Once it was done, Carver stood up. He yanked the Racist back to his feet. It was surprising to watch, because the Racist was at least one hundred and fifty pounds heavier than Carver.
“We don’t have time to deal with this bullshit,” Carver said to the Racist, who wasn’t even looking at Carver, was instead facing the glass doors. Carver pushed him forward. The man stumbled a little. Ian and I immediately came up behind him, taking one elbow each and leading him across the marble tiles toward the exit.
The electric eye sensed us and the doors slid apart. The SUV was parked at the end of the walkway, Ronny having been in radio communication the entire time, knowing we were headed out with the target. He stood beside the opened side door, a gun held at his side.
“You guys all right?”
“So far,” I said.
We were less than ten yards away from the SUV when Ian let go of the Racist. I watched it happen from the corner of my eye. It took only a second, Ian releasing his grip on the target’s elbow so he could switch hands. But it was all the Racist needed. He was in motion at once. His arms were behind his back, sure, but that didn’t stop him as he swung around, trying to get at us. His teeth bared, his face flushed, he growled as he kicked out first at me, then at Ian.
Ronny didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward, withdrawing an EpiPen from his pocket. Instead of containing epinephrine, this pen was filled with a special form of methohexital—a barbiturate—we had cooked up for situations such as these. In one smooth motion, Ronny stabbed the Racist in the side of the neck.
The effect wasn’t instantaneous. It would take nearly a minute to knock the Racist out. But it slowed him, and gave us the extra time to hurry him over to the SUV and shove him inside.
Then Ronny turned to me and said, “Go.”
• • •
CARVER WAS WAITING for me in the lobby, his gun in hand. In his other hand was the black plastic keycard.
“Nothing yet?” I asked.
He shook his head.
We started toward the stairs. Both with our guns out, neither saying a word. Now that the ringing had completely left my ears, the silence surrounding us was just too palpable.
Through the fire door then and up the stairs.
First one flight, the second flight, the third.
Carver and I paused in front of the fire door, our guns at the ready. I placed my hand on the knob. Carver nodded once. I pulled the door open, just a little, giving Carver enough space to aim his weapon.
Keeping his gun aimed and his focus through the space looking onto the third floor, he nodded again.
I pulled the door open further, enough so Carver could slip through. I followed. Here there were four elevators, a potted plant in the corner, a polished oak table standing against the wall with a lamp and telephone on top. The carpet silenced our footsteps as we approached a T-intersection of the hallway. There were signs on the wall, pointing which rooms were to the left, which were to the right. The ice machine directly across from us hummed quietly, working its hardest to produce its required one-ice-cube-per-hour quota.
The direction we wanted to go—where room 339 was located—was to the left.
The silence seemed even more oppressive up here. In our ears we could hear Ronny and Ian situating the Racist in the SUV. The noise was low but still too much of a distraction that we took out our earpieces and slipped them in our pockets.
Carver placed his back against the wall, peeked around the corner. He raised a fist—clear.
We started down the hall, Carver covering the front while I covered the back. The hallway was carpeted in a design of seashells. Doors lined both sides.
Besides the humming ice machine, the silence thickened.
We were only five rooms away from room 339 when a door suddenly opened. A man stepped out. He had a rifle in his hands, aimed directly at Carver.
11
It was as if time had slowed. The man fired only twice and I watched each bullet as it tore loose from the rifle’s barrel and tore into Carver’s chest. I watched Carver’s body jerk. I watched his shoulders hitch. I watched as he fell to his knees. Then time sped up once again and I stepped forward, raising my gun, and fired.
The shooter disappeared back into the room. My bullets tore chunks from the wall, from the door.
Carver was at my feet. He had fallen onto his side. Groaning. Gurgling. The front of his jacket had been ripped up. He’d been hit right in the chest. Blood was everywhere.
The shooter appeared again, his rifle aimed at me.
I fired at him, taking out more chunks of the wall and door, causing him to disappear back inside.
I grabbed the back of Carver’s jacket and backpedaled down the hallway. Pulling Carver with my left hand, keeping aim at the door with my right. Farther and farther back, until the shooter appeared again.
I squeezed the trigger—one, two, three, four shots until there was nothing else.
“Shit,” I said, because my magazine was empty, because I knew I didn’t have time to reload.
But the shooter must not have realized this. He must have assumed I was taking my time again, waiting for him to reappear.
On the floor Carver was still groaning, gurgling, choking on his blood. I glanced down and saw he still had hold of his Glock.
I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. We only had another ten, fifteen yards before we reached the bank of elevators. Not too far, sure, but distance and time are both relative while you’re dragging a dying man and you’re out of bullets and the man who’s trying to kill you is just biding his time.
I dropped the Sig and went to grab Carver’s Glock.
He wouldn’t let go.
“Carver, come on!”
But he was oblivious. Still groaning, still gurgling. And staring down at his face, I became aware he was also trying to speak.
“Ba—ba,” he was saying, his dark face becoming somehow pale, and at that moment I sensed movement further up the hall. I knew the shooter was going to make another appearance, so I did the only thing I could think to do—I stomped on Carver’s hand, the one holding his gun. He let go. I grabbed it and immediately started firing.
This time the shooter didn’t have a room to disappear into. He had already begun to advance and had to push himself up against the doorframe of the next room, as if this was somehow going to save him. By that time I had reached the elevator bank.
Somehow I’d made it, dragging Carver the entire way. I yanked on the back of Carver’s jacket some more, pulling him back completely, then went to the corner of the hallway, peeked around.
The shooter was peeking from the doorframe too, his rifle aimed toward me.
I reached around the wall, started firing, just as he started firing.
A moment later I was back on the floor with Carver, feeling for a pulse, staring down at his paling face as he continued to try to speak.
“Ba—boo,” he was whispering, gurgling, groaning.
“Shh,” I told him, glancing at the four elevators, at the fire door, at the ceiling.
I heard heavy footsteps coming my way.
I glanced down at Carver’s face. His dark eyes stared up at me, or past me, it was impossible to tell.
His mouth moved, trying to form words, and he attempted again, saying, “Boo—boo—boojum.”
I stared down at him another moment, a moment that seemed to last a very long time. I realized the footsteps were getting even closer, that they were right around the corner, and before I realized it I’d stood up, Carver’s gun in my hands, and started firing again. Walking closer and closer to the corner, taking out even bigger chunks of the wall.
Wherever the shooter was behind the corner, he wasn’t going to come out in the next couple of seconds. He was waiting for something, though whatever that something was I had no clue.
I backed up then, right next to Carver, who was still on the floor, blood all over his chest and soaking the intricate design of the seashell carpet.
Carver nodded at me, just slightly, and without a word or any further hesitation I started running.
Right as I made it to the fire door I sensed the shooter behind me. I turned back. Watched the shooter step around the corner and stride purposefully toward Carver. The rifle no longer in his hands, instead a silver handgun.
He aimed the handgun right at Carver.
Shot him once in the face.
“No!” I shouted, my back against the fire door, completely paralyzed in that moment.
I meant to bring up the Glock, to run back and shoot the fucker in the head.
But the man was faster.
He had his gun up even before I could, and then he was firing, the shots somehow deafening but somehow wide too, because miraculously I wasn’t hit as I sprinted down the steps toward what I hoped was safety.
12
Ronny heard the entire thing. His attention had mainly been focused on securing the Racist and checking to make sure he didn’t have any tracking devices on him, but the transmitter in his ear kept him in constant radio communication with Carver and Ben. So he, just like Ian, heard the shooting. He heard the shouting. He heard Carver dying.
Ian looked up at Ronny, his eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
Ronny checked the backseat where the Racist was completely passed out. Then he reached under his seat for his spare piece—a Ruger SR9c—and opened his door.
Ian asked, “Where are you going?”
Ronny was already stepping out, the Ruger in one hand, reaching for the piece he had holstered with his other hand. He looked hard at Ian and saw the fear in his eyes and knew the young man was worthless—more than worthless—but didn’t have time to berate him right now.
“Giving them backup,” he said. “Stay here and keep an eye out.”
“For what?”
“Anything.”
He used his elbow to slam the door shut and then hurried toward the entrance, a gun in each hand. He didn’t care who might see him. Carver was dying, and Ben very well may be too. Ronny wasn’t going to just stand by and let it happen.
The glass doors slid open and he strode purposely through the clutter-strewn lobby—thinking, Where is everyone?—when a door burst open.
• • •
I SLAMMED THROUGH the fire door at top speed, running as fast as I could, and at first I thought the man aiming at me was another one of Simon’s. Then, an instant later, I recognized Ronny and ran straight toward him. I saw he had two guns. I threw mine aside and shouted, “Gun!” Ronny tossed me one of his pieces. I caught it in the air and spun around and lowered myself onto one knee, keeping the gun aimed right at the fire door.
Ronny stood only a few feet away, keeping his piece aimed at the door too.
Nothing happened. Besides the blood pounding in my ears, the lobby was silent.
Ronny whispered, “How many?”
“Only one. He came out of nowhere.”
“Do you think there’s more?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“We should go.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Ronny said, stepping forward and grabbing my shoulder, “we should go now. Carver would want it that way.”
I didn’t move. I kept my aim on the fire door, knowing that at any second the shooter would reveal himself.
Ronny’s hand stayed on my shoulder. “Ben, come on.”
I counted in my head—one, two, three, four, five—and then took a breath, murmured, “Fuck,” and stood up and ran toward the glass entrance doors, Ronny close behind me.
• • •
THE FIRST THING Ian said was, “What happened?”
Neither of us answered. I slid into the backseat next to the Racist. Ronny threw the SUV in drive and stomped on the gas. He took a hard right out of the parking lot back onto Collins Avenue and floored it.
“What happened?” Ian said again.
Ronny shot him an annoyed look. “Call the Kid.”
“What?”
“Call and let him know what happened.”
Ian still looked lost. “But I still don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, pulling the vibrating iPhone from my pocket. “He’s calling me now.” I placed it on speaker. “Carver’s dead.”
“Fuck.” Then the Kid was quiet for a moment before saying, “I thought he might be. The page just disappeared.”
“What page?”
“Of the girl. It’s gone.”
We were at least three blocks away from the hotel now, weaving in and out of traffic.
The Kid said, “It was a setup.”
“What do you mean?”
“They knew you were coming. They expected you.”
“How do you know?”
“The fucking Beachside, dude. Even though you guys were going in, I looked into the place.”
“So?”
“It was bought a month ago. All the management, employees, everyone was given a pink slip. They were also given a thousand dollar severance pay. Even the fucking busboys. Seems the new owners wanted to have everyone going away happy, no hard feelings.”
“And?”
“Just last week the new owners—who so far are anonymous, no matter where I’ve looked—they sold the property to somebody. I forget who, but they got top dollar. So get this. The Beachside? It’s scheduled for demolition in three days.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Exactly. It was a fucking setup. It’s a surprise the rest of you made it out alive.”
There was a beat of silence.
I said, “Kid, we’ll call you right back,” and disconnected the call. Then I said to Ronny, “Pull over.”
He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Are you crazy?”
I leaned forward and jabbed the barrel of the Ruger against the back of his head.
“I’m not going to tell you again.”
Ian, sitting turned in the passenger seat, said, “Jesus Christ!”
“Are you going to shoot me, Ben?”
“Just pull over.”
“No.”
I racked the slide. “Don’t test me. I’m in no mood to be fucked with.”
As it turned out, Ronny didn’t have much of a choice. We had been fortunate so far making it through all the green and yellow lights, but now there was a red with several cars in front of us.
“Don’t do this,” Ronny said.
I pulled the Ruger away, turned in my seat, started grabbing the spare weapons and ammunition from the back.
“Don’t do this,” Ronny said again. “I know what happened to Carver sucks, but there’s no changing that. He’s gone.”
I pulled two guns from the back and a few spare magazines. “He wouldn’t leave us back there.”
“He’s dead, Ben. It’s that simple. He’s dead.”
“The girl isn’t.”
Ronny shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”
“The mission was to save the girl. I intend to finish the mission. Now, do a U-turn and take us back.”
“No. It’s suicide.”
I looked at Ian. “You coming?”
Ian said nothing.
I stared at him hard for a moment, then glanced at Ronny in the rearview mirror. Up ahead, the light changed from red to green. Traffic began to move again.
“I’m not taking you back,” Ronny said. “I do that I might as well kill you myself.”
“Carver would want it this way.”
“No he wouldn’t.”
I kept my gaze level with his in the rearview mirror. I reached for the door handle.
“Damn it, Ben, you go and you’re dead.”
I hesitated. Then I opened the door, saying, “All of us are already dead, Ronny.” I stepped out into th
e drizzle and leaned back in. “We just don’t know it yet.”
I slammed the door shut.
13
The Kid called almost immediately. Even though I was hurrying back up Collins Avenue, I felt the iPhone vibrating against my leg. Both guns were concealed, as were the magazines. I had my headed tilted down just a bit, the drizzle soaking my baseball cap.
When I answered, the Kid said, “Are you fucking insane?”
“Did anyone ever tell you how pleasant you are on the phone?”
“You are out of your fucking mind.”
“I’m surprised we haven’t started a swear jar for you by now.”
“Ben, I know you’re pissed at what happened to Carver—shit, I am too—but this isn’t the way to make things right.”
“Save it. I already heard Ronny’s speech.”
“Good. Now you can listen to mine.”
The Beachside Hotel was about another five blocks away. It was a stationary object in the distance, growing more and more with each step. It wasn’t a monolith like many of the other buildings along Collins Avenue, but still it called to me just the same.
“Before you begin your monologue,” I said, “has there been any activity about the hotel over the air?”
The Kid was quiet for a moment. “Not yet. I’ve been keeping an ear on the Miami-Dade County radio since you guys arrived and there hasn’t been one call. Either nobody’s called—which is unlikely—or Simon’s redirecting the calls.”
“You have my location?”
Another pause as the Kid checked one of his many computers. The iPhones we carried were untraceable like disposables—no specific network carrier—but were still connected to the Internet. The Kid had a program running on each of our phones that could track our locations. It was so precise he could narrow down where we were in any given place to about a few feet.
The Inner Circle (Man of Wax Trilogy) Page 4
