The Wagyu steaks had just arrived—sizzling on heated cast-iron platters—when the red-and-blue strobes started flashing through the tall, frosted-glass windows of Le Cirque Noir.
WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO!
Outside on Manhattan’s 65th Street, at least eight NYPD cruisers pulled up in a chaotic semicircle, doors slamming, tires screeching against wet asphalt.
"Attention inside!" a voice blared through a megaphoned squad car. "This is the NYPD! We have the building surrounded! Jack—or whatever you call yourself—step out with your hands on your head! We know Wilson Fisk's black card just hit the terminal!"
Inside the restaurant, panic broke out instantly. Wealthy patrons gasped, abandoned their three-hundred-dollar champagne bottles, and scrambled toward the kitchen exit like panicked penguins.
Felicia casually wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, looking out the window. "Well. So much for dessert. I was really looking forward to the flambé."
Natasha didn't even drop her fork. She took one last, slow bite of her steak, chewed, and looked at Jack. "Eight squad cars. Probably twenty officers. You got a plan, Joker, or are we shooting our way out?"
Jack was sitting back in his booth, his hands folded behind his head, his white-painted face gleaming under the crystal chandeliers. His crimson lip balm grin stretched wide enough to split his stubble.
"Shooting?!" Jack gasped theatricality, placing a hand over his heart. "Red, please! Where's the artistry?! Where’s the showmanship?!"
He reached into his stolen lavender velvet jacket and pulled out three items he’d nicked from a Midtown party supply store earlier that afternoon: a brass air-horn, a handful of smoke-bomb cherry poppers, and a massive metal silver clapperboard.
"What is that?" Felicia asked, squinting.
"Props, Kitty!" Jack cackled, popping up onto the velvet booth seat, stepping right onto the table and knocking over a salt shaker.
He raised his arms like an opera conductor facing a terrified audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Upper East Side!" Jack bellowed, his raspy, unhinged voice echoing through the high ceilings. "Tonight’s performance of 'The Great Bankrupt Escape' is brought to you by Wilson Fisk’s stolen line of credit! Please direct your attention to the main entrance!"
The heavy oak front doors burst open. Four armed officers barged in, weapons raised, tactical vests strapped tight. "Nobody move! Police!"
Jack slammed the metal clapperboard together with a deafening SNAP!
"SCENE ONE! TAKE ONE! ACTION!" Jack screamed.
He tossed the handful of smoke-bomb poppers straight onto the flaming dessert cart nearby.
THWACK-THWACK-BOOM!
Thick, blinding, violet-and-yellow smoke erupted in a giant cloud, filling the plush dining room in three seconds flat. The smoke alarms triggered overhead, unleashing a torrential downpour from the indoor fire sprinklers.
BZZZZZZ! Water sprayed everywhere, soaking the chandeliers, the white tablecloths, and the armed officers who instantly began coughing and yelling in the purple haze.
"I CAN'T SEE! IT'S SPARKLY SMOKE!" an officer yelled.
"MY EYES! WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE BUBBLEGUM?!" another screamed.
In the middle of the purple fog, Jack grabbed a bottle of five-thousand-dollar vintage champagne, popped the cork with his teeth, and sprayed it straight into the lead officer’s face like a Formula 1 driver on the podium.
"HAPPY NEW YEAR, OFFICER!" Jack screeched, letting out a raspy, hysterical HAHAHAHA!
"Jack! Moving!" Natasha called out through the fog.
She grabbed Felicia by the wrist, while Jack—still holding his bottle of champagne and his air-horn—went sliding across the wet marble floor like a ice-skater, firing off the air-horn right next to a confused cop's ear.
HONK-HONK-HONK!
"DARE TO ARREST THE CLOWN, BOYS!" Jack cackled as he scrambled toward the kitchen double doors. "DARE TO TRY! HAHAHA!"
They burst through the kitchen, past six frozen line cooks holding frying pans, and ducked out into the rainy back alleyway just as the SWAT vans were pulling up around the block.
Ten minutes later, the three of them were crammed into the back of a stolen laundry van, speeding away down FDR Drive.
Jack was soaked from the fire sprinklers, his white face paint running down his neck in milky streams, his smudged black eyes looking more insane than ever, and his purple shirt completely ruined. But he was laughing—a low, bubbling, unstoppable chuckle that filled the cramped van.
Natasha leaned back against a pile of hotel towels, wringing out her wet dark red hair, staring at Jack with a mix of utter disbelief and quiet amusement.
"You are a menace, Jack," Natasha murmured, shaking her head.
"I'm a performer, Red!" Jack corrected, taking a deep swig from his salvaged champagne bottle, winking through his ruined makeup. "...and the show's just getting started! Dare to watch the sequel! HAHAHAHA!"
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