by Dan Alatorre
He went to the door and stared at the handle, drawing a deep breath. Glancing to the bathroom to make sure Lanaya wasn’t visible, he leaned close and held his hand above the latch.
Could be an honest mistake by the hotel.
Could be an execution.
Jerking the handle downward, he flung open the door. The waiter stood next to a room service cart. Two flat metal plate covers rested on top of the cart’s long, white tablecloth.
The waiter launched himself into the doorway. Jumping backwards, DeShear grabbed the man’s collar and heaved him face-first into the heavy door. He held the intruder by the back of the neck, pinning him. The man grunted and flailed, reaching for the waistline bulge at the small of his back. DeShear rammed a shoulder into him, slamming the man into the door again. Grabbing the intruder’s hand, DeShear forced it skyward. The assailant howled in pain.
DeShear dropped the man’s hand and yanked up the jacket, revealing a holster and a large gun. He pulled the weapon free and gripped it tightly, then slammed the butt of the heavy gun into the side of the man’s head.
The intruder slumped and fell to the floor.
DeShear stood over him, panting. Grabbing his assailant under the arms, DeShear dragged him toward the bed, then went back to retrieve the room service cart.
He called to the bathroom. “You can come out now.”
Lanaya peeked past the bathroom door.
DeShear rolled the cart toward the bed. “It’s okay. This guy’s done for the night.”
As his client crept out of the bathroom, Deshear lifted the metal plate covers from the room service cart. There was nothing underneath. He tossed them onto the bed and flipped up the tablecloth, exposing a sawed off, pump action shotgun. He grabbed it and took it to Lanaya. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
She recoiled. “I’m a scientist, not a cowboy!”
“Okay.” He tucked the pistol into his belt and went into his room, ratcheting the shotgun barrel repeatedly until all the shells were ejected onto the mattress. After sliding the shotgun under the bed, he gathered the expended shells and carried them to his bathroom, where he deposited them into the toilet tank.
He pulled the pistol from his belt and sprung the magazine, checking its ammunition.
Full load.
Motioning to Lanaya, he stepped toward the door and pressed himself to the wall. She followed.
“Keep quiet,” he whispered. “If our friend has somebody waiting in the hall, we don’t want them to know it’s us coming out.”
He eased the handle downward and inched the door open. At the end of the hallway stood a man in plain clothes, doing nothing.
That’s unusual for a hotel.
DeShear opened the door the rest of the way. “Keep calm. We’re a husband and wife going to dinner.” She went through, then he joined her, walking side by side with the gun behind her lower back.
They moved down the hallway toward the man.
“Honestly, darling,” DeShear said. “It’s very late. I’d just as soon skip dinner and grab a drink at the bar.”
Lanaya said nothing. She swallowed hard and trembled.
DeShear carried on the act, solo. “Hmm? Well, if you insist, my love.”
The man stared at them as they approached.
DeShear smiled at him when they got close. “Excuse me, friend, but do you have the time?”
The man looked past him.
“No?” DeShear pulled out his gun and shoved it into the man’s face. “Well, then, can you turn around and grab the wall? Feet spread.”
The man hesitated.
“Your buddy’s dead,” DeShear scowled. “Don’t join him.”
Lanaya gasped. “You killed him?”
DeShear winced. “Shh!”
He patted the man down and relieved him of a .45 caliber revolver.
“Walk with me to the elevator,” DeShear said to the stranger. “You’re going to get in and go straight to the top floor.”
When the elevator arrived, DeShear shoved the man into the back and leaned inside to press the top button. “Don’t get cute and exit early. If I see you downstairs in the next hour, it’s not gonna be pleasant for you.”
As soon as the elevator doors closed, DeShear stepped back and watched the floor indicator light show the man was going up.
“Now,” DeShear said. “We take the service elevator to the laundry room and get out of here.”
He grabbed Lanaya’s hand and they raced down the hallway.
Chapter 8
Dr. Asher Fishel blew a long stream of smoke at the computer screen, scowling at the spread sheet displayed there.
“Don’t you ever go home, Ash?” Dr. Kuntara leaned in the doorway of her friend’s office, fanning the haze of smoke away from her nose. “And open a window, would you?”
Fishel coughed a few times, pulling the cigarette from his mouth as he lumbered to heft his massive frame up from his desk. A half-eaten cheeseburger rested on a cafeteria tray, next to an overflowing ash tray and a can of Diet Coke. “I have work to do. Marcus is up my rear about the merger.”
“Maybe another cigarette will help you with that cough.”
He walked past his dusty treadmill to the window, sliding it open. The blinds swayed in the night’s chilly breeze. “We can’t all be smoothie drinking marathoners like you, Tahvia.” Fishel held his cigarette out the window. “Between the merger, the board review, my high blood pressure, my high cholesterol, the new regulations . . . there’s so many things that are trying to kill me, I’m lucky I’m still standing.”
“It’s possible we board members have concerns about the long-term health of our key man. But suit yourself, boss. See you tomorrow. And don’t let Dr. Hauser work you too late.” Kuntara grabbed the door knob and pulled the door shut behind her.
“When do I ever?” Fishel grunted. He went back to his cluttered work space and swigged his soda. A computer screen full of spread sheets stared at him. He took a swig of his drink, sucked on the cigarette, and hunched over the keyboard.
A knock came from the door. Fishel glanced at his watch. According to his Rolex Presidential, it was almost eight-thirty. “Housekeeping,” he muttered. “As if I didn’t have enough distractions.” He called out in the direction of the door. “Come back in an hour.”
The man on the other side mumbled something, then knocked again.
Fishel didn’t look up from the computer. “I said come back later!”
The door opened and a tall man in blue coveralls backed into the room, pulling a large cleaning cart. Rags and spray bottles hung over the sides, and a big trash can rose from the center.
“Are you new? Or deaf? I’m busy. You’ll need to clean later.” The doctor glared at the cleaner and took another drag on his cigarette. “Habla English, you moron? Later. Come back later.”
With his back to Fishel, the cleaner pulled something from his pocket and raised it to his head. When he turned around, his face was covered by a black ski mask.
* * * * *
The Greyhound shoved the office door closed and leveled a gun at the frightened chief of medicine. “Do you habla .38 caliber, Doctor Fishel?”
The blood drained out of the doctor’s face. “I—I . . .” His hands slid from the keyboard and disappeared under the desk.
Keeping the gun aimed at the doctor’s head, The Greyhound held up a smart phone with a video image playing. “You have a silent alarm button under your top drawer. Before you answer the phone and give the security answer for an emergency rescue, you need to look at this.”
His mouth hanging open, Dr. Fishel peered at the screen. The Greyhound came closer, holding the phone in front of him. “This is live streaming video of your wife at the bookstore where she is attending her book club. As long as you do exactly what I say, when I say it, your wife will not be hurt. If you do not do exactly as I say, she will be murdered in the parking lot on the way to her Volvo. Nod if you understand.”
The doct
or stared at the screen, white faced. “Shanna . . .”
The Greyhound slammed a hand down onto the desk. “Nod if you understand, Dr. Fischel.”
He nodded.
His heart pounding, The Greyhound swallowed hard and set the streaming phone next to the doctor’s keyboard. “Do not touch the phone. My man on the other end needs to hear me every thirty seconds or he kills your wife. Nod if you understand.”
As his office phone rang, the doctor glanced at it, then back to The Greyhound. He nodded again.
Stepping around to the chair, The Greyhound put his gun to the doctor’s head. The phone rang a second time.
A sharp pain ignited in The Greyhound’s stomach, throbbing and sending stabs in all directions. He winced and re-gripped the gun with his sweaty fingers, forcing himself to remain upright. He balled up his other hand and pressed it to his abdomen.
The pain flared again.
The Greyhound sucked in his breath and leaned on the credenza. “When I tell you, answer the phone and give security the ‘all clear’ password. If you do not, your wife dies. If security comes in and tries to apprehend me, my man at the bookstore opens fire. Nod if you understand.”
The doctor nodded. The phone rang a third time.
“Answer it,” The Greyhound said. His lungs ached and his head throbbed. Pulses of green and red flashed over his vision. The gun stayed pointed at the trembling doctor.
Fishel lifted the black receiver from its cradle. He held it to his head and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “This is Dr. Fishel. Nightingale. I repeat, Nightingale.”
The Greyhound breathed hard, sweat running down his neck. He raised his other hand to steady the first, the gun staying pointed at the chief of medicine.
“No, everything’s fine. The cleaner came in and I mashed the panic button trying to get up. Getting too plump for my chair, I guess.”
Eyeing the doctor and then the video playing on the phone, The Greyhound shifted his weight. So far, so good.
“Thank you. Happy holidays to you, too. Goodnight.” Fishel hung up the phone. “I did it. They aren’t coming. Now . . . what do you want?”
“We’ll get to that.” The Greyhound panted. “First, I need you to take this.” He tossed a white cotton cloth onto the desk, then pulled a small bottle from his pocket. “Put one drop of ether onto the handkerchief, hold it to your face, and inhale it deeply.”
The doctor’s shaking fingers stretched in the direction of the cloth. The Greyhound reached past him and placed the bottle on a stack of papers. He dug into his pocket again and withdrew a syringe.
“One drop only, Doctor.”
The knot in his stomach erupted, sending The Greyhound to his knees. He grabbed a corner of the desk to keep from crashing to the floor, coughing uncontrollably as his lungs burned like they were on fire. The room swayed.
“You’re ill,” the doctor said. “You—you’re white as a sheet. You need help.”
The Greyhound shook his head, staggering to his feet. “Not from you!” He pointed the gun back at the doctor. “First, do no harm.” Steadying himself, he wiped the spit from the side of his mouth. “Or were you absent the day they went over the Hippocratic oath at medical school?”
“Son,” the doctor spoke in low, calm tones, his voice wavering. “Whatever’s bothering you, we can talk about it. Let me get you some help first.”
“Put a drop of ether on the cloth.” He grimaced and cocked the gun. “Shanna’s keeper will lose patience soon.”
Fishel lowered his gaze to the bottle. He picked it up and unscrewed the cap, then held the vial over the cloth. The bottle shook in his grip. A drop of liquid fell onto the small white cloth. He set the bottle down, quivering so much he almost knocked it over. The wet tiny dot spread across the handkerchief.
“Put it over your nose and mouth, and inhale. One big breath. If you try to cheat, I’ll know.” The Greyhound pointed the gun at the video. “Think of your wife.”
The doctor nodded. “I’ll do as you say. Don’t hurt my family.”
Blinking the colors from his eyes, The Greyhound glared at his victim. “Don’t talk to me about hurting people. Let’s go. One big breath. Do it.”
Lifting the cloth near his face, a whimper escaped the doctor’s lips. He raised his eyes to the man in the black ski mask. “Why are you doing this?”
“Angelus Genetics and Onyx Research. You remember them. You were a big deal over there before you bought your way into respectability.”
The doctor’s jaw dropped. “We-we did legitimate research there.”
“You,” The Greyhound narrowed his eyes, “are a despicable human being for what you did.”
“I—I didn’t. I . . . in the Arizona facility, they—I had no idea until—”
“You had every idea. Nilla Cunde said it was your goal from the outset. Emmet Kincaid said the same thing. They’re both dead now. So is Dr. Braunheiser. And Dr. Contiglio. Bendina Tasson, Theo Waldrop, Mina Farris—all gone. But not before they gave me things.”
“Oh, no. No . . .”
“I have notes from meetings you attended, where you and Hauser rolled out your grand plans. How you’d get the financing. I have it all, doctor.”
“We . . . shut it down. We stopped!”
“You moved it to Indonesia, you lying piece of garbage. U. S. laws couldn’t touch you there. Do you want to try to explain the deal you did with Cambodia? What you allowed to happen there?”
“Please.” The doctor swallowed hard. “Science. We . . . our ideas were for the benefit of mankind.”
“Stop lying! Ideas are one thing. What you put into practice—deciding right and wrong, life and death. You made up the rules, like the megalomaniacs you are. I’d shoot you right now, but I need to fly under the radar until—” His lungs exploded. He coughed, backing away and gasping for air. When he recovered, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood stained his sleeve.
He pointed the gun to the handkerchief. “Let’s go.”
The doctor lifted the cloth and pressed it to his face, closing his eyes. His chest swelled and relaxed as he inhaled, then he looked at The Greyhound.
“Put it down.”
When he did, The Greyhound went to him and held out the syringe. “Inject yourself with this.” He handed it to the doctor. “If you do not, my man will kill your wife.”
The old man lurched forward, grabbing at a letter opener. The Greyhound shoved him back into his chair. “Your wife is alive, doctor. Do you want her to stay that way?”
“Help!” Fishel yelled, his words slurring. “Help me!”
The Greyhound curled back his fingers and rammed the butt of his hand into the doctor’s ear. The old man crashed to the desk, grabbing his head and wailing. “Don’t kill me!”
“Administer the syringe! Now! I have people watching your son in Malibu and your daughter working at the Cleveland Clinic.”
“You’re sick,” the doctor cried. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I hate every minute of this, believe me. But I will see your wife die if you don’t plunge that needle into your arm right now.”
The doctor sniffled. “Okay.” He picked up the syringe and stared at it.
“Do it.”
Dr. Fishel placed the wavering tip of the needle near the crease of his forearm, sliding it along a raised blue vein. The skin depressed for a moment until the needle penetrated the skin, then he pressed the plunger.
He winced as the fluids entered his system.
The Greyhound took the syringe and slipped it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Now, up. To the treadmill, doctor.”
Perplexed, the old man rose and slowly went to the treadmill.
The Greyhound followed, his pain and nausea subsiding. He reached over to switch on the machine and pressed a button on the keypad. The console beeped, and the dark gray vinyl tread rolled backwards.
“Get on.”
The doctor’s trembling hands grasped the rails. He climbed
on the exercise machine and eased one foot onto the moving tread. As it went backwards, he stepped forward with his other foot and started walking.
“Now, I need you to take this respirator gage and put it into your mouth.” The Greyhound held an opaque hose and mouthpiece up. They were standard equipment in stress tests, as the doctor well knew. The Greyhound held out a heart rate finger monitor to the doctor, keeping the readout in his hand.
As he put the equipment on, the old man shivered violently. The Greyhound retrieved the cell phone and placed it on the treadmill’s console, shoving aside a yellowed magazine. The streaming video continued to display his wife.
Brandishing the gun, The Greyhound gestured to the screen. “Here’s where we are. Your wife is alive and well. All you have to do is stay on this treadmill and keep moving until I say stop. This won’t take long.” He reached across the doctor and pressed the “up” arrow. The treadmill increased its speed. “If you stop, she dies. If I stop talking, or if I don’t get what I want quickly, my friend on the other end does his job.”
The doctor wheezed into the respiratory gage, his brow brimming with sweat and his hands shaking.
The heart rate monitor read 120.
“Keep going.”
Fishel gasped, rubbing his chest.
“That’s the Synthroid you injected. Keep going.”
Sweat formed on the fat old man’s face. The synthetic metabolism hormone was overloading his system. But at his age, a dead guy on a treadmill wouldn’t even get an autopsy.
Moisture stains appeared on the doctor’s shirt collar and under his arm pits. His abductor kept his eyes on the readout. “It hurts, I know.”
The doctor groaned, grabbing his chest.
“Keep that hose in your mouth, doctor.” The Greyhound raised the gun. “And stay on that treadmill.” He pushed the “up” button again.
The doctors’ eyes grew wide. His pace became unsteady, wobbling as he walked. He hunched forward, clutching the rails of the exercise machine.
The Greyhound pulled a stun gun from his coveralls pocket. Lifting it in front of the doctor’s face, he pressed the button that sent a two-inch lightning flash across the electrodes on the tip. “Faster, doctor.” He reached over and pressed the “up” button again.