Macey realized her fingers were clenched into her palms. The bandits could just as easily decide to put a bullet into Grady to get him out of the way as unravel the chains and add him to the group—but for whatever the reason, they didn’t.
Maybe they were afraid the sounds of gunshots would bring help. There were probably some guards or night watchmen still stationed outside or around the museum. Capone himself had men waiting in the car just outside…
The chains were unraveled, ticking against the bars in their own darker, duller way than Betsy’s more demure countdown clock, and the gates were opened just far enough for their captors to shove Grady inside with the rest of the hostages.
Macey exchanged glances with Capone and she felt him tense next to her—obviously ready to try to barge his way through the ajar gates.
But the nose of a Tommy gun poked between the bars, prodding Al back from where he stood, and he and the rest of the crowd had no recourse but to step back or get blown to pieces.
“Let’s go,” said the leader sharply as one henchman slipped the padlock into place while the other held the chains.
The decisive click of the lock closing seemed to be an underscore to the ticking of their sealed fate.
The leader, clearly relieved that all had gone as planned despite the intrusion of Grady, cast one last friendly wave. Ignoring the sudden pleas for release, the demands to be set free—even offers of money—he led his gang quickly from the galley without a backward glance.
All was silent for a long moment except for the tick-tick-tick. Someone was sobbing quietly, but no one else seemed to move, as if frozen in shock.
Why hadn’t Grady done something when he was outside the gate? Macey thought desperately. Surely he wasn’t truly drunk…he’d been perfectly sober when she saw him less than an hour ago.
Hell, why hadn’t Macey herself done something?
Aw, and what could Grady have done anyway—inebriated or not?
He could have gone for help…but by the time anyone arrived, the bomb would have gone off—killing the hostages, as well as anyone who’d responded to the emergency call.
She felt cold and empty. They were well and truly done for.
They were really going to die.
There was simply no way out unless she could use her brute strength to bend the bars of the gate. And even then…there wasn’t enough time for everyone to get out.
All of these thoughts ran through her head as the gang of thieves hurried out. Macey looked for a place where the bars seemed a little further apart. But they all seemed perfectly positioned, and immeasurably strong.
Nevertheless, she gripped two of them and began to pull even as several people began to shake the metal gates with desperation and violence. This made it more difficult for her to do what she was trying to do, and the bars weren’t moving apart anyway.
“I need a hairpin. Now.” A sharp, familiar voice cut through the crowd, but before anyone could respond, someone was there, pulling at Macey’s hair.
“Grady?” She spun, clapping a hand to the side of her head where he’d just yanked a hairpin—and several strands of hair—free.
Their eyes met and she saw at once that he definitely wasn’t drunk. He smelled of spirits, but he was sober as the day was long.
“Move,” he said. “Out of my damned way!” Grady wasn’t talking to her; he was shouting at the people gathered around the opening of the gate, which was chained closed.
“What’s he going to do?” someone whispered.
“Does anyone have a gun? We could put a hole through the padlock.”
“He’s picking the lock!”
“Give the man some space,” snapped Colonel McCormick. “Grady knows what he’s doing. Move back—and that’s an order!”
“Hurry!” someone whimpered. “Please hurry.”
“How much time do we have left?” whispered someone else in a quavering voice.
“Three minutes.”
“Less than three minutes by my watch,” argued a different voice.
“Shut up and let the man work!” Capone snapped.
Silence fell and Macey felt the entire room breathing together: in and out, trying to keep from panicking as the incessant tick, tick, tick filled their ears…counting down the moment till their death.
Yet, despite this hopeful moment, she recognized they were fighting a losing battle. Even if he got the lock open and the gates unchained, the bomb was going to go off in a little more than two minutes. There was simply not enough time for everyone to get through the gates and out of the museum—or even away from the explosion.
But at least he was doing something. Trying something—which was more than Macey could say for herself.
She had forgotten what it was like to feel helpless—but now the feeling came back in a rush of terror…and, surprisingly, acceptance.
A soft click echoed through the dead silent chamber and a wave of soft, hopeful gasps and whispers filtered through—and then everyone started to move.
“Let me out!”
“Get the gates open!”
“Stop!” cried Macey and Colonel McCormick together as Grady rose from his bent position. Already, the crowd surged forward, slamming Grady, Macey, and several others into the metal bars.
“We’ve got less than a minute!” cried someone. “Let us out of here!”
“Let us out!” shouted another voice, and the cries echoed in the high-ceilinged galley. The desperate surge of the crowd became stronger as Grady worked rapidly to unravel the chains, his work being hampered by the pushing and shoving.
“Give him room to open the gates,” the Colonel boomed, but his voice was strained. He had clearly come to the same conclusion Macey had.
They’d made progress, but few of them would clear the bomb in time. Yet Macey stood next to McCormick, and, surprisingly, Capone joined them, and they made a sort of barrier to try and keep the rest of the crowd back, protecting Grady from getting smashed against the gate.
Just before Grady dropped the last part of the chain, he looked up and over his shoulder at Macey and McCormick. “I have the key to the bomb. Hold them back, just in case—”
Those were his last startling words as he yanked the last bit of chain through and quickly bolted through the open gates.
A roar went up from the crowd and they surged again, sharp and hard, desperate and wild. Macey, light of weight and small of stature, was thrown into the metal bars. She crashed into them, hitting her head with a sharp clang as McCormick shouted over the chaos: “Hold! Hold back! He’s turning off the bomb! Hold back, I say! Move back!”
Somehow, his words penetrated the mob, and though a good portion of the group continued to shove their way up to the opening and wormed through, many of them heard the Colonel and edged back—and still others saw Grady as he turned and rose from next to Betsy, holding a brass key in his hand.
There was a calm smile on his face and the ticking had stopped.
They were saved.
“I picked his pocket,” Grady explained. For about the hundredth time. “When I bumped into him. I saw where he’d put the key, and I retrieved it.”
Everyone was lauding him as a hero—an appellation he knew he deserved, but it still felt uncomfortable wearing it.
In a surprisingly overt display, Carol had flung her arms around his neck in the midst of all the backslapping and hand-shaking of congratulations, and now she’d attached herself to his arm as if she were going to take him home with her.
The Colonel was standing off to the side, looking as proud as a parent. Probably not so much because of Grady’s actions, but because of the exclusive story his paper was going to print in tomorrow’s first edition. He’d already muttered, “Meet me at the office as soon as you can,” when he leaned forward to embrace Grady in congratulations.
That was no problem; he couldn’t wait to get to the typewriter. This bloody story better be above the damned fold.
Big Al Capone had shaken his hand again, thanked him once more—this time for saving his life instead of saving his cash—and reiterated his offer of a job. Grady’s decline was less abrupt than previously, simply because he was feeling slightly more benevolent.
After all, he’d just extended his life—and that of sixty other people. Including Macey, who, by the way, he hadn’t seen since the moment their eyes met as he bolted to his feet next to Betsy, holding aloft the key that had saved the day.
Admiration, gratitude, and something else had snapped between them in that moment before he was swarmed and swallowed by a mob of hysterically relieved women and gruffly ecstatic men.
But he hadn’t seen her since.
Curiously enough…she wasn’t with Capone when the mobster left.
He retrieved his shoes, stockings, and tuxedo coat, evaded a few more hearty blackslaps and handshakes, and made his exit as quickly as possible. He’d already asked McCormick to arrange a car home for Carol so he could get to work.
“I’m going to the office,” he told her when she didn’t seem inclined to release his arm, even once they were outside the Art Institute and waiting for her ride to be brought around. She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued with a smile and a shake of the head, “It’s your uncle’s orders—take it up with him. I’ve got a story to write.”