Free 15 Seconds by Andrew Gross Page B

directly in front of the elevators. A door opened in front of me. I didn’t know where it would take me, other than away . Which was all I wanted right then. I jumped in.
    The cop was already running after me. “Steadman. Stop!”
    Bystanders turned. The cop still had to cross the lobby and make his way through the crowd. I jammed my finger against the heat-sensored panels. Pushing on every upper-floor—30 . . . 32 . . . 34.
    The doors didn’t close. C’mon, goddammit, shut!
    I watched, in mounting horror, as the cop elbowed his way through the shocked crowd. Midway through, he stopped, his eyes locked on me in the elevator, still thirty feet away.
    He pulled out his gun.
    C’mon, c’mon, close! I realized he saw me as nothing more than a cop killer. He’d be justified to shoot. He wouldn’t hesitate for a second. They already hadn’t hesitated! I kept pressing on the arrow. And on the upper floors.
    Close.
    The cop finally made it through. Suddenly we were face-to-face again. He leveled his gun at me. I realized he could squeeze off a shot at any second and I’d be dead. Close, you sonovabitch. Close!
    That’s when the doors finally started to shut. The cop sprinted toward me, aimed, and squeezed off a shot, which slammed into the doors as I ducked behind them.
    Another made it into the car, ripping into the wood walls. The guy was crazy! What if there were other people in here?
    A third clanged off the handrail.
    The doors finally squeezed shut an instant before he made it over to me. I could hear the cop holler, “Shit! Shit!” and bang on the doors as the elevator started to rise. All the higher floors were lit up now, and I knew in that instant that all that would happen if I went up there was that I’d be trapped and captured . . . and then Hallie . . .
    As if by instinct, I hit the button for the third floor. The elevator came to a sudden stop. I bolted out, knowing it would keep on going up, floor by floor, all the way to the top.
    I ran down the hall, searching frantically for the fire exit. I didn’t know how many cops were spread about—or would be, in a matter of minutes. But the elevator was heading up to the roof. They’d have to check around up there. They’d have to search all the upper floors. Room by room.
    By that time the entire building might be on lockdown.
    I had to get out of here fast.
    At last, I found the emergency stairwell and bounded down the stairs, two at a time, my heart almost in spasm. I was completely winded and gasping by the time I reached the ground floor. I fully expected to run right into some trigger-happy policeman who would force me to the ground with a gun at my head.
    Mercifully, no one was there. I pushed open the pneumatic door and, with a whoosh, found myself outside.
    Thank God . I didn’t wait to get my bearings—I just sprinted, fast as I could, away—spotting the golf course to my right and realizing I was heading toward the clubhouse. Where my car was parked!
    I spun around and didn’t see anyone behind me. No one shouted my name. I just prayed that I wouldn’t feel a bullet ripping into my back. Ahead, I saw the garage, which I figured was reserved for golfers. I knew I couldn’t use Mike’s car anymore. The police might have found him by now, and if they hadn’t, they surely would soon. Any second it might be over the airwaves . . . and then I was cooked.
    I ran inside the garage and spotted one of the green-vested valets hustling to get a car and I waited behind a stanchion until he climbed inside a Lincoln—and I saw him feel under the seat for the key. Then it started up. I had a flashback to my old parking-attendant days, one of the jobs I did to get myself through med school. I counted the seconds until the Lincoln drove off, then I ran over to a red GMC parked nearby. The door was unlocked and I felt frantically under the seat for the key.
    Shit. Nothing . I had to try another car.
    I hopped out and tried a blue Lexus SUV in