Gregg Hurwitz: The Survivor

From this height the cars looked like dominoes, the pedestrians like roving dots. The breeze blew crisp and constant, cooling Nate’s lungs on the inhale-none of that touted L.A. smog this close to the ocean. To the west, blocks of afternoon gridlock ended at the Santa Monica cliffs, a sheer drop to white sand and the eternal slate of the sea. The view would have been lovely.

Except he was here to kill himself.

The eleventh-story ledge gave him two spare inches past the tips of his sneakers. Balance was a challenge, but getting out here had been the hardest part. He’d shoehorned himself through the ancient bathroom window at First Union Bank of Southern California, wobbling for a solid minute on the ledge before daring to rise.

On the street below, people scurried about their business, no one squinting up into the late-morning glare to spot him. As he flattened against the wall, his senses lurched into overdrive-the smacking of his heart against his ribs, the sweat-damp shirt clinging to his shoulders, the salt tinge burning his nostrils. It felt a lot like panic, but somehow calmer, as if his brain was resigned to the circumstances but his body wasn’t getting the signals.

Because he was unwilling to risk landing on someone-with his luck he’d pile-drive a pension-check-cashing granny through the pavement-he continued slide-stepping to the end of the ledge. The corner of the building gave him less trouble than he’d anticipated as he elbow-clamped his way around, and then he was staring down at the empty alley and the target of the Dumpster below. It was, if nothing else, a considerate plan. If he hit the bin squarely, the steel walls would contain the spatter, leaving him neatly packaged for delivery to the crematorium. He was sick of people cleaning up after him.

It had been less than ten minutes since he’d laid open that Dumpster lid, but it seemed like days. The chilly elevator ride up, the nod to the wizened black security guard, that final moment collecting his nerves by the row of urinals before muscling open the sash window-each had stretched out into a lifetime.

First Union of SoCal was one of the few West Coast banks located up off the ground floor-cheaper real estate, more space, better security. But only one high-rise perk held Nate’s interest currently. Gauging his position, he slid another half step to the right, stopping shy of a casement window that had been cranked several turns outward. From the gap issued a current of warm, coffee-scented air and the busy hum of tellers and customers. Business as usual.

He considered his own dwindling checking account within. His next step-literally-would void the million-dollar life-insurance policy to which he dutifully wrote a check every January, but even that wouldn’t matter. There was no one who wanted anything of him and nothing ahead but increments of misery.

He took a deep breath-his last? — and closed his eyes. Spreading his arms, he let the October wind rise through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and chill the sweat on his ribs. He waited for his life to flash before his eyes, the ethereal song and dance, but there was nothing. No wedding-day close-up of Janie’s lips parting to meet his, no image of Cielle dressed as a pumpkin for Halloween with her chocolate-smudged hands and dimpled thighs, just the teeth of the wind and a thousand needle points of fear, skewering him like a pincushion. The longest journey, according to Taoism and Hallmark, begins with a single step.

And so does the shortest.

He took one foot and moved it out into the weightless open.

That was when he heard the gunshots.

For an instant, Nate wobbled at the fulcrum, seemingly past the point of no return, but then a subtle twist of his hip brought him back, fully, to the ledge. As he gulped in a mouthful of air, another gun snapped and a swath of crimson painted the window at his side.

Nate knew the crack of a nine-mil sidearm, but the next eruption, a resonant clatter, suggested that a semiautomatic was in play as well.

A gravelly voice floated out through the window gap: “Don’t reach under the desks. Step back. Back. You saw what’ll happen. Now lay down. On your fucking faces.”

Gripping the frame beneath the swung-out pane, Nate rolled carefully across his shoulder to peer inside the bank. The blood-smeared glass turned the robbers’ faces into smudges, but he could see that they were wearing ski masks. One stood a few feet away behind the teller line, his back to the window, automatic rifle cocked in one hand, the Beretta in his other, surveying the room methodically. Like the others he wore a one-piece charcoal flight suit, thick-soled boots, and black gloves. Duct tape wrapped his wrists and ankles so no hint of flesh peeked through. The burst of bullets had punched holes in the ceiling, and white dust clouded him like an aura, lending the scene an otherworldly tint.

The bank workers stretched flat at his feet, hands laced at their necks, foreheads to the tile, their labored breaths coming as rasps. On the main floor beyond, about fifteen customers also lay prone. The coffee trolley had been knocked over, cups resting in brown puddles. Two robbers patrolled the area on a circuit, stepping over bodies, handgun barrels moving from critical mass to critical mass.

By the entrance the black security guard lay sprawled, tangled in a vinyl banner announcing FREE WEB BILL PAY! a fan of blood marring the money-green print. His pant leg was pulled up, exposing an anomalous striped sock.

Whereas his associates shouted and moved in quick bursts, the man by the window moved with a composed fluidity that suggested greater expertise. While the others barked orders, he remained unnervingly silent. Given the man’s assurance and the fact that he commanded the big gun, Nate pegged him as the crew leader. And he was standing close enough that Nate could have reached through the window and tapped him on the shoulder.

To the right, a pair of armed men (five, that made five of them so far) dragged a middle-aged Hispanic woman toward the vault, her hands fussing at two knots of keys and making little progress. The bank manager. Dressed crisply in a wool pantsuit, pearl necklace, and matching earrings, she struggled to keep her legs beneath her. The steel vault door, thicker than a cinder block, rested open, leaving only the glass day gate to protect the nests of safe-deposit boxes beyond. As she fought two keys into two locks and swung the day gate ajar, a sixth masked man appeared from a rear corridor, dumped a black duffel off his shoulder, and announced, “Cameras are down.” He removed a fierce-looking circular saw with a chain-saw handle. The teeth of the white-silver blade sparkled.

A woman’s hoarse sobs echoed off the faux marble walls, and somewhere a man was pleading, a broken loop of desperation: “-God oh God please I just got engaged I just-”

Nate tried to swallow, but his throat had gone to sand. Forgetting where he was, he drew back slightly. The drop to the pavement below swirled vertiginously into view between his legs.

One sneaker lost purchase, his weight pulling out and away, and his stomach flew up into his throat and choked off a cry. His hand slipped a few inches before wedging in the corner of the window frame and firming him, panting, against the concrete.

The robbers kept shouting, oblivious to the mini-commotion outside on the ledge.

“-anyone moves or speaks, and I mean one fucking squeak-”