Flee (3 page)

The
door swung outward. I lunged through. My foot snagged a cable—something that
hadn't been there previously—and my body kept going. I  pitched forward and
threw out my hands, my gun skittering across the flat concrete rooftop just as
a supersonic bullet parted my hair and dug a burning trail across my scalp; a
shot that would have killed me a millisecond sooner.

I'd
made a huge mistake. With everything going on, I'd forgotten about the sniper.

"Use all of your senses, all the time," The Instructor
said. "The brain is a parallel processor, but it dismisses most sensory
input as redundant, irrelevant. You must teach your brain to stop ignoring what
seems normal, obvious, or mundane. Hyper-awareness can often be the difference
between a live operative and a dead operative."

I
tucked my arms into my chest and rolled sideways, coming to rest behind a metal
chimney roughly the size and shape of a street corner mailbox. My Glock was ten
feet away. Might as well have been a mile. The cable that saved my life snaked
across the roof to a new satellite dish.

A
bullet punched through the aluminum like a finger through soggy bread, making a
hole only a few inches from my nose. I flattened myself against the tar paper,
my cheek resting on dried pigeon droppings. Another shot, two seconds later,
perforated the chimney five inches lower than the first, burying itself into
the rooftop ten meters behind me. The wind whipped through my hair, but the
short length kept it out of my face. These were Chicago winds, snaking around
buildings, blowing eddies left, then up, then back.

"There's
a sniper up here!" I yelled, hoping it would make the police stay back.

My
breath came fast, my heart pumping like a cardio workout, but my mind was
focused and clear. The time between shots told me the sniper was using a bolt
action rifle. Calculating the hypotenuse of the trajectory told me he was in
the apartment building to the west, roughly one floor above me. He'd either been
on the fire escape facing my apartment, or in one of the rooms. When the police
arrived, he must have deduced my only way out was the roof, so he'd gone up as
well. His building was seven stories taller than mine. The higher the sniper ascended,
the better his angle, the easier his shot.

I
needed to get off the roof.

Since
the sniper was in motion, I assumed he hadn't any time to secure his mount.
That meant each time he fired, he'd have to load another bullet, which would
cause an unmoored rifle to jiggle a bit. On a telescopic lens, the slightest
jiggle would force him to readjust after every shot. The high wind would make
hitting a moving target even tougher.

"This
is the Chicago Police Department! Put down your weapon and put your hands above
your head!"

I
glanced back at the doorway, saw the cops standing there like paper targets, and
yelled, "There's a sniper on the opposite building!"

They
followed my voice, training their guns my way. I got up on my fingers and toes,
hopped to get my feet under me, and sprinted east.

I
registered my mistake immediately, when the tar paper around my feet erupted in
weapon fire. The sniper had a fully automatic rifle, not a bolt action as I'd
assumed. He was a pro, and he'd played me.

But
he underestimated how fast I could move, and where I would go. I didn't bother
zig-zagging or back-tracking, which were standard sniper counter-measures. I
beelined for the roof's edge, feet slapping hard for maximum traction.

Ready
or not…

Stretching
out my hands, I dove off the side of the building.

I
soared through the air, bullets cracking the sound barrier all around me. Heights
weren't my strongest suit, and as I caught a glimpse of the street ten stories
below—the cars and trees and people looking like toys—every part of me wanted
to scream.

Use
the adrenaline. Use the adrenaline.

Arms
open and reaching, I waited for the fire escape I prayed was still there, the
fire escape I hadn't checked since my long-ago roof reconnaissance when I first
moved into the apartment.

My
memory was a bit off.

The
fire escape was still on the side of the building, but my angle was wrong by
about a foot. The railing blurred as I passed over it and out into open sky.

Shit
shit shit.

I
adjusted, bending into a pike, reaching back around. My elbow hooked onto the
iron railing, jerking me backward. I felt sharp pain and heard a
pop
—my
shoulder had dislocated or broken. I clung to the side of the fire escape, my
feet dangling above the alley two hundred feet below.

Pain
ripped through my arm and down my side. No time to dwell on it now. I had
precious few seconds to get my footing and get down to the ground level before
the various people after me figured out where to look. I'd have to file the
pain away, deal with it later. I reached up with my good hand, did a one-armed
pull-up to disengage my elbow, and sought out the rusty iron grating with my
toes. Then I flipped myself over the railing and scurried to the first ladder,
trying to process my situation.

The
sniper would be vacating. He'd seen the cops and given away his position. I had
a whole building between him and me, so he was off my worry list for the moment.
The cops were another story. The ones on the roof would take cover, radio for
back up. Any units on the ground would be moving into position beneath me.

The
breeze was considerable. I had to use my injured arm just to make sure I didn't
blow off the ladder. My muscles screamed at me for relief, but I made them work
anyway, pushing my way down the first three floors fast as I could. I chanced a
look down, my mind swirling, vertigo tugging at me. A quick flash of memory
invaded my brain, a training exercise where The Instructor had made me climb a
forty foot high pole and traverse a rope leading to another pole. The height
had paralyzed me until he'd drawn his sidearm and shot at me to force me to do
it.

Goddamn
heights.

I
swallowed the dizziness and pressed onward. The scent of garbage drifted up from
the alley, malted barley from a nearby brewpub, and now there were sirens in
the distance, approaching fast.

I
descended another ladder—only five more to go.  The metal on the fire escape
was old and sharpened by years of bad weather. My feet were starting to numb from
the cold, but I could still feel the scrapes on the soles of my feet. I took a
quick look. Some blood, but not enough to make me slip. I kept going.

The
sirens had almost reached my building. The garbage stench grew stronger. I
glanced down. The ground was about forty feet below, this part of the alley
still clear of police vehicles. Roosting pigeons flapped into the air to my
right, cooing their objections. My heart rate shot up at the surprise, and I
lost precious seconds prying my fingers off the ladder to continue the descent.

With
two floors left to go, a police truck pulled around the corner. A Chevy, white
with blue trim, shaped like an ambulance. It moved slowly down the alley. I
could see the driver through the windshield, which meant he could see me.

There
were still twenty feet between my feet and the asphalt, a fatal distance, but
the truck was at least eight feet high. A twelve foot drop was dangerous but
survivable. Dropping onto a moving truck would be tough. The high wind made the
odds worse. My stomach clenched, fear and adrenalin, and I wondered if I'd be
able to force myself to act.

Just
do it.

I
launched myself off the fire escape, calculating as I fell. Ankles pressed
tight together, knees slightly bent, I figured I had a forty percent chance of
surviving when I hit the truck's roof.

My
feet struck hard enough to dent the aluminum, and I immediately bent my legs
and dropped onto my back, both hands slapping down to disperse the energy of my
fall as if I were on a judo mat.

The
truck hadn't been moving fast, and I'd jumped in the direction of travel, so
for a millisecond it seemed like I might actually stay on top.

Then
the driver hit the brakes.

I
tucked in best I could, rolling off the roof, bouncing off the hood, and
spinning onto the alley like an angry god spat me out.

Someone
said, "Holy shit." One of the cops from the truck.

I
came to a stop on my side, perhaps ten feet in front of it. My one arm was
worthless, and I instantly counted three more scrapes to add to my other
injuries, but I was miraculously alive.

Should
have given myself better odds.

I
got a leg under me, did a trick with my ears to bring my balance back quicker,
and then took four unsteady steps east before launching into a full sprint.

The
alley let out onto Clybourn. I noted four police cars, two unmarked sedans that
I IDed as Feds, and seven cops milling about on the sidewalk. The cops in the
alley would be contacting others. But none had looked in my direction yet, and
I chugged onto the sidewalk, sidestepping two gawkers, and turning north onto
Sheffield. My bare feet slapped the pavement, but I could barely feel them now
due to cold and the pain of all my other injuries. I cut through another alley.
When I reached the next street, I doubled back. The cops were certainly on my
trail by now, but it would be a tough trail to follow.

Two
blocks later I slowed down to a walk. My heart rate was hovering around a
hundred eighty beats per minute, and I got my breathing under control while triaging
my body.

The
shoulder was the worst injury, and now that I had time for examination I
determined it was dislocated, hanging two inches lower than it was supposed to.
It felt hot to the touch, and the fingers of that arm were numb from the bone
pressing against the axillary nerve.

I
knew basic anatomy, knew combat medicine, knew where the ball of the humerus
was supposed to connect to the socket of the scapula. Trying not to think too
hard about what was coming, I grabbed my biceps, jerked upward hard as I could,
and felt it slip into place. A wave of agony took me, among the worst I'd ever
felt.

I
fought to focus past the pain and tune into my surroundings. The street was
moderately busy, five cars heading north, seven going south. Two women waiting
for the bus. A homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk, his back to a burger
restaurant. I smelled exhaust, old vegetable oil, and pigeon shit. My tee was
covered with bird poop, rust, and grime. After a few seconds, I managed to
control my whimper. But nothing could stop the tears streaming down my face.

I
continued to walk, slowing my heartbeat, managing my breathing. I tried not to
think too hard about Kaufmann, about Jacob, about everything that had just gone
down. I couldn't afford emotion. Not yet. Survival came first.

I
inventoried the rest of my body. The gash in my scalp where the bullet grazed
me was already scabbing over, although my hair was sticky with blood. My feet
were cut up, but superficially and not requiring immediate attention. Some
tenderness in my right ankle, probably from when I landed on the truck. Both
elbows scraped, and a sore spot on my hip. That made me reach for the spot and
dig out the encrypted cell.

It
turned on, no problem. I wasn't surprised. This thing was made to stop a bullet
if it had to. I wondered if I actually needed it anymore. If Jacob had been
compromised, the next call I received could be suspect, even if it came from
him. But I'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that I was to never ditch the
phone, not even in dire circumstances. I tucked it away again.

Again
I steered my thoughts to more immediate matters. My beat-up state was certain
to gain notice from passersby, and my description, including clothing, would be
on the airwaves by now. I needed to change my appearance. I took a casual look
around, didn't spot anyone paying attention, and ducked inside a discount store.

Like
most dollar shops, this one sold discontinued junk that the owner bought by the
pallet. Generic sundries, cheap foreign tools, no-name make-up and hair care
supplies, sad-looking silk plants, and an astonishing variety of clocks featuring
images of Jesus.

I
walked past an aisle filled with obsolete magazines and worked at the seam on
my tee, tugging it open and removing the rolled fifty dollar bill. My sweat
pants, underwear, bra, as well as every piece of clothing and every shoe I owned,
each had a hidden fifty. That made my wardrobe worth several thousand dollars
more than I paid for it. The hours of sewing proved worthwhile at that moment,
and the two hundred dollars I had on me should be enough until I could reach
one of my lockers.

I
made quick work of the store, grabbing some cheap gym shoes, khakis, a dark
green blouse, a box of baby wipes, a bottle of aspirin, a box of decongestant, and
a straw sunhat. A three dollar pair of sunglasses rounded out the ensemble.
After paying, I walked into the burger joint next door and spent four minutes
in the washroom, cleaning away the dirt and blood with the wipes and dressing
in my discount clothing. I threw away my tee and sweat pants, first removing
the two pieces of metal hidden in the waistband and using the drawstring to tie
them around my neck.