No Tomorrow

by Tom Wood

  “Yes, because there are bad people out there. I didn’t mean that all people are inherently evil. I’d say you have a very pessimistic view of the world, but if you ask me it’s a thinly veiled justification to do terrible things. But you don’t have to be that way. You have a choice. It’s never too late to change who you are. Make a fresh start. Be a good person. You never know—you might find you prefer yourself like that.”

  “If I were a good person we’d both be dead by now.”

  • • •

  While four of the mercenaries maintained the perimeter, jackets zipped up to hide their body armor and weapons, Rogan joined Anderton, Sinclair, and Wade in a corridor leading out of the lobby.

  “The target’s location has been identified,” Anderton reiterated to the men outside. “We’re moving up. Be alert, but maintain your distance.”

  She didn’t want to alarm people unnecessarily or risk the target spotting them from his window. It was the middle of the night but the area was far from empty of people.

  The reply came: “Copy.”

  “Okay,” she whispered to the three men with her. “Unit One has the perimeter, but it’s loose. We don’t want them getting past us on the way, so let’s do this nice and fast but smooth. Sinclair and I will take the lift. Rogan and Wade, you guys ascend the far staircase so we come to their corridor from either end. Don’t get jittery, boys; there are too many people here to risk a negligent discharge. All set?”

  The elevator arrived at the third floor and Anderton and Sinclair entered the corridor. Both had pistols drawn and ready. Anderton whispered into her radio: “Unit Two in position.”

  She signaled to Sinclair and they moved down the corridor, Anderton on the left, the South African on the right.

  Wade’s voice came through her earpiece: “This is Unit Three. We have reached the third floor.”

  They turned a corner and saw the two mercenaries at the far end of the corridor. Simultaneously, the two groups moved with caution toward the door marked 310.

  “Okay,” Anderton whispered. “That’s near enough. Wade and Sinclair go in first and secure the main room. Rogan and I follow. Wade, clear the bathroom. I’ll watch your backs. Okay, close in.”

  They crept forward. Wade and Sinclair took up positions on either side of the door, with Rogan and Anderton behind them. She could taste sweat on her lips. This was it.

  “Green light.”

  Chapter 52

  Wade aimed at the room’s lock with a twelve-bore pump-action shotgun fitted with a nine-inch Hushpower suppressor. The blast disintegrated the lock and Sinclair charged in through the busted door. Rogan followed him, each man sweeping a different half of the room. Wade entered last, disappearing into the bathroom.

  “Clear!” he shouted.

  “Clear,” Rogan stated.

  Sinclair, lowering his gun: “Crystal.”

  Anderton stepped into the lit room. No Gisele. No killer. She was annoyed, but not as surprised as the three men. It had felt too easy.

  “Check under the bed,” Sinclair said.

  Wade shook his head. “There’s not enough room.”

  “Do it.”

  He squatted down and made a play of lifting up the skirt. There was only a two-inch gap.

  Anderton radioed the mercenaries outside. “They’re not here. Be alert.” She walked over to the window, rested her palm on the sill, and whispered, “Where are you?”

  • • •

  Across the street, Victor turned around from arguing with Gisele to see a woman with blond hair in his other hotel room. He remembered Linnekin’s description of her: blond, tall, well dressed, all business. He couldn’t see whether her eyes were green, but he was sure this was her.

  He stood still, watching. She did not look happy in the slightest. He felt a small measure of satisfaction at her anger, but that didn’t change the fact Gisele’s enemies were closer than he wanted.

  With the curtains almost fully drawn he wouldn’t be seen in return. He could see men in the room behind her—two or three. The mercenaries.

  The others must be elsewhere, but nearby. They would be here in force.

  For now, they didn’t know the room was a decoy.

  Victor looked at Gisele. “Get dressed.”

  “Where is this fucker?” Sinclair asked to anyone who was listening.

  Anderton ignored him. She said, “Clear out and search the hotel. They might still be on the premises: bar, restaurant, fitness suite. Look everywhere.”

  Sinclair, Wade, and Rogan withdrew, leaving Anderton alone with her thoughts.

  She had sensed something wasn’t right beforehand. Now her instincts had proved correct. She circled the room. The bedclothes were mussed. In the bathroom, a towel was damp. Complimentary toiletries had been opened. All suggesting the room had been used and they’d missed them. Yet . . .

  She approached the bed. She stared at the pillow. It was squashed in the center. The pillowcase was the perfect white of hotel-laundered linens. She looked closely, leaning in.

  “No hairs,” she said to herself.

  Neither short dark hairs from the assassin nor longer red hairs from Gisele.

  Anderton turned to face the window. The curtains were not fully closed. Interesting. More significant than that, though, was the freestanding mirror sitting on the sill.

  She was careful in her actions to appear casual, as if she had not realized what was happening. This was not the killer’s room. This was a ruse. This was a shield. A decoy. And Anderton had fallen for it.

  Seemingly in an idle wander she approached the window. She placed both hands on the windowsill once again and gazed out, emitting a long sigh of frustration and annoyance. She resisted shaking her head. That might be overkill.

  There was a hotel on the other side of the street.

  Anderton judged the position of the mirror and the angle and pictured him across the street, standing at one of the windows of the hotel opposite.

  • • •

  “What do we do?” Gisele asked as she slipped her shoes on, voice high-pitched between rapid breaths.

  “It’s okay,” Victor said, watching the blond woman sighing in frustration at the window opposite. “We’re safe for the moment. We wait for ten minutes to give them time to extract. Then we go.”

  She stood. “Where to? How did they find us?”

  “Anywhere. We’ll work it out on the way. And they haven’t found us. Stay calm.”

  • • •

  Making sure to look as if she weren’t looking, Anderton scanned the hotel across the street. There were dozens of windows, each belonging to a room. Norimov’s assassin would have to set up a surveillance point at least at the same floor as the current room. Third or higher. She discounted those rooms on the first two floors.

  Logic would dictate that the room’s lights would not be on, or if not the curtains would be drawn. Mentally, Anderton dropped those rooms that did not apply. That left five rooms. Three on the fourth floor; two on the third. One of the fourth-floor candidates was at the far left of the building, almost on the corner. A height advantage was no good if the horizontal angle was acute. Anderton crossed it off.

  Four left.

  She picked up the room’s phone and called the information desk. She told the operator the name of the hotel opposite and hummed quietly while she waited.

  A man answered and asked her what he could do for her.

  Anderton said, “This is Detective Chief Inspector Crawley from the Metropolitan Police. I need your help with a case.”

  “Oh, okay, what can I do for you?” was the nervous reply. Anderton pictured someone not dissimilar to the manager of the current hotel.

  “It’s quite simple, so please don’t be nervous. A confidential informant of mine is staying in your hotel but I don’t know which ro
om he’s staying in.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Hooper, but he’ll be using an alias for safety reasons. Trouble is, I don’t know what the alias is and I can’t get through on his mobile.”

  “How can I help, then?”

  “I think we’ll be able to work out what name he’s using if you bear with me. He’ll have checked in within the past forty-eight hours on his own and won’t have checked out yet.”

  “I’ll have a look at our records and get the names of those people.”

  Anderton could hear him tapping on a keyboard for a few moments.

  “Right,” the man said, his voice confident now, happy that he could perform this role and help. “I’ve got over . . . uh, well over twenty single men . . . John Belamy, Peter Cochrane—”

  “Did any of those guests request anything specific in their choice of rooms? My CI has . . . how shall we say? Quirks. He would want a room with a north-facing window. Can you see if anyone asked for such a room?”

  There was silence for a moment. “I’m afraid such a request might not be noted on the system. The operator might simply have given him a room that met that criteria. Let me see . . . uh, no. Sorry. There’s no such request on any of the reservations. I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”

  “Okay,” Anderton said, sounding like it wasn’t that big a deal. “Of the single men who checked in during the time period, how many ended up in a north-facing room?”

  There was a half-exhaling, half-whistling sound. “I can see . . . Let me count. Yeah, nine single men in north-facing rooms.”

  “Great,” Anderton said, encouragingly. “That narrows it down. My guy doesn’t like to be near the ground, so which of those nine men is in a room on the third or fourth floor?”

  “We’re getting close,” the man said. “Down to two. One on the third floor and one on the fourth: Roger Telfer and Charles Rawling. If you want, I can put you through to them one at a time so you can see which is your man. It’s no bother. I’m happy to help. They are—”

  “Which had the earlier check-in?”

  The man made a clucking noise. “Uh . . . that would be Charles Rawling. Room 419. Is that your guy? Would you like me to put you through to his room?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Anderton said. “I’ll see him in person. But thank you for your assistance, er . . .”

  “Nathan.”

  “Thank you, Nathan. You have yourself a good night.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Anderton hung up. She knew they were in the fourth-floor room and not the third. Both had been available when Norimov’s assassin had checked in. He would have taken the fourth-floor room as a preference, for the height advantage.

  She radioed Sinclair: “Listen carefully. They’re in the hotel across the street. This room is a decoy. He’s in 419, repeat, 419. Charles Rawling. If I’m right, he knows we’re here and he’s looking at my back as we speak. But he doesn’t know I know. He’s going to wait until we clear out and vanish with the girl. So long as I sit here, he thinks they’re safe. Don’t tell the others. He might notice their reactions. Make your way over there while he’s watching the rest of us. Do what you do best.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Chapter 53

  Sinclair exited the hotel via the main east entrance and cut through the parking lot, moving south. He crossed the road beneath the overhead railway line and headed for the other hotel, where Anderton assured him the killer was waiting. He made sure to avoid the north-facing facade of the new hotel and therefore the watchful gaze of the girl’s protector.

  If Anderton was right, it wasn’t a bad trick. Not Sinclair’s style, but he could see the merits of it. He preferred to meet his threats head-on, on his terms, not those of his enemies. Hiding was weak and it was stupid.

  He felt liberated without the cumbersome presence of the mercenaries. He was on his own in the hunt. Just the way he liked it.

  Wade’s team had been useful in taking out Norimov’s retinue of thugs, but they were no longer required. Two of them had gotten themselves killed already. It proved what Sinclair had known from the start: the others were B-team quality. They had served in elite military units, sure, but they had lost the edge that came with constant training and discipline. Sinclair had never lost that edge because he had possessed it long before his time in the armed forces. He wouldn’t have survived the slums of Johannesburg without it.

  He had learned early on to rely on himself alone. Sinclair could operate from the shadows, unseen and unheard; by the time his adversaries noticed him, it was too late. Sinclair felt only excitement. Combat jacked him up like nothing else in the world. A perfect drug.

  He entered the hotel via its east entrance and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

  • • •

  From his position at the window Victor could see little of the happenings across the street at the other hotel. The mirror told him the woman and the mercenaries had exited his room. He pictured them searching the hotel in case he and Gisele were in the fitness suite or business center or bar. Once they realized they weren’t in the building, what would they do?

  He couldn’t be sure. No doubt one or more would be left on site as watchers in case they returned, the others waiting nearby for the order to move in.

  “Talk to me,” Gisele said. “I’m freaking out here.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll go now. We’ll slip out of the hotel via the south entrance. Chances are, the bulk of them will be gone. Those who’re left won’t see us.”

  She gulped and nodded. She looked terrified.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Okay?”

  She relaxed a little at his touch. “Okay.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Gisele startled. Victor snapped a palm over her mouth to catch any noise.

  Shh, he mouthed. It’s okay.

  It wasn’t. He didn’t believe in coincidences—he couldn’t afford to—but the knock could be innocent. His enemies were in the wrong hotel. He could see two of them watching the perimeter. They didn’t know he was here with Gisele. No one did. He approached the door, stopping two meters away, out of a direct line of sight from the fish-eye spy lens. The gun was in his right hand.

  “Who’s there?”

  A voice answered. Male. South African accent. “Mr. Quinn, sir. I’m from hotel management. I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?”

  “I’m afraid I need to perform a quick check on the smoke detector in your room. It’s purely routine.”

  Victor made a cursory glance behind him at the device on the room’s ceiling. It was a small white plastic box containing a CO2 detector. “It looks fine to me.”

  The man called Quinn said, “I’m sure it does, but we’ve had a few false alarms and I wouldn’t want it going off by mistake and interrupting your sleep.”

  The tone was of a man with too much work to do and not enough time, a little impatient at the holdup.

  “Like you’re doing now?” Victor said.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid it is important. I’d hate for it to go off and startle you.”

  “I’ll risk it, thanks.”

  A pause, then a second knock. “I promise, I’ll be quick as a flash.”

  Quinn didn’t sound as if he would take no for an answer, and each second Victor had to deal with him meant time he wasn’t watching out for his enemies. Unless that was the point. He approached the door, footsteps silent on the room’s carpet. He gestured for Gisele to stay still and stay quiet.

  She nodded. Looking at her, he understood how they had been caught off guard. He was at his best operating alone. Alone, he was always aware, always ready. He could rely on himself to do what had to be done.
He’d relied on allies in times past, but Gisele was no professional. She was a civilian. But that wasn’t it either.

  He was responsible for her. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for her. He’d known her a matter of hours but he cared whether she lived or died. That made them both vulnerable. He’d told her she had to have a totally selfish attitude to survival. He no longer had that.

  • • •

  Sinclair waited on the other side of the door. He stared at the pinprick of light at the center of the spy hole. It was impossible to see through it from his side, but he didn’t have to. All he needed to see was that dot of light extinguish when the killer brought his eye to the lens.

  Then he would know exactly where the killer’s head was located. Sinclair had his pistol drawn and pointed at the spy hole, index finger on the trigger, ready to squeeze.

  A guaranteed kill shot.

  Chapter 54

  Victor stood to one side of the door to keep his body protected by the interior wall. He used his hand to signal to Gisele to move back and away from the door so she was out of the line of fire. He swapped his gun into his left hand and with his shoulders to the wall aimed it at the door.

  “Can you come back later?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It has to be done now.”

  Victor angled the muzzle to where he thought the man stood, based on the sound, but it wasn’t an exact science. Without looking he couldn’t be sure of his position or even if he was an enemy.

  “Look,” he said, “I haven’t long come out of the shower. How about you come back in ten minutes when I’m dressed?”

  He pulled the hammer back with his thumb.

  “All right,” the South African said. “I’ll return in ten minutes.”

  Victor listened to footsteps quieting. He peered through the spyhole. No one stood in the corridor outside. He stepped away from the door and eased his finger off the trigger.