“We discourage it.”
Master of understatement.
Two men were in the lobby. They were dressed in black, wearing the SECURITY jackets. One came forward when we approached and unlocked the door.
Tank stepped in and looked around. “Anything happening?”
“Nothing. Been quiet all night.”
“When was the last time you walked?”
“Twelve.”
Tank nodded.
The men gathered their belongings—a large Thermos, a book, and a gym bag—and pushed through the lobby door. They stood for a moment on the street, taking it in, before climbing into their SUV and motoring off.
A small table and two folding chairs had been placed against the far lobby wall, enabling the security team to watch both the door and the stairs. There were two walkie-?talkies on the table.
Tank locked the front door, took one of the walkie-?talkies, and clipped it to his belt. “I'm going to do a walk-?through. You stay here and keep your eye on things. Call me if anyone approaches the door.”
I sent him a salute.
“Snappy,” he said. “I like that.”
I sat in the folding chair and watched the door. No one approached. I watched the stairs. Nothing going on there, either. I checked out my manicure. Not great. I looked at my watch. Two minutes had gone by—478 minutes more and I could go home.
Tank ambled down the stairs and took his seat. “Everything's cool.”
“Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“For nothing.”
Two hours later, Tank was comfortably slouched in his chair, arms crossed, eyes slitted but vigilant, watching the door. His metabolism had dropped to reptilian. No rise and fall of his chest. No shifting of position—250 pounds of security in suspended animation.
I, on the other hand, had given up trying to keep from falling off my chair and was stretched out on the floor where I could doze without killing myself.
I heard Tank's chair creak. Heard him lean forward. I opened an eye. “Time for another walk-?through?”
Tank was on his feet. “Someone's at the door.”
I sat up to see, and BANG! There was the loud discharge of a gun, and then the sound of glass shattering. Tank pitched back, hit the table, and crashed to the floor.
The gunman rushed into the lobby, gun still in hand. It was the man Tank had thrown through the window, the occupant of apartment 3C. His eyes were wild, his face pale. “Drop the gun,” he yelled at me. “Drop the fucking gun.”
I looked down, and sure enough, I was holding my gun. “You aren't going to shoot me, are you?” I asked, my voice sounding hollow in my head.
He was wearing a long raincoat. He ripped the coat open and held it wide to show a bunch of packets duct-?taped to his body. “You see this? These are explosives. You don't do what I say, and I'll blow us up.”
I heard a clunk and realized the gun had slipped from my fingers and fallen onto the floor.
“I need to get into my apartment,” he said. “I need to get in now.”
“It's locked.”