by Meg Gardiner
‘‘Christ, two minutes,’’ she said. ‘‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’’
His eyes were watering. ‘‘Not yet. Nobody’s looking. ’’
‘‘Looking? You’re nuts. If there’s an aftershock I’ll lose my balance. We—’’
A thumping sound echoed off skyscraper walls. A helicopter swooped over the top of the building above them.
It turned and hovered above Montgomery Street, rotors blaring. Everything on the terrace blew about in the air. Dust, leaves, their clothes. The camera tipped over. Scott grabbed for it but it fell off the ledge.
She yelled, ‘‘No, the evidence—’’
The camera dropped, hit the building and sprang apart. He let out a cry. His penance, his memories—
The terrace lit with a blinding white searchlight.
‘‘Oh, no—it’s a news chopper,’’ she said.
She leapt from the ledge to the terrace. Landed like a gazelle on her stilettos. He scrambled after her, buttocks stinging. They grabbed their clothes and ran for the door. The chopper rotated in the air, searchlight sweeping after them.
She looked back, her eyes brimming with joy and fury. The searchlight lit her hair like a halo.
‘‘Turn around,’’ he shouted. ‘‘You want them to get a close-up?’’
‘The city knows your face, not mine.’’
‘‘But it’s about to know your glorious ass.’’
He ran into the conference room, stopped and wriggled his left leg into his jeans. The spotlight caught them. He bumbled for the door.
Fumbling her way into her skirt, she sprinted into the hallway. ‘‘It’s chasing us like those things from the damned War of the Worlds.’’
He urged her forward. ‘‘Take the service elevator. The lobby downstairs is full of cops.’’
She ran beside him, agile in the heels. His watch beeped.
‘‘Oh, crap. No time.’’
In the lobby, the fire alarm wailed a high-pitched tone. The digital clock flashed red: :58, :57. The TV news was showing pictures from the chopper’s camera.
‘‘Two people are trapped on the roof,’’ shouted the reporter. ‘‘A woman was signaling for help. If we swing around . . .’’
The alarm rose in pitch.
‘‘How long to get down?’’ she said.
They ran to the service elevator and she pounded on the button. The searchlight panned along the windows. Like a white flare, it caught them in the eyes.
‘‘I see them. They’re attempting to escape from this deadly tower. . . .’’
She whacked the elevator button with the riding crop. ‘‘Open.’’
With a ping, the elevator arrived. They lunged inside.
On the ground floor they burst out a back exit into an alley. The asphalt was wet and steaming. Scott clicked his stopwatch.
‘‘Seven seconds. Time to spare.’’
‘‘Maniac,’’ she said.
They dashed through puddles toward the end of the alley. On the street a police car blew past, lights flashing. The helicopter thumped overhead, searchlight pinned on the roof.
Scott nodded at it. ‘‘They got it on tape. You have evidence.’’
‘‘You’re reckless. I think you actually want to get caught.’’
‘‘I carried out the dare. Did I make the cut?’’
She fought with her zipper. ‘‘We’ll put it to a vote. No promises.’’
They rushed out of the alley. The street, lined with banks and swanky stores, was being cleared by the police. They slowed to a walk, trying to look normal. He buttoned his jacket. She smoothed down her hair.
Elation flooded him.
‘‘Admit it—that was awesome.’’
‘‘It was outrageous.’’ She pointed at him. ‘‘And do not tell me it ended with a flourish.’’
‘‘Really?’’ He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a baseball.
‘‘What’s that?’’
He tossed it to her. She caught it.
‘‘A Willie Mays autographed ball?’’ She looked up, surprised. ‘‘From the law firm’s memorabilia collection? You stole it?’’
‘‘On our way out. And it’s not just any baseball. It’s the ball—from the 1954 World Series. The greatest catch of all time.’’
She gawked. ‘‘It’s got to be worth—’’
‘‘Hundred thousand.’’ He smiled, broadly. ‘‘Right under your nose.’’
Anger flashed across her face. She shoved the ball back into his hands. ‘‘Okay, bonus points for chutzpah.’’
He laughed and tossed the baseball into his other hand. ‘‘Fear not—it’ll be returned. That’s the next challenge.’’
‘‘How? The building’s locked down. And your fingerprints are all over it.’’
‘‘So? I’m a star client. My lawyer let me hold it. It doesn’t matter that my fingerprints are on it.’’ He glanced at the police car down the block, then back at her. ‘‘How will you explain that yours are?’’
She stopped dead on the sidewalk.
He held up the ball. ‘‘Return it without getting prosecuted. I dare you.’’
He turned, faced the jewelry store they were passing and hurled the ball straight through its front window. Glass crashed. An alarm shrieked. He spun back around.
‘‘Have fun, Hardgirl.’’
He took off running down the street.