desk, swung two feet out and over the horizontal surface, pushed off and kicked the receptionist in the chest with both boots, sending the man sprawling onto the gray carpeting. A swivel chair rolled away, spinning.
Jacob ripped the long phone cord from the wall. “Sorry your call cannot be completed as dialed.” After searching for and finding a keycard in the receptionist’s pocket, he bound wrists, grabbed his gun, leapt over the secured man and headed for the elevator. “Please try again later.” He got Stockwell’s attention and gestured. “Left and low.”
She nodded and covered the left side of the lobby.
Sidestepping and backpedaling, while casting glances toward an upper level, Jacob watched the right side of the massive waiting area, complete with padded chairs and intermittent side tables; all arranged in a square. Making up the four points of the square, six-foot tall potted plants with drooping branches sat on right-angle, three-foot high brick walls.
Gunfire erupted from a corner on the opposite side. Jacob dove behind a row of chairs, only to look up and see they gave him no cover or concealment.
Stockwell opened up on the attacker from an alcove next to the elevator. “Crawl to that…” she fired, “short wall.” She squeezed off a couple rounds. “I’ll cover you.”
On elbows and knees, Jacob shuffled across the floor. He came to the end of the row of chairs and saw a gap between him and the short wall. With Stockwell keeping the gunman’s head down, he crawled into the open.
Halfway to the safety of the block wall, the reports from behind ceased at the same time loud cracks came from ahead of him. Bullets skipped off the floor, inches from his face. He backed up, and a bullet zipped over his head. He went forward and a projectile stopped his advance. He glimpsed his partner.
Stockwell rammed a full magazine into her Glock, ran the slide forward and was back on target, sending rounds downrange.
Jacob rose up and leapt for the barrier, as if he were sliding headfirst into second base. Getting to his butt, his back to the wall, clutching his pistol with both hands, he ducked and covered his head, as the top part of the wall absorbed full metal jackets. Pieces of a clay pot—and the plant inside—rained down on his head. He spied Stockwell and held out his hands before motioning left and right.
Stockwell pointed.
Jacob spun around and waited, steadying his weapon against the wall. A head appeared to the left of his line of sight. He adjusted his aim and got off three shots. The figure hiding in the shadows appeared, as he keeled over, his gun sliding a short ways away.
Rising to his full height, Jacob backed up and met Stockwell at the elevator doors.
She banged an arrow button and resumed scanning for threats.
Jacob pivoted his gun left and right, before lifting the muzzle up and repeating the process. A bell chimed and the doors parted. “The next time you tell me you’re going to cover me…” he backed into the elevator, “can you please put a fresh mag in first?”
The doors closed and Jacob fished out the keycards.
“Well if you weren’t so slow, I wouldn’t have needed the second one. I guess those old muscles don’t work so well at your age.”
He inserted a card and pressed the button for the penthouse, but nothing happened. “Are you kidding me?” He tried the second and got the same result.
“You have to wait. Give it some time.”
He jammed the card into the slot and drilled the button.
“No, you have to…” Stockwell grabbed the card, and did what he had done. “You have to wait…see,” she pushed the button, and the elevator lurched upward, “the light flashes. You have to wait for the flash before you hit the button.”
“I’ll flash you…give me that.” Jacob snatched the security card, stuffed it into a pocket and thumbed the 1911’s release, dropping a partially spent magazine into his hand.
“You already did that, remember? Back at the garage in Bedford Hills?”
His face turned a shade redder, while he loaded the three-fifty-seven. “Oh, as far as my age goes…you’re not that far behind me, sister.”
Stockwell finished the reloading process with her weapon. “Yeah, but I still move like I’m twenty-nine.”
They both holstered their weapons and leaned backward, against the car wall, viewing the number over the door—10. Soft music played through speakers…11.
Jacob crossed his ankles and clasped his fingers in front of his body. “I think it’s going well so far, don’t you?”
Stockwell observed him out of the corner of her eye. “You know they know we’re coming, right?”
He nodded once, “Yup,” before stroking his chin and scratching his beard.
She looked up…13…14, and turned an ear toward the speaker. I think I know this song.
Jacob folded his arms and ran a thumb back and forth over his lips before tilting his head back…16…17.
Stockwell shifted her weight to the other foot. “That was a good shot by the way.”
He glanced at her. “Thanks.”
She puckered her lips and squinted. “That must have been fifty or seventy-five feet.”
“It was longer than that.”
She grinned at the side of his face. Do we know each other well enough yet? She peeked at his pants. I saw him in his skivvies, so… “It’s been my experience that men always…overestimate…the length of things.”
A faint smile washed over his face, while he pivoted his head to meet her gaze. “Trust me. I wouldn’t lie about such things.”
She nodded, “Uh…huh,” and cocked her head. “You blush a lot, you know that?”
Jacob looked upward…21…22 and recalled his conversation with Amanda. “So I’ve been told. What floor did you say the penthouse was on?”
“Sixty.” Stockwell pushed off from the wall, “Okay, this verbal foreplay’s been fun and all, but…” she pointed, “those doors are eventually going to open, and I’d like to know what we’re planning to do when that happens.”
Jacob stared at the ceiling for twenty seconds. “You trust me, Stockwell?”
“Would a sane woman, who’s only known a man for a day, risk her job—her life—and follow him into the belly of the beast?”
Jacob snickered. “On that note,” he licked a finger and struck the air, “I’ll put one in the ‘yes’ column.” He went to one knee and patted his shoulder. “Hop on.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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