The Survivors Club Read Free Page B

different. Facing the first day of trial, Eddie Como would arrive in a suit.
    Jersey waited for the barking sound of a state marshal ordering the unloading of the van. He felt the first prick of sweat. But he didn’t pop up. He still didn’t squeeze the trigger.
    Twenty reporters and cameramen across the street. Twenty journalists just waiting for their big break . . .
    “Courtyard secure! Door open!”
    Jersey heard the rasp of metal as the van door slid back. He heard the slap of the first rubber-soled shoe hitting the flagstone patio . . .
    One, two, three, four, five . . .
    Jersey rocketed up from his knees and angled the AR15 twenty-two degrees from vertical. Searching, searching . . .
    The dark head of Eddie Como emerged from the van. He was gazing forward, looking at the door of the courthouse. His shoulders were down. He took three shuffling steps forward—
    And Jersey blew off the top of his head. One moment Eddie Como was standing shackled between two guys. The next he was folding up silently and plummeting to the hard, slate-covered ground.
    Jersey let the black-market rifle fall to the roof. Then he began to run.
    He was aware of so many things at once. The feel of the sun on his face. The smell of cordite in the air. The noise of a city about to start a busy workweek, cars roaring, cars screeching. And then, almost as an afterthought, people beginning to scream.
    “Gun, gun, gun!”
    “Get down, get down!”
    “Look! Up there. On the roof!”
    Jersey was smiling. Jersey was feeling good. He clambered across the courthouse roof, the gummy soles of his rock-climbing shoes finding perfect traction. He turned the corner and rounded the center clock tower, which rose another several stories.
Now you see me
.
Now you don’t
.
    Shots fired. Some overpumped state marshals shooting their wad at an enemy they couldn’t see.
    Jersey’s smile grew. He hummed now as he stripped off his gloves and cast them behind him. Almost at the rooftop door. He grabbed the front of his black coveralls with his left hand and popped open the snaps. Three seconds later, the black coveralls joined his discarded rifle and gloves on the rooftop. Five seconds after that, Jersey had replaced his rock climber’s shoes with highly polished Italian loafers. Then it was a simple matter of reclaiming the black leather briefcase he’d left by the rooftop door. Last night, the briefcase had contained the dismantled parts of an AR15. This morning, it held only business papers.
    From world-class sniper to just one more guy in a suit in five minutes or less.
    Jersey pulled open the rooftop door. He’d jammed the lock with wire last night so it would be ready for him. Moments later, he was down the stairs and joining the main traffic flow, just another harried lawyer too busy to look anyone in the eye.
    Capital Security guards and state marshals rushed by. People inside the courthouse were looking around, becoming increasingly aware that something had happened but not sure what. Jersey, following their example, pasted a slightly puzzled expression on his face as he journeyed forth.
    Another gray-clad marshal sprinted by him, voices screaming from the radio at the man’s waist. He hit Jersey’s shoulder, knocking him back. Jersey spluttered, “Excuse me!” The state marshal kept running for the stairs leading to the roof.
    “What happened?” a lady walking next to Jersey asked.
    “I’m not sure,” he said. “Must be something bad.”
    They exchanged vigorous nods. And thirty-two seconds later, Jersey was out the front door, taking a left and heading back down steeply pitched College Street toward the memorial park. He resumed humming now, in the homestretch. Even if some police officer stopped him, what would the officer find? Jersey had no weapons, no trace of gunpowder on his hands or clothes. He was just a businessman, and he always carried valid ID.
    The screech of sirens abruptly split the air. The city wasn’t big and the