by James Hilton
The rest of the team assembled. Only “Clinton” proved difficult to locate. This was due to his being otherwise occupied with two Russian prostitutes on Wilshire Boulevard. He finally answered his phone with an annoyed gasp and grudgingly arranged a rendezvous with the rest of the team at a diner next to the Pavilion for Japanese Art. The five men—Clinton, Washington, Roosevelt, Kennedy and Bush—listened with detached acceptance as Lincoln gave the mission brief. Then Clinton began to describe, in intimate detail, the depraved act that the summons had interrupted.
It was a short hop on a private plane from the City of Angels to North Las Vegas Airport. Situated in what the locals referred to as Northtown, the airport catered for private and business flights far more readily than the larger McCarran International Airport. As promised, there was an SUV waiting for them in a hangar. Parked next to the Toyota Land Cruiser was a Harley-Davidson; the operative known as Bush preferred the extra mobility.
The men gathered around the SUV, unpacking their go-bags, strapping on body armour, checking weaponry. Washington booted up a laptop and launched tracking software. Bush examined the Harley and pronounced it serviceable, then he and Clinton prepared to leave. They were to do a sweep of the target’s last known residence—the Lakeview Hotel. Within minutes of the plane landing, the bike was tearing out of the airport via a service road. Bush leaned into the wind, enjoying the speed. Clinton clung on behind him.
The Lakeview didn’t impress either man as they sailed past the baseball stadium, hung a tight U-turn and pulled into the parking lot. The target, Andrea Chambers, had already left the hotel by time the first team had arrived on the scene. The chances of her returning were slim but both men had learnt not to underestimate the stupidity of a fleeing target.
They entered the lobby and strolled past the check-in desk as if they were guests. A pretty Latina on the desk flashed them a smile as they passed. Clinton pressed for the elevator. He glanced back at the woman. He hadn’t ridden a Latina for a while.
The ride between floors was short and they stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. A large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a Penn & Teller cap brushed past them and took up most of the elevator himself.
Bush smiled as the elevator doors closed behind him. “Buffet must be open.”
Clinton coughed into his hand. “Fat fuck.”
“Did you see that shirt? Guess he thinks Magnum, PI is still cool.”
Clinton shook his head. “He looks like he ate Magnum.”
The men chuckled as they approached room 4495. Bush lowered his voice to a whisper. “You do the honours. I’ll keep an eye out.”
Clinton produced a small pistol-shaped tool. After slipping the narrow blade into the lock, he depressed the trigger repeatedly as fast as he could move his fingers. The lock-pick worked a treat. The tumblers in the lock relinquished their grip and the door opened an inch. He gave Bush a satisfied nod after stashing the lock-pick and drawing his Kel-Tec PF9. He favoured the pistol due to the fact it was easily concealed and had real stopping power at the ranges he worked at. He liked to be within spitting distance of his target and prided himself on his one-shot, one-kill prowess. Bush too carried a Kel-Tec, but his chosen model was the futuristic looking PMR-30, due to the thirty .22 Magnum rounds it held. His rule of thumb was, if you can put one bullet in your man, you can put in ten for good measure.
Clinton dropped into a practised crouch and listened. The room beyond was silent. He pushed the door open with his foot and took two steps inside. The warning shout caught in his throat as something slammed hard into his face. As he brought up his pistol and squeezed the trigger, the door slammed behind him.
20
As he threw the coffee machine at the intruder’s head, Danny Gunn burst out of the hotel bathroom. From the corridor he could hear another man’s voice yelling a name—Clinton? No time. He moved low and fast, one hand sweeping down onto the gunman’s wrist, as the other slammed into his throat. Danny aimed the blow so the web of his hand between the thumb and forefinger would crush the trachea.
But it was clear that this “Clinton” was no novice. He angled away from the blow, tucking in his chin. Danny pivoted as he fought to remain out of the line of fire. Clinton also pivoted, squeezing the trigger of his weapon. One bullet punched a hole into the headboard of the bed, while another went wide and hit the telephone, making it leap into the air. The two men whirled in a tight circle.
Danny felt a lance of pain shoot up his leg as Clinton landed a boot just below the knee. Momentarily distracted, he didn’t rock back far enough to avoid two glancing blows to his jaw and cheek. He sensed the weight shift as Clinton began to launch another kick. Knowing that if he went down, a bullet in the head was sure to follow, Danny stamped down on Clinton’s foot, stopping the kick before it started. As Clinton struggled to maintain his balance, Danny slammed his forehead into the man’s nose. Not a graceful move by any stretch, but it had the desired effect. At close quarters, the head-butt along with the elbow and the knee were the weapons of choice.
Clinton slumped with his back against the door. Danny clamped down on the man’s gun hand with his teeth, half the thumb in his mouth. After a couple of shark-like shakes of his head, a Kel-Tec PF9 pistol dropped to the floor. Stepping back, Danny watched Clinton curl into a semi-foetal position. One hand was clamped over his ruined nose, the other cradled against his chest. Danny drew his own pistol. He jabbed it once hard into his opponent’s face. “One chance! Who sent you and why do you want the woman?”
Clinton opened his mouth, seemingly ready to talk, when a series of bullets ripped through the door. One of the rounds caught him low in the back. He slumped down further.
Danny didn’t wait for the second man to enter. He sent four rapid shots through the door panels: two at chest height, and two more up high. He waited two seconds then put another three rounds through the thin walls either side of the door. He knew the instinct to duck against the wall when being shot at through a door. With a solid brick wall you were relatively safe. Against a wall comprised of breeze blocks and one-inch plasterboard you were as protected as a horny teenager with a pin-pricked condom.
The shots to the right of the door were rewarded with a muffled yelp.
Andrea appeared from the bathroom, her face a mask of terror. “We better get out of here,” said Danny. He desperately wanted to interrogate one of the men. Hoped that there was only one on the other side of the door.
On the floor, Clinton rolled slowly onto his back. He was trying to breathe. All he achieved was a series of short, ragged gasps. Danny knew why. Although the shooter was wearing a lightweight Kevlar vest, the effect of being shot at close range was much like being punched in the stomach by a professional boxer: heavy bruising, broken ribs and internal bleeding. He was not a threat, at least for the moment.
“Stay behind me,” Danny said to Andrea. His voice held no room for negotiation and she nodded. He reached for the ruined door handle. He knew that the gunman in the corridor was probably not dead. There was a strong chance of being shot at as they exited the room. He could try sticking his pistol around the door and firing a few blind shots, but a trained operative would most likely respond by blowing his hand off.
“Wait!” Andrea grabbed his arm. “Greg and Bruce had the adjoining room.”
On the floor, Clinton was struggling to sit up. Danny had no time to spare; he kicked the man full in the face. He went back down with a pained grunt. He wasn’t completely unconscious but wasn’t about to do a tap dance either. Danny put his heel hard into his face again, then turned to see Andrea opening the connecting door.
They stepped through into a mirror image of her room. Men’s clothes dangled loose over the back of one of the chairs. A faint smell of Hugo Boss aftershave hung in the air. A bottle of tequila stood on a bedside table with less than a quarter of its contents remaining. Andrea looked around wordlessly. Danny could imagine what she was thinking—relics from before the unthinkable happened.
Danny moved over to the room’s main door. He knew there was still a chance that he’d be in the unseen gunman’s sights if he stepped out into the corridor. But he was out of options. The windows were sealed and they were on the fourth floor anyhow. He eased the door open an inch. A man in Kevlar was lying against the wall opposite, his legs splayed out into a wide V. His gun was trained on the door of Andrea’s room. His eyes spoke of murderous intent.
Danny stepped out at an almost casual pace and had his pistol levelled at the gunman’s head as it turned towards him in recognition of the situation.
“Slippery bastard.”
Danny tilted his head, accepting the curse as a compliment.
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” said the recumbent shooter. Danny could see a dark crimson patch spreading across the top of his left hip. “Just step out all casual like so you don’t trigger my point-and-shoot.”
Danny motioned to the man’s semi-automatic. “Throw that over here. Easy.”
The man clearly considered going for it for a second or two, then tossed the pistol. It made a dull thud as it landed on the carpeted floor. Danny used his heel to carefully slide the weapon backwards through the open door.
“Your man—Clinton was it?—is finished. He didn’t give me the answers I was looking for. Your turn. What’s your name? Why are you after the woman?”
The man looked down at his bloody hip, grinned humourlessly. “I’m Bush. She’s carrying stolen intel. She’s a fucking traitor to the flag. Guess that makes you a traitor too. And a shit-poor shot. Just a graze.”
Andrea stepped out into the corridor, holding Bush’s gun. “Liar! I don’t know anything about stolen intel!”
“Bush” shook his head, a disgusted expression on his face. “Hey we’re not talking WikiLeaks here. You were reported as trafficking stolen data vital to the defence of the UK and US alliance. If the Taliban or IS got hold of it thousands of people would be at risk. But you know that already, that’s why you’re selling it to a known sympathiser. Piece-of-shit bitch.”
Andrea stared at the gunman, her mouth hanging open in shock. She pointed the Kel-Tec at him for a moment then lowered it again. “What the fuck?”
Danny shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong woman. She’s a civilian. She wouldn’t know the Taliban from turpentine. Look, I’m not going to kill you. But I need you to report back to your superiors. Back off. Re-examine your intel. You’ve got the wrong target.”
Bush screwed up his face. “Are you in the game? What are you, freelance for hire? Ex-army? Special Forces?”
Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
“I thought so. Then you know the drill: we don’t get to pick through the assignment files. The boss says go and do, so we go and do.”
Danny pushed the pistol towards his face again. “Tell them what I said.”
“Do you really think they’ll listen to a grunt like me? She’s been targeted from the top. Government-issue. She’s never walking away from this, even if she succeeds in handing over the data. We’ll hunt her to the ends of the earth. Can you spell Guantanamo?” He looked directly at Andrea. “You’re gonna fry for this.”
Without warning, Danny stepped forward and ploughed his boot under Bush’s chin. His open mouth snapped shut and he slid sideways down the wall.
“Talk time is over. Come on.” Danny pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial. “Clay, we need to leave right now.”
“I’m a couple of minutes out.”
“We’ll meet you around the back of the hotel.”
“Two minutes!”
“Down the stairs.” He held his pistol pressed against his thigh as he moved. Andrea stayed close behind him, their hurried steps echoing slightly in the confines of the stairwell. As they reached the ground floor, they skirted the lobby, avoiding eye contact with the staff and visitors. A quick jog took them past the swimming pool and out into the rear car park. Background music and laughter tinkled from the pool deck. A child screamed with glee and then a loud splash from the pool followed. As they stood, partially concealed between an SUV and a small camper van, Andrea gasped and panted.
“I didn’t realise I was so unfit!”
Danny’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Consider this aerobics with added motivation.”
She bent forward at the waist, her hands resting on her knees, as she tried to slow her breathing. “You know, I don’t mean to be critical but Clay told me earlier that you’re a martial-arts expert, kung fu and all that. Why didn’t you just chop that first guy in the room?”
Danny snorted. “Andrea, real fights are short and nasty, ugly things. If I’d tried anything fancy we’d both be dead up there.”
“I wasn’t being funny. I just thought—”
“It’s not like it is in the movies.” He glanced at the hotel. “People see Steven Seagal and Van Damme spin-kicking guys and throwing them around like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The only reason we’re still alive is that those guys didn’t really expect us to be up there. I don’t think they’ll make that mistake again.”
Andrea nodded. “Hey, don’t get me wrong, you were great. Even if it didn’t look much like kung fu.” She chopped the air a couple of times with a straightened hand.
“If it makes you happy I’ll try and jump-kick the next bad guy for you.” Danny crossed his eyes in mock annoyance. The warm tingle that lingered in his stomach was an old familiar friend.
The pickup truck clipped the kerb as it made a sharp turn into the lot. Danny stepped out from his vantage point.
The passenger door sprang open with a screech from the unoiled hinge. Clay leaned out. “Last call for passengers: Blondie and Dagwood.”
Danny pushed Andrea into the cab. He didn’t have time to apologise for his hands on her ass. As he joined her he heard Clay’s breath hiss between his teeth.
“Shit.”
Four car spaces ahead, his face contorted in pain, Clinton was lurching towards the pickup, his pistol extended. The boot imprint on his face was raw and beginning to darken.
Danny hung on as Clay stamped down on the gas pedal. A bullet tore the wing mirror from the driver’s side door, sending up a small shower of glass. Clay wrenched the steering wheel. The front grille of the pickup slammed into Clinton, catapulting him back into a parked car. His gun spun away across the parking lot as his head met the unforgiving metal of the vehicle.
“That guy’s like Wile E. Coyote. Just keeps getting up for more.” Danny raised his eyebrows in grudging admiration.
Clay cackled as he steered onto East Flamingo. “Guess he didn’t realise I’m a real live Road Runner. Beep-beep that, you broke-assed fucker.”
21
Lincoln answered his cell phone on the second ring. “Any sign of the target at the hotel?”
Bush’s voice was slurred as if he was talking through tightly clenched teeth. “She was here but the guy with her got the drop on us. They’re gone.”
“Clinton?”
“He’s still alive but down for the moment. The scumbags hit him with a car. One of them winged me, but it’s only a flesh wound. She’s with two men, unknown quantities. One definitely has combat experience.”
Lincoln gazed at the luminescent cityscape of Las Vegas that lay beyond the airport hangar where his team had set up shop. Gleaming high-rise hotels and millions of twinkling lights. He took a long breath before speaking again. “Noted. Is Clinton shot too?”
“No. I think his ribs are broken though. He’s saying he’s all right but he’s walking like he’s in Dawn of the Dead. And he’s got a nasty concussion.”
“Can you get over to Spring Valley? We’ve got a man there who’ll take care of him. You remember Ricardo Chavez?”
“Yeah I remember him. Where is he?”
“He’s on Fenway. Number 157. I’ll call ahead and let him know you’re coming.”
“We’ll head there now. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m free.
”
“Will you manage with him on the bike?”
“Clinton’s a tough son of a bitch. He’ll make it,” replied Bush.
“When you’ve done that, follow us,” said Lincoln. He ended the call.
He turned to the rest of the team. He shook his head. “We’re already one man down. Clinton.”
“He gonna be okay?” asked Washington, looking up from his laptop.
“Bush says he’ll live but he’s out of the game for now. Bush will join up with us when he’s able. Washington, I need you to work your magic on the tech. How are you doing getting a fix on the last team’s sat-phone?”
Washington nodded at his laptop. “I’m narrowing it down. The main power is switched off but the secondary chip pings once every three minutes. I need to load all of yesterday’s data and pinpoint where the last signal came from.”
“Okay, stick with it. Then at least we’ll know where the last team are and how far they tracked the target. I suppose it’s too much to ask that the bitch is updating Facebook or Tweeting her coordinates?”
Washington curled his lip. “No activity since before the previous team made first contact.”
“Well keep an eye on her feeds. People are stupid.”
Lincoln walked out of the hangar office as he loaded the email app on his phone. It was possible that the target would try to take a flight or a bus, but there was no way his team could cover that much ground. As well as North Las Vegas Airport and McCarran International, there were dozens of smaller airfields within a hundred miles, and several major bus terminals. But Lincoln made a point of knowing the right kind of people in as many cities as possible, they could save a lot of legwork if you were running someone to ground. Hotel porters, waitresses, police officers… and transport personnel. Nobody paid them any attention but they tended to see and notice a lot. If you weren’t shy with the green they could come in very handy. He sent out an email to all the relevant contacts at local airfields, bus terminals and train stations, with a photograph of the target. If she tried to use public transport, there was a good chance that one of his sources would spot her.
