Double-Crossed: A Spies and Thieves Story

Chapter Three

PERHAPS IT WAS TOO LATE—the crowd too tipsy—but it seemed to take a moment for the partygoers to realize ex-actly what was happening. Their exits were blocked. And the finest of New York society had no choice but to huddle together, watch­ing a series of masked men run into the ballroom through the fog of falling plaster.

They were not a group accustomed to being told what to do, even when one of the men jumped onto the stage. He carried a machine gun and wore a plastic mask over his face, the kind popu­lar at Halloween with people who just want to put on a suit and pretend to be a president.

This man had chosen Ronald Reagan.

"Stay where you are,' he ordered. He kept his gun at his hip, pointed into the air, the butt resting against his side in a way that made him look more like an old-time gangster than a Navy SEAL.

Macey could have told him he was doing it wrong, but she had a feeling he wasn't the type to take orders. He was the type to give them.

"I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that we mean you no harm.' He walked slowly down the stage. A member of the band had dropped a violin and he kicked it, daring anything or anyone to stand in his way. "But that doesn't mean we won't hurt you. Do not fight us. Do not doubt us. And do not do anything stupid."

Macey couldn't help herself; she looked at the boy beside her, thought of how casually he'd pulled the phone from the may­or's pocket, and wondered if maybe stupid was what he did best.

"Now, with the formalities out of the way," Reagan said, "I'm so glad you could join us."

A rush of cold air filled the room and Macey turned to see another gunman (Jimmy Carter) coming in from the balcony, pushing a small group of about a dozen partygoers in front of him. One woman was crying. A man looked indignant. They all carried themselves with hurried, nervous strides until they examined the larger scene—the masks and the guns and the fact that there was absolutely no way out.

"Good. We're all here," Reagan went on. "Now let's get comfortable." He spun and pointed his gun at one of the armed men Macey had spotted earlier. "Not you. Bill, why don't you help Rambo here get comfy?"

A man in a Clinton mask walked toward the private secu­rity professional.

"Hands up," Clinton said with a fake southern accent.

Slowly, the guard raised his hands, and Clinton pulled the man's own gun from the holster at his side. Clinton slipped a pair of zip ties around his wrists and pulled them tight. But the guard didn't try to stop him.

"You too." Reagan pointed at the other private guards, the two men who hadn't seen the signs, who hadn't noticed the subtle shifts in the room that had seemed so obvious to Macey.

She looked at the boy beside her. And to Hale.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen," Reagan said with a little flourish, like part of him was putting on a show. "If you could move to the edges of the dance floor..." he said calmly, but no one moved. "Do it!" Another burst of bullets filled the air.

People screamed. Some fell to the floor with their hands over their heads, but almost everyone was frozen.

"Now move to the edge of the dance floor," Reagan said again very slowly, and this time the people did as they were told. "Hands where we can see them, ladies and gentlemen. In fact, ladies, why don't you toss your handbags into the center of the room? No use hanging on to those now."

A handful of women "tossed" their ten-thousand-dollar evening bags onto the hardwood floor, and Macey was glad no one was in the mood to protest.

"Gentlemen," Reagan said with renewed flair, "we will now be moving through the crowd to collect your cell phones. No use hiding them. We have our ways."