“The city will be paralyzed by morning,” he said.
“This is a blizzard! No one will go to work.”
“Then we hide until Monday.”
“What about water? Food?”
“A big office will have water coolers. Coffee and sodavending machines.
Maybe even a candy and cracker vendor.”
“Until Monday?”
“if we have to.”
“That’s a long time.”
She jerked one hand to the void at her left side. “And that’s a long
climb!”
“Agreed.”
“Come on,” she said impatiently. “Let’s smash in the window.”
Bollinger stepped over the fallen liquor cabinet and looked around
Harris’s office.
Nothing out of the ordinary. No sjgn of the prey.
Where in the name of God were they?
He was turning to leave when the green velvet drapes billowed out from
the wall.
He brought up the Walther PPK, almost opened fire.
Before he could squeeze off the first shot, the drapes fell back against
the wall. Nobody could be hiding behind them; there wasn’t enough room
for that.
He went to one end of the drapes and found the draw cords. The green
velvet folded back on itself with a soft hiss.
As soon as the middle window was revealed, he saw that something was
wrong with it. He went to it and opened the tall, rectangular panes.
The wind rushed in at him, fluttered his unbuttoned collar, mussed his
hair, moaned to him. Hard-driven flakes of snow peppered his face.
e saw t e carabiners on the center post, and the ropes leading from
them.
He leaned out of the window, looked down the side of the building.
“I’ll be damned!” he said.
Graham was trying to unhook the hammer from the accessory strap on his
safety harness, but he was hampered by his heavy gloves. Without the
gloves, it would have been an easy chore, but he didn’t want to take
them off out here for fear they would slip away from him and disappear
over the edge. If something went wrong and they were forced to continue
the climb, he would need gloves desperately.
Above him, the wind made a strange sound. Whump! A loud, blunt noise.
Like a muffled crack of thunder.
He finally got the hammer off the strap.
Whump!
Connie grabbed his arm. “Bollinger!”
At first he didn’t know what she meant. He looked up only because she
did.
Thirty feet above them, Bollinger was leaning out of the window.
To Connie, Graham said, “Stand against the wall!”
She didn’t move. She seemed stunned. This was the first time ‘ she had
ever looked frightened.
“Don’t make a target of yourself!” he shouted.
She pressed her back to the building.
‘Untie yourself from the safety line,” he said.
overhead, a tongue of flame licked out of the pistol’s muzzle: whump!
Graham swung the hammer, struck the window.
Glass exploded inward.
Frantically, unable to forget the vision of himself being shot in the
back, he smashed the stubborn, jagged shards that clung to the frame.
Whump!
The sharp sound of a ricochet made Graham jump.
The bullet skipped off the stone inches from his face.
He was sweating again.
Bollinger shouted something.
The wind tore his words apart, transformed them into meaningless sounds.
Graham didn’t look up. He kept working at the spiked edges of the
window.
Whump!
“Go.” he shouted as he shattered the last dangerous piece of glass.
Connie scrambled over the windowsill, disappeared into the dark office.
He slipped the safety line knot at his harness.
Whump!
The shot was so close that he cried out involuntarily. The slug plucked
at the sleeve of his parka. He was unbalanced by the surprise, and for
an instant he thought he would fall off the ledge.
Whump!
Whump!
He plunged forward, through the broken window, expecting to be stopped
at the last second by a bullet in the spine.
In the unlighted office on the thirty-eighth floor, the glass crunched
under their feet.
Connie said, “How could he miss us?”
As he patted the sweat from his face with the palm of his glove, Graham
said, “Wind’s near gale force. Could have deflected the bullets
slightly.”
“In just thirty feet?”
“Maybe. Besides, he was firing from a bad angle. Leaning out the