him, Blaine felt footsteps pushing forward. Their pursuers were about to strike.
“Now!” McCracken ordered.
The old man lowered his eyes and hesitated. McCracken was about to knock the diamonds upward himself when Earnst flung the contents of the jewelry box back over his shoulder.
The diamonds flew into the air, shimmering in the noon sun. The entire street seemed to come to a halt; the gems cascaded down, as if from heaven. Then the chaos set in.
Men and women clawed past each other. Some lunged into the street or toward the sidewalk in pursuit of the slightest glimmer. Others dove around or through bodies for stones far smaller than a pinky fingernail. All was bedlam, screams, shouts of anger, threats. Bodies piled atop each other. Stronger men peeled them aside to clear a path for their arms.
Blaine helped Earnst move to the edge of the chaos and then took off against the flow, smacking into people rushing back toward the frenzy. He gazed to his rear and the sight stunned him.
Four men in the black garments, beards, wavy side curls, and homburgs of Hasidim had yanked machine pistols from beneath their overcoats. The Hasidim were fixtures on this street, but not normally with guns in their hands. Their first bursts split the air in Blaine’s direction. Bodies collapsed with bloody punctures dotting their flesh. The screams intensified.
Blaine gnashed his teeth at the carnage. His strategy had exposed the gunmen all right, but now several people were dead as a result of it. He continued to run, blending with the crowd rushing from the gunfire and colliding with pedestrians who had stopped to gaze back toward the excitement. He sped under the scaffolding and past another delicatessen, heading for the street comer.
At least the killers were known to him now. Once through the scaffolding, he would draw them into the open. Any fire then would be clear of innocent bystanders, and Blaine would be able to take on his assailants commando-style. It wouldn’t be easy; their silenced machine pistols attested to their professionalism, but—
A woman smacked into him from behind. The impact knocked his arm against a street lamp, and the gun went flying under a sea of rushing feet.
Behind him the four black coats loomed closer. Blaine had no choice but to run; escape was his only option.
But not at the expense of more innocent people. With that in mind, he darted straight into 47th Street, zigzagging through traffic in a diagonal toward Fifth Avenue; the subway perhaps, a cab or bus. Bullets chewed the air. Screams tore at his ears, joined now by the shrieks of brakes and the crash of steel on steel as cars swerved sharply to avoid him. He sped onto Fifth Avenue with the awareness that the gunmen were very close and a continued flight by him would almost surely claim more innocent lives. He had to narrow the battlefield in order to gain the advantage.
The service entrance to a spanking-new building at 590 Fifth Avenue had been propped open by deliverymen, and Blaine sped through it up a wide set of stairs. He heard what must have been singing and had climbed three flights before a collection of crates deposited on the landing blocked his way further up. He had no choice but to go through a door that brought him to the origin of the singing.
He was on the dais of a synagogue that occupied the second and third floors of the building. A robed man, apparently a rabbi, was standing next to a young boy, while a man in different robes, apparently a cantor, chanted from a scroll. Few others were present. It must have been a rehearsal, a rehearsal for the boy’s upcoming Bar Mitzvah.
“Get out!” Blaine shouted, as he rushed forward, but his warning was barely complete when two of the Hasidim charged onto the dais after him. One stumbled and slipped but the other came straight for McCracken. The man aimed his machine gun.
Blaine grasped the heavy wooden ends of the Torah scrolls and swung the heavy object like a bat as he
“Now!” McCracken ordered.
The old man lowered his eyes and hesitated. McCracken was about to knock the diamonds upward himself when Earnst flung the contents of the jewelry box back over his shoulder.
The diamonds flew into the air, shimmering in the noon sun. The entire street seemed to come to a halt; the gems cascaded down, as if from heaven. Then the chaos set in.
Men and women clawed past each other. Some lunged into the street or toward the sidewalk in pursuit of the slightest glimmer. Others dove around or through bodies for stones far smaller than a pinky fingernail. All was bedlam, screams, shouts of anger, threats. Bodies piled atop each other. Stronger men peeled them aside to clear a path for their arms.
Blaine helped Earnst move to the edge of the chaos and then took off against the flow, smacking into people rushing back toward the frenzy. He gazed to his rear and the sight stunned him.
Four men in the black garments, beards, wavy side curls, and homburgs of Hasidim had yanked machine pistols from beneath their overcoats. The Hasidim were fixtures on this street, but not normally with guns in their hands. Their first bursts split the air in Blaine’s direction. Bodies collapsed with bloody punctures dotting their flesh. The screams intensified.
Blaine gnashed his teeth at the carnage. His strategy had exposed the gunmen all right, but now several people were dead as a result of it. He continued to run, blending with the crowd rushing from the gunfire and colliding with pedestrians who had stopped to gaze back toward the excitement. He sped under the scaffolding and past another delicatessen, heading for the street comer.
At least the killers were known to him now. Once through the scaffolding, he would draw them into the open. Any fire then would be clear of innocent bystanders, and Blaine would be able to take on his assailants commando-style. It wouldn’t be easy; their silenced machine pistols attested to their professionalism, but—
A woman smacked into him from behind. The impact knocked his arm against a street lamp, and the gun went flying under a sea of rushing feet.
Behind him the four black coats loomed closer. Blaine had no choice but to run; escape was his only option.
But not at the expense of more innocent people. With that in mind, he darted straight into 47th Street, zigzagging through traffic in a diagonal toward Fifth Avenue; the subway perhaps, a cab or bus. Bullets chewed the air. Screams tore at his ears, joined now by the shrieks of brakes and the crash of steel on steel as cars swerved sharply to avoid him. He sped onto Fifth Avenue with the awareness that the gunmen were very close and a continued flight by him would almost surely claim more innocent lives. He had to narrow the battlefield in order to gain the advantage.
The service entrance to a spanking-new building at 590 Fifth Avenue had been propped open by deliverymen, and Blaine sped through it up a wide set of stairs. He heard what must have been singing and had climbed three flights before a collection of crates deposited on the landing blocked his way further up. He had no choice but to go through a door that brought him to the origin of the singing.
He was on the dais of a synagogue that occupied the second and third floors of the building. A robed man, apparently a rabbi, was standing next to a young boy, while a man in different robes, apparently a cantor, chanted from a scroll. Few others were present. It must have been a rehearsal, a rehearsal for the boy’s upcoming Bar Mitzvah.
“Get out!” Blaine shouted, as he rushed forward, but his warning was barely complete when two of the Hasidim charged onto the dais after him. One stumbled and slipped but the other came straight for McCracken. The man aimed his machine gun.
Blaine grasped the heavy wooden ends of the Torah scrolls and swung the heavy object like a bat as he
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