Randy White: Dead Silence

I could see Barbara Hayes-Sorrento as she got out of her car. She wore a charcoal coat, stockings and high heels. Her briefcase looked darker for the confetti swirl of snowflakes

The woman was leaning into a limo, saying good-bye to a fellow passenger, when a taxi rear-ended the limo. Not hard.

I knew that the passenger was a teenager she had mentioned earlier on the phone, a kid who’d won an essay contest and an escorted trip around the city. Something to do with the United Nations. Barbara had volunteered to meet him at the airport.

When Barbara jumped back, surprised, a man wearing coveralls and an odd pointed cap stepped to the driver’s door, blocking it. A smaller man grabbed Barbara’s shoulder. Her reaction was a warning glare.

The woman’s expression changed when the man didn’t let go. Barbara swung her briefcase but missed. It tumbled into the slush. Barbara tried kicking. One sensible black shoe went flying.

I was turning toward the stairs as the man began pushing her toward a taxi that had stopped in front of the limo. The woman’s lips formed a cartoon O of shock. Her mouth widened into a scream.

It was a silent scream. The building that houses the Explorers Club is one of the brick-and-marble tall ships from a previous century. Neither car horns nor a lady’s scream could pierce that elegant armor.

The club’s stairs are wooden. They creaked beneath my weight as I charged down the steps.

On the street, the few pedestrians watching probably thought Hollywood was filming a movie. But I’d noted the careful choreography that is the signature of a professional hit.

Taxi A blocks the narrow street. Taxi B rear-ends the limo but gently, sandwiching it. Things appear normal when men in coveralls rush to inspect the damage. But the men are not city employees. They are bagmen. Bag, as in bagging game.

The unfolding scene had registered on a subconscious level that is ever alert-me, the eager student of other professionals. I knew before I knew that a well-planned kidnapping was taking place.

As I charged down the steps, I calculated how many operators it would take to snatch a U.S. senator. Both taxi drivers, of course, plus a support crew. There also might be a shooter stationed atop a nearby building. Possibly atop the Explorers Club-it had six floors. And possibly more than one shooter, if it was a bag-and-tag operation.

Tag, as in coroner’s tag.

So there were at least four men, but maybe eight, presumably all armed.

On the bottom floor of the Explorers Club, near the stairs, is a world globe, museum-sized. On a nearby wall, I’d noticed a climbing ax from some Himalayan expedition. An ice ax, spiked at one end, a blade on the other.

I yelled to the desk attendant, “Where’s Sir James?,” as I pulled the ax from its mount, stumbled and nearly fell over the globe.

The attendant stared at me like I was insane. She pointed toward the rest-room, her lips moving to tell me, “Sir James is… unavailable.”

I told the woman to call 911. A United States senator was being abducted.

As I exited the Explorers Club, the kid Barbara had met at the airport was stepping out of the limo, a cowboy hat pulled low, boots ankle-deep in slush.

The essay winner? It was a boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He looked like a bull rider, all shoulders and legs.

I yelled, “Kid! Get back in the car!”

The kid looked at me, his expression surly. “Huh?” Maybe he was masking confusion.

I hollered, “Back in the car- now!,” aware that the man with the pointed cap was watching the boy, maybe thinking about grabbing him.

The teen yelled to me, “ Kid?… A goat ever kicked your ass, mister?,” as I turned toward taxi A, parked in front of the limo.

An unusual vocabulary for a high school scholar.

The taxi’s rear door was open, exhaust condensing in the cold. Hands from inside pulled at Barbara’s coat while the guy in coveralls wrestled her legs into the car.

Barbara was getting in some shots, panty hose showing, as she hammered with her feet. But she was losing.

I could have thrown the ax but risked hitting her. Instead, I yelled, “Stop-I’ll shoot!,” imitating a television cop. Disciplined, but eager to squeeze the trigger.

It earned me a couple of seconds. The guy in coveralls straightened. His head pivoted. I saw a choirboy face, Mediterranean, maybe Spanish, which could mean anywhere. His dark eyes met mine as I raised the ax, running hard.

I don’t care who you are, an ax is unnerving.

I saw his eyes widen, and gained another second, ten yards separating us now. Close enough to lower a shoulder and use my momentum to hit him so hard we’d spring the door off its hinges.

Instead, I changed my mind at the last second-always a mistake. Ask any football coach. Decided I could use the ice ax to scare all three men, so why disable just one?

Sensible. But when I tried to stop, I hit a patch of ice and my feet went flying. I landed hard on my back, momentum unchecked, and ass-sledded into a tangle of legs, then under the taxi, Choirboy atop me, Senator Hayes-Sorrento in the slush nearby.

Barbara called, “Ford?,” as if reluctant to believe I was her bungling rescuer.

“Run! Get out of the street!” I was worried about a shooter, high above, watching through a rifle scope.

Several things then happened at once: The taxi driver panicked, and hit the gas. The spinning tires somehow kicked Choirboy free. The vehicle began a slow-motion doughnut that would have crushed my head if the ax hadn’t snagged the doorframe.

I grabbed the handle with both hands and levered my body away from the tires. I was half under the car, rotating with it. Let go, I’d be run over.

The car straightened, then slowly gained speed in the fresh snow, dragging me down the street.

I got my right hand higher on the ax handle. I lifted my butt off the pavement to reduce drag. Using the ax as a fulcrum, I was powering my legs from beneath the chassis when the guy in the backseat started kicking at the ax.

Because I had no other option, I made a wild lunge for the door. I got lucky. I caught the man’s ankle-but only for a moment before he yanked his foot free.

The additional lift was enough. I swung clear, expecting the bumper to clip me when I let go of the ax. It didn’t. I skidded through slush until I banged against the tire of a parked motorcycle. The ax clanked to a stop nearby.

I stood. Anticipated my legs buckling if something was broken. They didn’t. I used the motorcycle to steady myself and watched the taxi continue down the street.

A hand appeared from the backseat and pulled the door closed. The driver accelerated.

Dazed and cold, I turned, hoping to see Barbara. Instead, I saw her limo speeding toward me, its headlights blinding. It was a Lincoln Town Car. Black. The driver was silhouetted by the lights of the vehicle behind it, taxi B.

I knelt and grabbed the ax, assuming the taxi was chasing the limo. Maybe I could smash the windshield if I timed it right. So I stood my ground-until the limo veered to hit me.

I dove for the curb and felt the fender brush close. Taxi B tried next. Its right bumper smacked the motorcycle, knocking it onto the sidewalk.

What the hell?

I jumped up, hoping the driver would lose control. He’d almost crushed my legs. I wanted to grab the guy by the neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged like muscat grapes.

But he didn’t lose control. I chased him for a few steps, then stopped, watching the town car. The silhouettes of three people were visible in the rear window. It looked like two men were struggling to control a person sandwiched between them.

Barbara?

Brake lights flashed in tandem, then both vehicles turned right into the fast traffic of Madison Avenue. There were sirens now, squad cars converging from several directions