Larry’s hand landed on the first thing he could reach, a heavy marble ashtray on the desk. It had been leftover from the old days when smoking was allowed in the hotel.
He swung it overhand and bashed the top of the flunky’s head with a muted crack. The man’s body spasmed, mouth falling open for a scream that never came.
Larry swung again, the ashtray connecting hard against the side of the man’s head. The flunky went limp, fell over awkwardly, his foot still pinned to the floor.
Larry dropped the ashtray, panting, head dizzy. His heart hammered away in his chest. Suddenly his legs went noodle weak as the adrenaline drained from his body. He leaned against the desk.
Amy. Warn her.
He picked up the phone and dialed zero. “Switchboard? Yeah, it’s me, Ruth. I need you to connect me to—”
He turned his head and saw the other man enter the room, the one who’d taken his wallet. He lifted a pistol.
The room exploded.
And that was all.
* * *
Dante saw that it was Yousef calling in and answered by asking, “Have you killed them yet?”
“We’ve spotted him and are closing in,” Yousef said. “I need the men with you to finish the job.”
“Excellent,” Payne said. “We’re on our way.”
“Not you,” Yousef said. “Just the men. Park someplace out of the way, and wait in the car with your driver.”
Payne felt his face flush hot. “Wait in the car with my—”
“The purpose of this entire enterprise is to conceal evidence that may be used against you and to silence those who’ve seen that evidence,” Yousef said. “Having you seen at the scene of a bloodbath completely undermines all that.”
Payne hung up the phone. “Take us into the hotel parking garage,” he told the driver.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
David Sparrow strode the broad, second-floor mezzanine, eyes sharp for trouble.
He paused and glanced over the railing at the writhing Shriner party on the convention floor below. He had vague hopes of spotting Payne’s men and then maybe he could take them out one at a time.
The ground floor was his most likely hunting ground. There were three ways down that he knew of. The escalator at the opposite end of the mezzanine, the bank of elevators, or the stairs around the corner and down the hall from the elevators.
He decided on the stairs.
David walked toward the elevators just as the doors to one of the convention rooms opened and a bunch of rowdy Shriners spilled out in front of him. They talked loudly, arm-in-arm with wives and girlfriends.
On the other side of the crowd, both elevators dinged at the same time and the doors slid open. Two men emerged from each and the four of them saw David through the crowd, their hands going immediately into their jackets.
David drew the Browning and the Glock.
A woman clinging to one of the Shriners saw the guns in David’s hands and screamed. Confused murmuring ran through the crowd, heads turning to see what was happening.
It was one of Payne’s goons who fired first, the bullet whizzing over everyone’s heads.
Chaos erupted.
People shoved over one another trying to decide which way to run. Shouts, more screams.
One of the men took a bead on David with his pistol.
David leaped on the middle-aged couple in front of him, riding them to the floor. “Get down!”
Payne’s goon blazed away down the mezzanine. There was the sound like the loud slap of a leather strap, and a Shriner standing near David screamed, blood splattering from the fleshy part of his thigh. He fell hard and writhed, moaning in pain.
David rolled off the couple he’d shoved to the floor, came up on one knee and fired both pistols at the nearest attacker. Lead ripped across his chest, and he shuddered, took one halting step backward, and fell.
The other three opened fire, but David was already scrambling out of the way and dove behind a big ceramic pot that overflowed with some kind of huge fern. He drew his legs up, trying to make himself small behind the big pot. Lead struck all around him, dust and chips flying off the pot and plaster exploding on the wall above him.
David aimed his pistols over the pot, and pulled the triggers until they clicked empty.
Another of Payne’s men clutched his bloody gut and toppled over.
The remaining two gunmen wised up and dove behind a leather sofa for cover. David took the opportunity to slap a new magazine into each pistol.
He evaluated the gunmen in a split second. Third-rate, not Payne’s A team or else they wouldn’t have tried to gun him down through a crowd of Shriners. They’d get their ducks in a row and start shooting again in a second, and anyway the ceramic pot was pretty lousy cover.
David needed to make a move.
If these guys are third rate, then they probably rattle easily, right? Well, there’s one way to find out.…
David rose from his hiding place behind the big pot.
And ran at them.
There was a split second of paralysis while Payne’s men tried to figure out what they were looking at, and David closed the distance. An instant later they started firing, but it was sloppy and undisciplined as David sprinted straight for them.
David raised his pistols as he ran, firing nonstop and not breaking stride. A bullet hissed past his ear. Another passed close enough to tug at his shirtsleeve.
David kept squeezing the triggers of both guns. Stuffing flew up from the leather sofa. The gunmen flinched, trying to return fire and stay low at the same time.
A slug caught the first man above the left eye and knocked him back, trailing an arc of blood, into the other one behind him, throwing off his aim. He tried to swing the pistol back in time for a shot, but David had arrived.
He leaped upon the sofa to fire down behind it at the last gunman, emptying both pistols and shredding the man’s chest with hot metal.
David stepped down from the sofa, replaced the magazines in his pistols and spun a slow arc, pistols raised for whatever came next.
For the moment, nobody was trying to kill him.
Moans around the mezzanine, women crying. A number of people were tentatively rising from the floor, looking at David with fear and confusion.
David raised his voice and said, “You’ll be safer if you get back to your rooms and lock yourselves in.”
They didn’t need to be told twice, some moving toward the elevators, others back toward the escalators.
David went to the man who’d been shot in the thigh and knelt next to him. A crying woman knelt on the other side of him.
“You need to calm down,” he said to her. “You’re his wife?”
“Y-yes.”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Yes.”
“Call an ambulance right now,” David said. “Tell them which hotel and that you’re on the second-floor mezzanine.”
“Yes, of course.” She reached back for a small beaded purse behind her, took out her phone, and made the call.
David forced a smile for the wounded man’s benefit. “You’re going to be fine.”
The man nodded, pale face clammy with sweat.
David pulled the man’s tie loose. “I need this.”
He used the necktie to fasten a tourniquet around the man’s leg. “I don’t think the shot hit anything vital.” David had no idea if that was true or not but figured it would be nice to hear.
“They’re on the way,” said the woman who’d called the ambulance.
“Good.” And the police with them, thought David. His time was running out.
“Give me your sweater,” he told her.
She took if off and handed it to him. David folded it into thirds and put it over the bullet wound. The man winced. He took the woman’s hands and placed them on top of the sweater.
“Keep pressure on this until the paramedics arrive,” David said. “Can somebody stay with you?”
She
turned her head toward a man hovering in the background. “Dale?”
Dale came forward, a ruddy-faced man with a beer gut. He’d somehow managed to heroically retain possession of his drink throughout the gunfight. He knelt next to the wounded man and touched his shoulder. “You hang in there, Brad. I’m here. You just relax, buddy.”
“I’ve got to go,” David told the woman.
Words of gratitude chased after him as he left, but he barely paid attention. He passed the elevators at a jog and kept going until he found the stairs.
* * *
Yousef cursed as he watched Sparrow slaughter Payne’s men on the security monitor. The man paused to help a wounded hotel guest and then passed out of sight. He frantically searched the other monitors until he picked him up again.
He found Sparrow again in the basement.
Yousef pulled his pistol. If you want somebody killed right, you’ve got to do it yourself.
But that didn’t mean it had to be a fair fight. He dialed Dante Payne’s phone number.
* * *
Dante answered the phone, frowned, and handed the phone over to the Serb. “He wants to speak to one of you.”
The Serb put the phone to his ear. “Yes? Okay. I understand.” He hung up and handed the phone back to Payne.
“Sparrow is in the basement of the hotel,” the Serb said. “He wants us to go down there.” He looked at Payne. “He says for you to stay here.”
Payne snarled. “Of course. Well, go on then. Go kill the man. This has all taken far too long already.”
They nodded curtly and left.
Dante Payne fixed another drink and sulked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
David needed chaos and confusion.
He passed through the hotel laundry, looking for the maintenance room and the hotel’s circuit breakers.
Soon the police would arrive if they weren’t here already. David would have to dodge them while searching for Payne all while avoiding getting killed by Yousef Haddad and his henchmen.
It was a tall order.
David needed some kind of advantage.
He found a locked door marked ELECTRICAL. It was far too sturdy to kick down. He aimed and shot the lock. No good. He shot it again, and this time it opened.
He scanned the room once inside. There was a small table with a couple of flashlights on it. He’d need one soon and selected a heavy Maglite.
The main breakers were housed in a large metal box closed and padlocked. He shot the padlock off and opened it.
Inside, he found the main power switches for the entire hotel. With the police helping frightened hotel guests in the dark, he hoped it would keep them off his back for a while. And as a solo operative, he liked the thought of a blind enemy.
The bonus of cutting the power would be shutting the elevators down. Anyone trying to get to Amy would be delayed.
Of course, if I need to get up there and help her, I’ll be delayed, too.
And I need to stay alive for any of it to matter.
He took hold of the main power switch and yanked it down. There was a loud fump and then darkness.
David flipped on the Maglite and headed back through the laundry.
Shots rang out from the darkness, and David dropped low, scooting behind an industrial clothes dryer. He killed the Maglite, waited and listened.
Apparently, they were doing the same thing because David didn’t hear anything. He tried to recall what was back the other way, if there were another passage or hallway, but he already knew there wasn’t. Just the electrical room. The only way out was back past whomever was shooting at him.
He reached the flashlight around the side of the dryer and switched it on.
The attackers immediately shot at the light, the bullets flying past just inches away. David dropped the flashlight and yelled as if he’d been hit.
David waited. One thing you learn as a solo operative is patience, and in a situation like this, a minute or two can seem like an eternity. Breathe, listen, wait.
They almost out-waited him. David was just about to try something else when he heard a low scraping, then movement. A whispered conversation.
There’s more than one.
A few seconds later, the sounds of movement came toward him. One of them was coming to confirm the kill.
When David had dropped the flashlight, he’d tried to angle it just right. He gripped the Browning and held his breath and waited.
A second later, his opponent came into range of the flashlight, casting a huge jagged shadow on a washing machine across the aisle. David made a good guess from the shadow about the man’s position, stuck his head and the Browning around the side of the dryer, and fired.
He shot the man in the groin, and the guy went down screaming. He shut him up with a shot to the head.
The other one was already returning fire, lead tinging off the dryer.
David kicked the flashlight away, and the beam played wildly over the room in a jerky motion, drawing more gunfire.
All or nothing time.
David stepped out from his hiding place, drawing the Glock with his other hand, and when the other man fired again, David zeroed in on the muzzle flash.
He poured fire onto the spot with both pistols, attempting a wide spread in the hopes of catching him with at least one of the shots.
When David’s pistols clicked empty, he rushed forward, scooping up the Maglite as he went and ran for the spot as fast as he could, raising the flashlight high for a strike, but it wasn’t necessary. He’d hit his target twice, once high on the chest and again in the throat.
David aimed the flashlight at his face. A slightly older man, gray at the temples. He looked more like somebody’s dentist than a hired killer, but that was probably an advantage sometimes.
David didn’t linger, didn’t want to be caught again in a dead end. He went back through the laundry room and up a different set of stairs than the ones he’d come down.
The next level up put him in the same service corridor he’d been in before when he’d fled from the two cops. One way led around the corner to the bar, and the other way led to the kitchen. Dim battery-powered emergency lighting along the floor cast just enough light to walk.
He turned the corner toward the bar—
The sharp crack of a pistol shot, and David dropped the Maglite, slapped a hand over the shallow wound on his upper arm as he ducked back around the corner. It wasn’t bad, just a gash, but it stung and bled.
He ejected the magazines from his pistols and reached for spares. There was only one left for the Glock. None for the Browning.
Shit.
He tossed the Browning away, turned the corner, and blazed down the hall with the Glock.
Yousef Haddad returned fire, shots gouging the walls on all sides of David.
He returned fire until the Glock was empty and then tossed the gun away and ran in the other direction. At the end of the hall he pushed through a swinging door and into the hotel kitchen. The only light was from the gas stove. The burners had been left on and the flames cast a weak blue glow. He took a big cleaver from a set of knives and hid himself between two metal cabinets.
A second later Yousef burst through the swinging door. He stopped and scanned the darkness, pistol in hand.
“I know you’re in here, government man,” Yousef said. “I saw you toss down your pistol. You are getting tired and sloppy. You should not have been so careless with your bullets.”
It was true. It hadn’t even occurred to him to notice until Yousef had mentioned it. David was running on fumes. It had been a long night.
But it would be over soon. One way or another.
Yousef went to the stove and cranked up the burners, the flames swelling larger. It cast a little more light in the kitchen but not much.
The door to the kitchen swung open and a man wearing an apron entered. “Hey, everyone is supposed to be out of—”
Yousef turned and shot him between the eyes.
<
br /> David burst from his hiding place, cleaver held high. Yousef turned back just as David brought the blade down, catching David’s wrist to fend off the strike. Yousef tried to bring the pistol to bear, but David knocked it away, sent it clattering across the kitchen floor.
Yousef punched, and David was too slow to block it, took the fist in the gut. He grunted and dropped the cleaver.
Yousef moved in with a combination of punches, David blocked one and then another and then countered with a short pop to Yousef’s ribs. Yousef stepped in close and brought an elbow around that rattled David’s teeth.
David stumbled back, shaking the bells out of his ears. Yousef pressed his advantage and leaped at his opponent, but David got a foot up and kicked him hard in the chest. Yousef flew back.
And landed on the flaming stove top.
Yousef screamed.
David rushed forward, put a forearm against Yousef’s chest to hold him in place, the flames burning his hair and licking along the flesh of his ears and his neck. The scorched smell was sickening.
Yousef tried to twist and struggle up from the stove top, but David punched him in the side to take his air away, drew back, and punched him again.
The screams that came next were so shrill with animal agony that David almost let him up. Then he remembered the picture of Gina, the promises Yousef made, what he’d do to Amy. What he would do to his son and to his daughter.
David leaned in with all his weight and held Youself flat against the fire.
Yousef’s hands shot up and latched on to David’s throat.
David didn’t let up, kept pushing Yousef against the stove top. The hands around his throat tightened. He couldn’t draw air. Tiny spots hovered before David’s eyes, a cottony darkness seeping in at the edge of his vision.
Yousef squeezed harder.
David glanced up at a line of cast-iron skillets hanging from hooks over the stove. He reached, stretched, grabbed one that might have worked well for fried chicken.
He brought it down hard on Youself’s forehead with a dull clang. Yousef’s grip didn’t ease.
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