According to the clock at the center of the station, we only have about three minutes. I turn back to Charlie as I run. “What’s the easiest way to-”

“Follow me,” he interrupts, excitedly taking the lead. I may’ve heard of where we’re going, but I’ve never been there myself. This place is all Charlie’s. With me barely a step behind, he makes a sharp left, weaves through the bottlenecked crowd of commuters and tourists, and races full speed toward one of dozens of stairs that lead to the station’s lower level.

“Nice and easy now,” I say, tugging on his shirt to slow him down on the stairs. I don’t want to make a scene.

Yeah, like anyone’s watching, he says with a raised eyebrow.

Leaping down the last three steps, Charlie lands with a thwack, his shoes smacking against the concrete floor. His feet have to sting in his dress shoes, but he doesn’t say a word. He hates I-told-you-so.

“Where now?” I ask, quickly catching up.

Without answering, Charlie takes off through the lower level of the station, which these days, is now just another food court. Charlie’s nose follows the whiff of heat-lamped fries, but his eyes are glued to a left-pointing arrow at the base of a vintage-tiled sign: “To Tracks 100-117.”

“And away we go,” Charlie says.

Up the hallway, we’ve got the food court on our left and turn-of-the-old-century track entrances on our right. I count the doorways as we go. 108… 109… 110. At the far end of the hall, I quickly spot the rabbithole – Tracks 116 and 117.

Darting through a door, we’re at the top of a tall staircase, looking down at the wide concrete platform. True to form, there’s a train pulled into Track 116 on the right side of the platform. On the left, though – on 117 – there’s no chance that a train’s coming. Not now. Not ever. Simply put, Track 117 doesn’t officially exist. Sure, the space is there, but it’s not an active track. Instead, for the past ten years, it’s been filled with a long row of prefab construction trailers.

“This is where you used to play?” I ask as we stare at two construction workers through a lit window in the trailer.

“No…” he answers, cutting toward a short path on my left. “This is where we used to hide…”

Reading the confused look on my face, he explains, “Back when I was a junior in high school, me and Randy Boxer used to go track-to-track, playing music for Friday night commuters. His harmonica, my bass, and the biggest potential audience this side of Madison Square Garden. Naturally, the transit cops chased us at every opportunity, but in the labyrinth of staircases, the lower level always had the best places to disappear. And here – behind 117 – this was where we’d reconvene so we could pick the fight all over again.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask as he rushes across the dirt-covered catwalk that runs perpendicular over Track 117. It’s not the catwalk that’s giving me pause – it’s the metal door at the end – and the brown, faded words painted on it:

Employees Only

Stop! Look!

Listen!

Danger

Danger. That’s where I hit the brakes. And, as always, where Charlie picks up speed.

“Charlie, maybe we shouldn’t…”

“Don’t be such a wuss,” he calls out as he grabs the handle to the door. Eyeing the rusted metal frame, he gives it a hard yank, and just as the door swings open, a sandstorm of dust tumbles toward us. Charlie steps right into the whirlwind. And I realize I’m all alone.

As I follow him through to the adjoining room, we’re in a huge underground station, standing on the edge of an abandoned set of train tracks.

For Charlie, it’s a homecoming. “Where trains come to die, Randy used to say.”

Looking around, I can see why: The tunnel is wide enough for three sets of tracks, tall enough to fit the old diesel trains, and has ceilings black enough to show why they dropped the diesels in the first place. Next to the rusted tracks and between the even rustier I-beams, the floor is covered with condom wrappers, cigarette butts, and at least two used hypodermic needles. No question, it’s a good place to hide.

“Close the door,” Shep calls out from further up the platform.

“Nice to see you too,” Charlie says. Pointing over his shoulder, he adds, “Don’t worry about the door – you can’t hear anything from back here.”

Shep looks at him like he’s not even there. “Oliver, shut the door,” he demands. I don’t hesitate. The door slams with a muffled thud, encasing us in silence. We’ve got fifteen minutes before someone realizes we’re all gone at the same time. I’m not wasting a second.

“How bad is it?” I ask, wiping my soot-covered hands on the back of my pants.

“Ever heard of the Titanic?” Shep asks. “You should see it up there – every single one of them’s a lit match away from exploding. Lapidus is tearing his ears off and threatening to unleash the ten plagues on anyone who leaks the info to the public. Across the table, Quincy’s screaming through the phone at the insurance company and clicking his calculator to figure out just how much they’re personally on the hook for.”

“Have they told the other partners yet?”

“There’s an emergency meeting tonight. In the meantime, they’re waiting for the Service to dissect the computer system and possibly get a nibble on where the money went after London.”

“So they still don’t know where it is…” Charlie begins.

“… and they still don’t know it’s us,” Shep closes. “At least, not yet.”

That’s all I need to hear. “Fine,” I say, my hands squarely on my hips.

Charlie glares my way. He hates this stance.

In no mood to listen, I turn to Shep. “Now how do you think we should turn ourselves in?” I ask.

“What?” Shep blurts.

“Whoa doggy,” Charlie begs.

“Oliver, don’t be hasty,” Shep adds. “Even if it’s a tornado now, it’ll eventually slow down.”

“Oh, so now you think we can outrun the Secret Service?”

“All I’m saying is it can still work out,” Shep replies. “I know the Service’s protocols. When it comes to the money, it’ll take at least a week before they figure out if they can find it. If they do, we turn ourselves in with a full explanation. But if they don’t… why walk away from the pot of gold? Forget the pocket change – three hundred and thirteen million means over a hundred and four million each.”

Across Charlie’s cheeks, the smile takes hold. Noticing the anger on my face, he pushes a bit further and starts to dance. Nothing big – just a little bounce in the shoulders and a stomp in the feet. It’s purposely designed to annoy. “Mmmmm-mmm,” he says, doing the full Stevie Wonder neck-sway. “Smells like rich!”

“I’m telling you, there’s no reason to turn ourselves in,” Shep adds, hoping to ram it home. “If we play it smart, we’ll all be whistling a wealthy tune.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” I snap back. “We can’t win. Think of what you said when we started – it’s a perfect crime when no one knows it’s gone; it’s only three million dollars – that was your whole big speech. And where are we now? Three hundred and thirteen million missing… the Secret Service parked in our front yards… and when the press get ahold of it… plus whoever wanted this money in the first place… by the time this is done, the whole world’s gonna be hunting our asses.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Shep says. “But that doesn’t mean we have to go for the hara-kiri on day one either. Besides, there’s no way Lapidus is letting this get out. If he does, the other clients’ll start hurtling for the exits. It’s like when that guy hacked ten million out of Citibank a few years back – they did everything in their power to keep it out of the papers-”

“But eventually, it was on page one,” I interrupt. “The word always gets out. There’re no secrets anymore – this isn’t the Fifties. Even if Lapidus can hold it back for a month… between reports, and insurance claims, and lawsuits… it’ll eventually worm its way free. And then we’re back where we are right now… three dumb sitting ducks who-”