Lots of folks ended up dead.
Chapter 13
Remo Williams released the security chief on the thirty-fourth floor, the top floor. The man made a pile in one corner of the elevator as Remo came out of the lift with every sense alert.
He found himself surrounded. By videocam lenses.
A man waved at him from behind his camera.
"Just pretend we're not here," he said in a friendly voice.
"That's right," chimed in a second. "We're just here to record events as they happen. Pay no attention to us."
"Do whatever you were going to do," encouraged a third cameraman.
And so, forefingers extended, and Remo began to methodically shatter each camera lens.
"Hey! You can't do that!"
"This isn't how it's done!"
"We're the media!"
Remo growled, "And here's the message: Get out of my way."
Their eyes blackening from sudden impact with recoiling viewfinders, the camera crews begrudgingly fell back.
There was only one security guard. He had his Glock up in a two-handed marksman's grip, the muzzle pointed at Remo. For a twelfth of a second.
Walking on the outside of his soles, Remo feinted, moved in, and used the man's own hands to crush the plastic gun into so much sharp black plastic shards.
He left the guard moaning and wringing his bloodied hands.
Heads poked out of half-open doors all along the corridor.
"Which way to the roof?" Remo asked.
Most of the heads withdrew like frightened gophers.
A hand snaked out and pointed helpfully in the direction of the ceiling. "Up. The roof is up."
"I know that, you dip. What I don't know is how to get there."
"Fire stairs. Straight ahead and turn left."
Then, a bullet ripped down through the ceiling tiles and forced the remaining heads to withdraw behind slamming doors.
Remo shot forward. A woman screamed. The high, piercing sound was joined by another scream. Both screams were ear-punishing. Yet they blended into one anguished otherworldly shriek as if vented by identical twins, dying in harmony.
Remo floated up the stairs, leaping over the sprawled bodies of security guards who had died defending their posts, and reached the roof.
It was a nest of satellite dishes. In the center of the nest, like a dragonfly, sat a luxury helicopter.
And standing in the shadow of the drooping helicopter blades was a small knot of people.
The knot consisted of two parts-a man and a woman, and another man with a woman.
The nearest pair whirled, and Remo recognized the flat, pasty face of Cheeta Ching. She was so frightened her face was shedding flakes of pancake makeup like dandruff.
"Ronco!" she cried. "Help me!"
"Ronco?" Remo said blankly.
"Stay back," the man with the gun said, pushing the barrel into Cheeta Ching's temple. He was tall, his features masked by oversized sunglasses and a big hat. He was using Cheeta Ching as a human shield, but Remo could see that his lower legs, visible behind Cheeta's, were bare.
"What makes you think that'll stop me?" Remo asked.
"Ronco! How could you!"
The gunman transferred the pistol muzzle to Cheeta Ching's bulging stomach. "Or I can waste the brat."
Remo stopped dead still. The baby was another matter.
"Just hold that pose," said the gunman, walking backward.
The other pair had frozen at the open door of the helicopter, Jed Burner turned and gave Layne Fondue a hard shove. On all fours, she scrambled into the helicopter.
Then the gunman resumed backing away, pulling Cheeta with him. Her almond eyes were wounded.
"Ronco!" she pleaded. "Don't let this happen!"
"Ronco," warned the gunman, "don't be a chump."
Remo stood, rotating his thick wrists absently. His face was stone.
The gunman reached the waiting helicopter and abruptly sat down on its sill. Remo saw his legs clearly. He was wearing a plaid kilt of some kind.
But Remo was keeping his eyes on the man's hands. To pull Cheeta Ching into the helicopter in her condition was a two-handed job. To pull it off, the gunman would have to point his weapon away from his captive.
Crossing the roof while the gun was pointing elsewhere was possible, Remo knew. But the weapon would have to be at least three feet from Cheeta for it to work. Any closer and it was even money Cheeta would catch a bullet.
Imperceptibly, Remo came up on his toes, ready to strike.
Then, behind him, KNNN cameramen poured out of the roof hatch, along with a pair of reporters clutching hand microphones. Fanning out, they called excited questions to no one in particular.
"Is this a kidnapping?"