Holy shit. When I climb out, I’m in the middle of some street. I duck down until traffic stops and quickly exit.
I need a phone or a cop, preferably both. Unfortunately, New Yorkers don’t generally stop to help out strangers, especially those splattered with dirt and blood, coming out of the sewer. I probably look like a schizophrenic homeless person.
After approaching several people who quickly back away, I’ve had enough. I spy a young man on the sidewalk his eyes glued to his cell phone as he texts.
I jump in front of him, grab his phone and call nine-one-one.
“Hey! Give that back.” He reaches but I slap his hand away.
“For God’s sake. Let me borrow it for just a second. I swear to God I’ll cut off your balls. You have no idea. I’ve had the worst fucking bad day ever.”
The operator picks up. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“This is Blakely Smythe-Taylor. I was kidnapped and just escaped.”
“Blakely, can you tell me where you are?”
I put the cell phone on speaker and hold it to the owner, who’s mouth has dropped open. “Can you tell the 911 operator where we are?”
“43rdbetween Fifth and Sixth.” The guy has the decency to look concerned as I bring the cell phone back to my ear. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes ma’am. Help is on the way.”
Suddenly, I picture poor Philip. “Wait, you have to let them know. There was another guy. I left him behind with my gun.”
“Where was that ma’am.”
“I don’t know. Way, way under the sewer, under the subway. You need to send help.”
“Are you safe? Are the kidnappers nearby?”
How is she not getting this?“I’m okay. I left them underground.” I guess I’ll leave out how I shot two of them. That will become obvious soon enough. The operator wants me to stay on the phone but I hang up and call Jack.
