Page 46 of Penny for Your Saints

Wyatt fucking Earp.

I steel myself as Frank swings the door open and we launch into motion.

Immediately we are met with the sounds of boots moving on stairs beneath us. Stern voices telling hysterical tenants to keep their doors closed and to shelter in place; the occasional apartment owner shouting their displeasure or a baby crying punctuating the sound of a group of professionals making their way up the stairwell toward us.

As we begin our trek to the rooftop, leaving the fourth floor and our temporary hiding spot behind us as we race for the sixth floor exit to the roof deck; I peer down the stairwell at the plainclothes officers and agents pooling in the vestibule around our recently abandoned apartment—a small metal battering-ram appearing from the liquid crowd of denim and canvas concealing Kevlar and nylon as more agents flow up the stairs behind the others; eager to clear the upper portion of the building.

Evidently having seen the same unfolding events, Seb deemed it a good time to produce a long metal pipe fitted with a small plastic box, duct tape and a mess of wires; tossing the DIY bomb through the open spiral of the stairwell—the shiny bit of aluminum arcing through the narrow spindles of the Bannister—dropping onto the landing of the 5th floor with a deafening BANG, a cloud of smoke, and a flurry of shrapnel.

We round the spira-mirabilis, dust and debris lifting in a plume to chase us up the concrete and metal steps; Frank’s boot making a loud clang as he kicks the push-plate on the door to the roof.

“Move it!” Frank barks, already busily traversing the empty roof—boots thumping over the black tar paper as he makes a beeline for the building next door—another three floors taller than the roof we’re currently on. His path is a direct course for the tracery of black metal fire escape on the crumbling brick facade.

Q and I slam the door to the roof shut—Quentin pulling two metal spiked wedges from his bag, dropping them on the ground and swiftly kicking them beneath the narrow space below the bottom of the door and the roof—the oversized shims jamming the door shut quickly and effectively.

Frank kicks over a stack of wooden boards and half empty paint cans—laying the rickety stretch of treated wood across the narrow gap between the buildings; one end of the board resting atop the roof’s ledge, the other end resting precariously over the rail of a fire escape landing.

“Go, Go, Go!” he shouts—ushering Caz and Seb over the dubious ‘bridge’—steadying the board with his own iron grip as they step lightly across.

Quentin crosses himself—then bounds across the board on feather feet—hardly touching down, leaping like a gazelle across the divide with little difficulty.

“You too—get a fuckin’ move on!” Frank snaps and I shoot a quick glance back to the door, clearly rattling on its hinges as the breach team—and the battering ram we saw earlier, no doubt—attempt to make their way to the roof.

I holster my guns before I step onto the board, still steady in Frank’s hands—arms spread out to their full wingspan to balance like a tightrope walker, my heart jumping into my mouth when I hear the dry, hollow, telltale crack of the wood—when I feel Lady Gravity begin dragging me toward the ground nearly six stories below.

In the split second as I begin to fall, Seb is the first one to reach for me—his eyes wide with panic; Caz screaming my name as Quentin hurries in to latch his arms around Seb’s waist like an anchor as Seb’s heavily tattooed hand—with its signature chipping black matte polish clamps around my wrist.

My body swings into the metal fire escape railing with a painful slam as the shattered board gives way beneath my feetand splinters on the pavement below; Seb and Quentin—my lifelines, keeping me suspended long enough for Caz to scramble to the railing and help pull me over the ledge.

Once I’m safely reeled in and set on my own two feet, the four of us make way—opening a space for Frank on the black iron fire escape.

“I’d get a running start if I were you, Frank,” Quentin warns grimly—his eyes only skimming the drop below; the remnants of our ad hoc bridge scattered below. Even though it’s only a momentary glance, I can tell Q has imagined Frank’s broken body in place of the treated wood—his complexion a ghostly white.

Frank backs up from the ledge—shaking his arms out as he prepares to make his leap.

“We’re about to have some visitors,” Seb warns, reaching into his pack for another bit of boom.

I draw my guns just as the doorway to the roof swings open, and squeeze off a couple of shots into the two burly plainclothes DEA guys who burst from the frame.

Frank, to his credit, doesn’t bother with a backward glance—just pumps his arms madly as he sprints for the edge of the roof; one boot launching him from the ledge as the other pedals wildly into open air—his body arcing clumsily from the roof to Quentin and Seb’s waiting arms at the edge of the fire escape.

I open my stance, establishing a solid base as I fire at the pack of agents that begins to flood from the door to the roof, their bodies crumpling and dropping as they step through the frame. A pile of bodies begins to form—both blocking the others from an easy exit, and announcing the threat of gunfire to those who may not yet know we’re returning fire.

Frank slams against the bars of the fire escape gracelessly—but clamors easily over the rail with the help of Q and Seb.

Instantly, Frank falls into line beside me—the resident dead-eye of the group; his gun appearing from the holster at his lower back as he squeezes off several perfect shots into the brave and stupid agents still trying to clamor over their fallen friends onto the roof.

P’ting!A sharp whistle and loud metallic ping sound frighteningly close to my head—then I catch the whiff of burnt hair—one of my dangling strands of wig singed by an errant bullet.

“Hit the deck!” I scream—eyes already darting to the other rooftops in search of a sniper.

We’d been in enough of a rush that we hadn’t scoped out possible sharpshooters on the nearby roofs. Though I had thought the breach would have taken into account the residential area of Beach City—deeming it too dangerous to come in with this much heat. After the revelations of this morning, I’m starting to understand that everything I’ve ever known is a lie. The preservation of human life just isn’t as important to these people and organizations as I once thought. I was never one of the ‘good guys’ I was just a goodie-two-shoes-fool who believed in the intrinsic ‘goodness’ of man.

Well, fuck me running—right?

“We gotta get out of line of sight!” Frank barks—the five of us shimmying on our bellies to the drop down ladder to the next level of fire escape.

“Working on it!” Quentin sing-songs impatiently—weaving his way down the metal ladder with graceful speed.

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