A handful of women “tossed” their ten-thousand-dollar evening bags onto the hardwood floor, and Macey was glad no one was in the mood to protest.
“Gentlemen,” Reagan said with renewed flair, “we will now be moving through the crowd to collect your cell phones. No use hiding them. We have our ways.”
When one of the masked men (George H. W. Bush) came toward them, Macey watched Hale slip a cell phone out of the interior pocket of his jacket and put it into the bag Bush Senior was carrying.
“I thought you didn’t have a cell phone,” Macey whispered.
“I lied,” Hale said, and Macey realized how good he was at doing exactly that.
“Now, who still has a phone?” Reagan asked like a kindergarten teacher giving a child once last chance to confess to leaving the lids off the markers. “Come on now.” He walked down the stage, and when no one said a thing he shot another blaze of bullets into the air. And suddenly, a handful of cell phones were on the floor, sliding toward the pile of handbags in the center of the room.
Quietly, Macey went through her options. Even though the masked men were asking for cell phones, the gunmen were making so much noise that she was sure someone had already called 911. The obvious exits were blocked, and the elevators had no doubt been disabled. The men moved with confidence and order, but they weren’t trying to be quiet. There was nothing covert at all about this operation.
Unlike the boy beside her.
From the corner of her eye she saw him reach for his coat pocket.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“What?” he asked with a shrug. He looked and sounded almost bored.
“Don’t do whatever you’re doing.”
When Hale’s hand disappeared inside his tuxedo jacket, Macey wasn’t exactly sure what he’d find inside that pocket. It could have been another phone or a breath mint. Really, nothing would have surprised her. Well…nothing except…
“Is that an earbud?” she whispered. He smiled. “Are you on comms?”
“Shhh,” he told her softly.
Macey saw one of the men, Carter, over Hale’s shoulder, walking slowly around the group, standing guard, and she lowered her voice even more.
“Why do you have a comms unit?”
Hale smirked. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”
“Don’t,” she warned, but it was too late; he was already placing the tiny device in his ear.
Macey couldn’t decide whether to be intrigued that Hale was walking around with a state-of-the-art covert communications device or jealous because she’d been caught without one of her own.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Reagan said from the stage. He bowed a little. “Why don’t you all have a seat?”
“What is it?” When Kat’s voice finally came into Hale’s ear, it was cold and steady and even. All tease was gone. If she was angry at him for standing her up, she didn’t show it. She just said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Party crashers,” Hale whispered. He watched Macey watching him. “Five, and they brought toys.”
“Guns?” Kat guessed.
“Big ones,” Hale said.
“You know this is what you get for doing a favor for your mother.”
“I know,” Hale admitted.
“What are they after?” Kat asked.
“Hard to say,” Hale said; again, he eyed the room.
“Who is that?” Macey asked.
“The reason I wasn’t flirting with you,” Hale told her.
“Ladies,” Reagan was saying, “if you would be so kind as to remove your jewelry. Gentlemen, that goes for you too. Watches. Cuff links. Let’s have them.”
“It…it’s my wedding ring,” one woman protested.
“Sweetheart…” Clinton jammed the end of his gun into the woman’s husband’s chest. “He can buy you another one.”
Hale watched the men systematically make their way down the line of people sitting in a circle, dropping millions of dollars in jewels into their outstretched bags, but the masked men didn’t hurry. And when the bag finally made its way to the Calloway Canary the whole room seemed to sigh. What a pity.
“What are they doing now?” Kat asked.
“Jewelry and wallets,” Hale said. But something didn’t quite make sense. “They’re too slow.”
Hale looked at Macey, who added, “Seven minutes since shots fired.”
“Kat, what’s the emergency response time in Midtown Manhattan?”
“Not long enough if they want a clean exit,” she told him.
Macey hadn’t heard Kat’s words, but she looked at Hale like she’d read his mind.
“They aren’t trying to beat the cops out of here,” she said.
“I know.”
She shifted on the floor and leaned closer. Her mouth was only inches from his ear. He placed an arm around her, and to anyone watching, it probably looked like a boy comforting a girl, offering a shoulder and maybe laying groundwork to make a move, but Hale knew better.
“Okay, Hale’s mystery lady,” Macey whispered, “listen up. If you want to help, you need to call 212-555-9898. You’ll get a recording. Tell it the Peacock is caged.”
Hale laughed. “Tell it what?”
“Someone will be here within an hour,” Macey went on. “They probably already know, but…Do you need the number again?”
“Look, Macey,” Hale said. “Thanks for the offer, but we’ve got it. Now just keep your head down and try—”
“You don’t get it, do you? Those are AK-47s. They can fire six hundred bullets per minute and can reload in less than three seconds. And in case you didn’t notice, there are five of them.” She drew a deep breath. “Now does your friend need the number again?”
“She’s got it,” Hale said with a nod. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly why she should waste her time doing your errands,” Hale said, but Macey said nothing. “You’re not a normal girl, are you?”
He looked and sounded like someone who was already certain of the answer.
“That’s cool.” Hale nodded, unfazed. “But just so you know, that”—he pointed to the piece of metal peeking out from behind the stage—“is a Hurst 5,000 PSI hydraulic spreader-cutter, more commonly known as the Jaws of Life.”