Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  Louis stares ahead, out at the highway and the traffic ahead of us. He doesn’t look like he’s going to answer, and while I’m certainly game to keep asking him questions, something tells me it isn’t in my best interest to bug him too much either.

  Finally he says, “You’ll be in a hotel room in downtown Los Angeles.”

  “A hotel room.”

  “Yes. Seventh floor. Five blocks away from where your target will be.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Another hotel. He’ll be entering from the street.”

  “Why not the parking garage?”

  Louis’s lips curl into a thin smile.

  “Someone on the inside has taken care of that. It’ll be a great photo op for the president. There will be some reporters there, photographers, the local TV news. His car will pull up outside, he’ll step out, wave to them, and that’s when you’ll shoot him.”

  “Where will the sun be in relation to our hotel?”

  The smile fades from Louis’s face, and he makes an annoyed frown.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is.”

  “If your boss wants this to happen, everything has to be in place.”

  Louis says nothing. Looking even more annoyed.

  I say, “Can I be honest with you for a second?”

  He says nothing.

  “This whole thing seemed rushed. Carla said it herself when she came out into the field. What’s that all about?”

  The sun is almost gone from the sky, only a soft glow washing the side of Louis’s face.

  He clears his throat but doesn’t look at me when he answers.

  “There’s a summit in Canada later this week. The American president, Canadian president, and Mexican president will all be there. Cortez had planned to stop in Los Angeles after the summit on his way back to Mexico to meet with the governor, but plans changed at the last minute on the governor’s end. So Cortez was agreeable to stopping in Los Angeles first. There’s an initiative they’re pushing to ensure Mexican immigrants are treated fairly if they come into the state illegally.”

  “Sounds like a hot-button issue.”

  “It is.”

  “Which means there’ll be protestors.”

  “Probably.”

  “Which means there’ll be heavier police presence than usual, even with the governor and Mexican president all in the same place.”

  Louis tilts his face toward me, his gaze still blank.

  “If you don’t do this, your family will die.”

  “What guarantee do I have they won’t die even if I do assassinate Cortez?”

  Louis doesn’t answer, simply looks back out his window, which is answer enough.

  Part of me didn’t believe my family would be truly saved if I went through with this, but another part—a tiny naïve part—thought there might be a chance. Even for me, somebody who has cynicism running through her blood, I had hoped my family might be spared, but apparently not.

  The highway crests, and Los Angeles opens up ahead of us, aglow in the failing light.

  For some reason, the city of angels has never looked so bleak. As if it knows a team of fallen angels is headed its way.

  Thirty-Five

  The evening had come on fast and strong, and the sky was darker than Nova had remembered it being in D.C. It had only been a year since he left, but something about the town felt different. Everybody was tenser. Angier. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

  They had parked on a street lined with elm trees, and Nova cut through a park that was thankfully deserted this time of night. He knew he needed to be careful because police often kept their eye on parks like these at night. And if a cop were to stop him, what would he find? A big guy armed to the teeth carrying a quadcopter. They probably could have launched it from where they had parked, but Nova wanted to check out the motel across the highway first.

  It was where they’d tracked the signal. Whoever was watching Holly’s family was stationed in one of those rooms.

  Earlier, James had returned to Holly’s mother’s house with some kind of high-tech RF detector. James did a quick sweep of the block, searching for any abnormal radio frequencies, and almost immediately found the source. A tiny camera was placed across the street from Holly’s mother’s house, positioned near the top of a telephone pole. James also determined a tracking device had been placed on Holly’s mother’s car.

  Whether any cameras had been set up inside the house itself was difficult for James to tell, and the only way he could know for sure was to enter the premises and do a sweep. Which presented a few obstacles, the first being it didn’t appear like Holly’s mother was ready to leave the house any time soon, and second, assuming there were cameras inside and they managed to enter without the camera out front spotting them, that would alert the people watching the family, which was the last thing they wanted right now. So far the element of surprise was on their side, and Nova wanted to keep it that way.

  James then took the RF detector over to Holly’s sister’s house and determined a camera was placed there, too—this one on a light post half a block away. Tracking devices were on the two cars in the driveway as well.

  Which made sense, once Nova thought about it—set up devices to watch and track their prey, and sit back and wait for the signal to attack if need be. Otherwise, idling vehicles would go easily noticed, just as they’d determined when they first considered staking out the houses.

  Nova had his earpiece in and whispered, “Let me know when.”

  The disposable phone vibrated with a text message from James through the Signal app.

  Go.

  Nova set the quadcopter on a picnic table and stood back.

  “It’s all set.”

  The propellers started spinning at once. The quadcopter lifted, hovered for a beat, and then continued higher into the air.

  James was controlling the quadcopter from the car. Nova had seen the setup, an iPad with a controller. It seemed too simple, but the way James explained it via texting, the quadcopter had an infrared camera attached and would be able to sense heat signatures inside the motel. James had already determined where he believed the signals from the cameras and tracking devices went—a room on the second floor—but they wanted to make sure the room was occupied. Because if it was occupied, there was a good chance the entire team was inside.

  The phone in Nova’s hand vibrated with an incoming call. It was Atticus.

  He said, “I see it on my end. Are you still in the park?”

  Wherever Atticus was located, he was watching the same thing James saw from the iPad as the quadcopter flew over the highway toward the motel.

  Despite the park being deserted, Nova still found himself whispering.

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Erik?”

  “He’s keeping an eye on the sister’s place.”

  Atticus was quiet for a beat.

  “I trust him.”

  Nova merely grunted.

  “I understand we don’t know much about him, Nova. But I did a quick background check. He’s clean. And Holly obviously trusted him enough to give him my number.”

  Nova grunted again.

  “Don’t be jealous, Nova.”

  Heat rose to Nova’s face.

  “What do I have to be jealous of?”

  “Never mind. I—wait, I think I see something.”

  Across the highway, the quadcopter started to dip down toward the motel. It was one of those shady motels. Probably less than a hundred bucks a night for a room that was rarely cleaned. Obviously they wouldn’t want to put themselves up in too nice of a place. The good hotels had cameras on every floor, had security, while with cheap motels like this you were lucky if the locks on the doors actually worked.

  Atticus spoke quietly in Nova’s ear.

  “It looks to be four.”

  “Level of confidence?”

  Before Atti
cus could answer, the motel room door opened. The quadcopter shot up in the air, out of view of the two men stepping out onto the walkway. They lit cigarettes and stood at the railing.

  Nova realized he was holding his breath. He slowly let it out. Watching the two men smoke on the second-floor walkway. The quadcopter hovering several yards above their heads, just out of their line of sight. Nova figured the sound of traffic on the highway drowned out the quadcopter’s spinning blades.

  Atticus didn’t speak, and neither did Nova. They waited. After another minute, both men flicked away their cigarettes and headed back into the room. A moment later, the quadcopter looped around in front of the motel door, hovered there for a beat, and then started back across the highway.

  Atticus finally answered.

  “Confidence level is high.”

  That was good enough for Nova. Wherever Atticus was, he had the technology to determine there were four people inside the room—two of which they had just seen.

  Nova asked, “Any luck yet?”

  The defeat in Atticus’s voice was sharp.

  “None so far. It’s like she disappeared off the grid.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, Nova, but I’m searching. It would be easier if I had James here with me, too—he’s much more proficient with this kind of stuff—but I believe the team is better served having him with you right now.”

  Nova had to agree. Especially because without James it would only be Nova and Erik, and Nova still wasn’t sure he trusted the kid.

  The quadcopter floated over the trees, dipped down, and landed back on the picnic table from where it had launched.

  Nova said, “I wish we could take them out right now.”

  Atticus sighed on his end.

  “I know. But unfortunately that isn’t an option at the present time. The moment you take out those men, Holly’s life is over. Right now I believe it’s best you don’t make a move until you have no other choice. As long as Holly is still valuable to these people, they won’t move on her family.”

  Nova picked up the quadcopter and started back through the park toward the car.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about right now.”

  Atticus was quiet for a beat.

  “What are you worried about?”

  “The team packing up and leaving. Maybe grabbing the cameras and tracking devices before they disappear, just to make sure there’s no trace, but still they disappear. Because you know what it means if that happens.”

  Another sigh on Atticus’s end, this one much more despondent.

  “I do, Nova. It means Holly is dead. But look on the bright side.”

  The car was up ahead. James stepped out and went to the trunk so they could put away the quadcopter.

  Nova said, “What’s that?”

  “They haven’t packed up and left yet.”

  Thirty-Six

  The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 3:37 a.m.

  The hotel room has two beds. The TV sits on a dresser facing the beds, and one of the freelancers has turned it to cable news.

  Louis sits at the desk, staring down at his phone.

  Two of the freelancers lounge on the two separate beds, their feet up, chowing down on prepackaged sandwiches as they watch the news.

  The other two freelancers—well, I don’t know where they are. Once we entered downtown, I lost sight of them. We parked in the basement garage and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Louis made me wear a scarf to hide the collar in case we ran into anybody.

  I’ve been sequestered to the chair in the corner, my wrists zip-tied together.

  The only window in the room is off to my left; it’s a large window, about six feet across, and curtains conceal the outside. When we first entered the room, Louis parted the curtains enough for me to see the hotel five blocks away. The window has locks on both sides and can slide open a couple inches for fresh air. The space will be more than enough to shoot through.

  Speaking of which, the Valkyrie sits in pieces in a backpack on the desk. No reason to get it out and put it together quite yet. It’ll probably wait until an hour or so before President Cortez is scheduled to arrive.

  Louis glances up from his phone and notices me watching him.

  “You should try to get some rest. We need you focused in the morning.”

  I tilt my head toward the two freelancers.

  “Tweedledum and Tweedledee are hogging the beds.”

  The freelancers ignore me; one has his cell phone out, looking at who knows what, while the other hasn’t touched his phone. It’s remained in his left pocket since we got here. All the phones—even Louis’s—look to be disposables. These men are professionals and wouldn’t bring their own personal phones with them on a job like this, but that doesn’t matter as long as I can make a call with one of the phones.

  Louis says, “I’m sure you can get some rest just fine in that chair.”

  “You want me to get a crick in my neck? That might throw me off in the morning.”

  The fob rests on the table. Louis absently touches it with his finger. Like that’s supposed to scare me.

  I force a smile.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “We offered you a sandwich.”

  “I’d rather have something else as my last meal. Something that doesn’t taste like shit.”

  Louis’s finger doesn’t leave the fob.

  “A sandwich is your only option.”

  I release a heavy sigh.

  “Fine. I’ll take a sandwich. What’s left?”

  Tweedledee swings his feet off the bed and opens the small cooler on the floor. They brought along prepackaged sandwiches and bottles of water as they didn’t want to deal with room service or be seen outside the hotel picking up food.

  He holds up two sandwiches.

  “Ham and cheese or tuna salad.”

  Gag me.

  I ask, “Is the cheese low fat?”

  He just stares back at me.

  I release another heavy sigh.

  “Fine, the ham and cheese.”

  Tweedledee drops the other sandwich back in the cooler and brings me the ham and cheese with a bottle of water.

  My eyes drift down from his face to what he probably thinks is the sandwich and water, but it’s really to the phone in his left pocket. His pants look to be a size too loose, probably for comfort, but it means the phone isn’t tight in his pocket. Which is good.

  After Tweedledee hands off the sandwich and water, he climbs back onto the bed.

  Louis says, “Anything else, your highness?”

  Yeah, you can shove that fob down your throat and choke on it, I think, but decide not to say out loud.

  I start unwrapping the sandwich.

  “Chips would be nice.”

  Louis’s face remains expressionless.

  “There are no chips.”

  “This place has vending machines, doesn’t it?”

  Louis decides he’s bored with me and turns his attention back to his phone.

  The two freelancers keep watching the news. Something about a recent scandal involving the president. On screen, four pundits keep talking over each other.

  I take a bite of the sandwich, watching the freelancers and Louis.

  Thinking about how I need to get that phone.

  Even if it kills me.

  Thirty-Seven

  The sicario circled the block only once before he spotted Hayward’s men.

  They were parked along the curb in an SUV, the windows smoked just enough so at night it concealed its occupants but not enough that it would immediately raise the suspicion of any police officer that passed it.

  He assumed there were at least two men stationed outside the hotel, which meant the two other freelancers were inside along with Hayward’s right-hand man. He didn’t know Hayward personally—had only met him the other day when he and his brother passed through the man’s place—but he had heard enough about the
man to know he prized his right-hand. Hayward probably didn’t care much about the freelancers—they were simply hired guns—but he most certainly would miss his right-hand when this was all said and done.

  But that was Hayward’s fault. From what he understood, Hayward was advised to keep his right-hand behind, let the other men see this thing through, but Hayward was too worried the freelancers might somehow fuck it up—especially as President Cortez was coming in sooner than planned—so Hayward sent his own eyes and ears to ensure the whole thing went smoothly.

  He drove a stolen black Mercedes C-Class sedan, whose plates he’d swapped out with another black Mercedes C-Class sedan in the parking lot of the Hollywood Park Casino in Inglewood. The thing handled beautifully, and he thought maybe he would purchase one when he returned home, though he knew that level of luxury was too flashy for somebody in his line of work.

  Maybe when he retired, then. Yes, he would purchase one when he retired.

  He used the parking garage under the hotel and took the elevator to the lobby. He carried an overnight bag because that was to be expected for a businessman such as himself, though he wore only slacks and a dress shirt and jacket, no tie. A casual look for this late at night. Getting in late from a delayed flight, he would tell the clerk if asked.

  The clerk didn’t ask anything further than his name. Pablo Santander, the name on his credit card and ID said, though they were not his real name. The clerk entered the information into the computer, confirmed there was already a room booked, and handed him a keycard and asked if he’d like a porter to carry his bag.

  He smiled and said, “I’m okay, thank you.”

  The clerked nodded and wished him a pleasant stay, and soon he was in the elevator headed to the seventh floor.

  He found his room down the hallway, close to Room 736. That was where Hayward’s men and the woman were right now. The room was booked two weeks ago, though Hayward’s people managed to get in earlier than planned. The people he worked for managed to book his room on the same floor and in the same hallway. Across the hallway, to be exact, and one room away.