Page 75 of By Any Means

Brasher nodded. “That’s good. Two exits and four of us. We can lead ’em out both ways. One to lead them—tell them each where to go—and one to keep the door.”

He and Sumner shared a look, and then Sumner said, “Sidney and I will take the front.”

Where the chaos would be most central.

“Warn those closest to the exit first, workin’ in; keep it as quiet as you can. Draw ’em out toward the exit. It shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes.” Brasher grimaced. “If it’s needed, claim fire. Wait as long as you can for that. Try not to get trampled.”

They went to the second-floor gallery, wedged open the fire door, and tried. One by one, pair by pair, door by door, Chary warned people to go, to take the exit.

“Geez, another?” was the bitter, muttered sentiment for a while, though nobody quite seemed to panic. Then, as all things did amongst humans, it spread. Fervor. An urgency, tasted in the air. Chary was joined by other volunteer danger-proselytizers, who skittered out like a web to knock on doors, whispering, waving, urging.

By then, the undercover police in the pool had taken jolting notice of insurrection; they had surged into action. Realizing the exits were unbarred and bleeding their prey, they instead nakedly tried to arrest whomever seemed to be in reach, knees in backs, cheek to the floor; handcuffs were handed over by a sprinting, come-from-nowhere colleague. That lasted less than a minute, as a couple of braver men fought back, roaring, shoving, strength in numbers—for now.

Then it was more of a traditional chaos. Though the upper balcony “sleeping rooms” had been all but totally ousted and half-clad men were streaming down the iron stairs and disappearing into the gaslit dark of New York—like a bizarre theatre outflux—men downstairs were yet making their way out of the pool and running up the wide marble stairs. The noise increased steadily, buzzy warning alarm like approaching a beehive or an El train.

From the balcony overlook Chary watched Brasher himself stride over to intercede in the scuffle of policemen. He swung a right hook, popped one undercover man cold to the floor, then engaged with the other, the one who’d brought the handcuffs.

“Holy hell.” Laurie, herding men out the fire door, touching shoulders, had craned around to see.

“Do you still think he’s police?” Chary murmured.

Laurie shook his head. “No idea. He’s something.”

Now totally unrestricted, men streamed out of the pool and to the front exit, led by Brasher, who dragged one unconscious policeman by his own handcuffs: an outlaw leading mob rule. The pool emptied and ripples settled, and Chary looked back around. “Is that the last of them?”

“That’s all I got. If it ain’t, they’d have to be drugged asleep.” Laurie propped open the fire-escape door with a spittoon, then held out his hand. “One last check? I don’t want them to get a one of ’em.”

Chary nodded. “Let’s.”

They split again and ran to the back, drawing from inside out this time. Chary took the east wing. The sleeping rooms there had been left ajar to a one—almost. One door at the end of the hall remained shut—the corner closest the fire escape, a door he hadn’t personally checked—or had been shut again; it was unlocked. He didn’t bother knocking before he burst through, because Laurie was, as usual, correct: if someone had slept through all of that, they’d’ve had to have been drugged.

It was empty, untouched. Whoever rented there apparently didn’t at one in the morning on a Wednesday. Chary slumped, one hand against the bedframe. Was it truly only Wednesday?

“Boo.”

Chary startled, but it was Laurie in the doorway. “All clear?” he asked. He was panting slightly from his run, sweating and gorgeous. “We got ’em?”

“I think so. I saw Brasher head for the entrance, and there’s nobody left in the main plunge. I think we warned them all, Laurie.”

He expected Laurie to grin, or whoop, and then pull him out to the fire escape, into the cool summer night. Maybe to kiss him again, hard and hasty.

Laurie didn’t do any of that. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, spun halfway on a heel, spun back, and then shut the door behind him and pressed against it, palms flat. It wasn’t guard or threat; it seemed more like surrender.

“Laurie?”

“I’m a terrible hypocrite,” Laurie seemed to mutter, “but to hell with it. I don’t hear any bells or whistles. Ask me what’s next, Chary.”

Chary’s breath caught. He understood what he meant, of course he did, but— “What, now? Are you mad?”

He was the hypocrite there: he should not have been reacting the way he was. Physically.

“Pro’ly,” Laurie breathed. “I think so. You just saved all those men, Chary Wright. I would’ve just white-tailed it outta there and saved you first, damn everybody else. You’re rich, and I’m a newsman—” He swallowed. “Ask me what’s next, ’cause if you don’t, I’m just gonna tell you: if you let me again, I’m going down to my knees right here.”

Good Lord.

“Again—?” Chary’s heart was going a full thirty miles per hour, set to explode, and his knees liquifying. He sat on the bed. The fear and tension of the evacuation were making things—situations—worse and better, simultaneous, and the shorts hid nothing at all. “But all that earlier was for show! Wasn’t it. Say it was.”

Except the kiss. Even declaring it as Let ’em witness this; that kiss had been sincere.