Free The Art of the Heist by Myles J. Connor Page A

stepped out of the phone booth and started back down Beacon Street I saw an unmarked cruiser drive by.
    Seeing the cruiser slow, knowing instantly that I’d been made, I reached for my gun, a Smith and Wesson .38 I carried in a waist holster, and slipped into the doorway of a nearby building, intending to make my escape. But before I could do so I heard a voice behind me.
    “Drop your weapon!”
    Turning, I saw three plainclothes cops with their weapons drawn. We faced one another in a standoff.
    “Not until you drop yours!” I retorted, remembering what Farese and my father had told me, certain I would be shot in cold blood if I did as I was told.
    One of the cops, who I would later learn was a state police corporal named John O’Donovan, nodded in acknowledgment. He held his gun out, as did his colleagues. I returned the gesture, preparing to drop my pistol, but as I did so one of the cops who were with O’Donovan took advantage of the situation and fired, aiming right at my head.
    The bullet whizzed past my ear, just barely missing its mark. Panicked, O’Donovan raised his gun to fire. Our eyes met and I looked at him as if to say, I don’t want to do this, but I have no choice.
    I fired on him, intentionally aiming to knock him down, not to kill him, then turned and fled into the building, taking the stairs down intothe basement, then out a rear entrance that led to a narrow common alley between Beacon and Marlborough Streets.
    After radioing for help for an ambulance for O’Donovan, the two other men, both Boston Police Department detectives, gave chase, eventually catching up with me as I clambered up a fire escape to the fifth-floor roof of a Marlborough Street brownstone.
    Seeing me on the ladder, the two detectives immediately opened fire. I was hit several times in the ensuing barrage, with my shoulder sustaining the worst of the damage. Despite the excruciating pain, I managed to keep climbing, finally making my way to the rooftop, where I took shelter behind a chimney.
    By now every law enforcement officer in the greater Boston area had been called to the scene. As I hunkered down on the roof, taking stock of the situation, I could hear a general commotion in the streets and buildings below: the wail of sirens and the crackling of police radios coupled with the barking of police dogs. My initial plan had been to make my escape over the adjoining rooftops, but I soon saw that this would be impossible. The buildings on either side towered a full story above the one I was on. It was a height I could not have scaled on my best day and certainly could not manage in my wounded state.
    I was trapped and I knew it. I also knew it was only a matter of time before the police tracked me to my hiding spot.
    Just after midnight I heard substantial activity on the adjoining rooftops. Not long after, the Emergency Service Unit’s klieg lanterns snapped on, flooding the scene with light, revealing a dreamscape of crimson. My own blood provided the grisly record of my movements as I had crisscrossed the roof looking for a way off. Drainpipes, glass transoms, skylights: everything bore my smeared imprint. Up on the adjacent rooftops a hostile crowd had gathered, the silhouettes of at least a dozen cops in sharp relief.
    Suddenly, a figure leaped onto the rooftop and rushed toward me. Not a man, but a police dog. I fired once, aiming just in front of the animal. The bullet found its mark, sending a geyser of gravel into the dog’s face. The creature quickly turned tail and ran, slippingover the side of the roof and back down the fire escape to where his handlers were waiting.
    Finally accepting the fact that there was no good way out of the situation, I contemplated my next move. I’ve always been a firm believer that surrender is never an option. Earlier I had spotted a car parked directly below the roof. It occurred to me that if I jumped, the vehicle might provide just enough cushioning to break the five-story fall. If