Inside Out wm-1

by John Ramsey Miller

  When the elevator stopped, Winter stepped out into a circular foyer with granite floors, a curved faux marble wall, and an ornately carved stone arch with twin maple doors whose tops followed the curve. The domed ceiling had been painted black so that hundreds of tiny white bulbs transformed it into a quasi planetarium.

  The elevator closed and started down again. Winter entered into a palatial apartment, his footsteps muted by a thick oriental rug on a polished oak floor. Paintings-classic pastorals and portraits-filled the walls. The ornate furniture looked too valuable to sit on.

  “Anybody home? Fifteen?”

  Winter opened the door on the far side of the room and stepped into the main hallway. The first room he came to was an office. The few papers, letters, and receipts that were scattered on the desk's surface appeared to be written in Cyrillic.

  He opened the door to a bedroom that, in stark contrast to the rest of the apartment, was Japanese modern. Two life-size forms, dressed in samurai battle regalia, stood at either side of the bed. They looked like fierce insect-men, patiently awaiting the opportunity to lay waste to some invading army.

  When Winter pushed open the swinging door into the kitchen, he was suddenly face-to-face with a man seated at the table, who was staring straight at him-or more likely into the fires of hell. “Ah, just great,” Winter groaned.

  Based on George Williams's description, the white-blond crew cut and the wrist encircled by a barbed-wire tattoo indicated that the corpse at the table was the old man's helicopter pilot, Ralph. Someone had garroted him using a length of wire, some of which was still deeply embedded in the open slit in his throat.

  A dinner plate between his forearms held in its center a single human eye with its malformed keyhole pupil positioned so it stared up at Winter.

  Lying on a folded napkin beside the plate like a utensil was Winter's Walther PP. He lifted it and sniffed the barrel to discover it had been fired recently. Reflexively, he put the pistol into his jacket pocket. A fresh coating of blood mixed with what was surely brain tissue, bits of white hair, and bone decorated the wall behind one of the kitchen chairs like an abstract painting.

  If Winter was found in the building, the FBI could easily draw the conclusion that he was involved with them through their scapegoat, Greg Nations. Anything he said would be meaningless, and Fifteen's threat against his family meant he couldn't defend himself with the truth without endangering them. The realization that he had been set up built a fire in the pit of Winter's stomach. It made sense-the Russian passport, the weapons, all pointed to a facility used by mercenaries. Even though the corpses in the bathroom obviously weren't the men listed in their passports, he knew the bodies would match them before he was hauled off to jail. But the corpses' Kevlar vests made no sense.

  Winter peered out into the service hall, looking for the missing body that had left the wall splashed with gore. The reinforced door to a rear stairwell was dead-bolted, its key removed.

  Back in the kitchen, Winter noticed blood smeared on the handle of the refrigerator, more on the floor in front of it. Winter opened the door and found Herman Hoffman's dead body again basing his assumption on George's knowledge. The old man had been crammed like a Peruvian mummy inside the commercial-size refrigerator, a small bullet hole in his forehead-undoubtedly fired from the Walther now in Winter's pocket. A printed note read, Curiosity killed the cat.

  There would be no FBI arresting him. There were several pale blocks of Semtex in the old man's lap, and a red indicator light blinked on a detonator. He understood that opening the refrigerator door had armed the device.

  In Winter's experience, real-life bombs set by professionals didn't have illuminated panels of numbers counting down to the explosion like in movies. There was enough explosive packed into the Sub-Zero, and on the floor below, to erase the building, to destroy all of the evidence except for things like torsos, passports placed inside body armor, guns, and badges like his own.

  Fifteen intended to solve everybody's problems at once.

  76

  Richmond, Virginia

  At 7:50 P.M., Hawk's van sat with its rear bumper twenty feet from the hotel's front doors. He checked his Glock and the four magazines in two holders on his belt. His partner had been parked across the street from the hotel since seven-thirty, his shape visible through the windshield of his high-performance Taurus SHO, which had a steel plate in the trunk angled to deflect bullets away from the cabin.

  When the cab pulled up in front of the Grand, right behind the van, Hawk tightened his vest and watched through the rearview. After the tattooed boy sprang from the cab and sprinted inside, Hawk opened the van's door. As he stepped into the street, his long coat was whipped by a sudden gust of wind. He pulled a dark ball cap from the pocket of his coat and put it on.

  He put the closed badge case in his left hand so the first thing Sean Devlin would see would be the familiar glint of a gold star set in a circle.

  He nodded to his partner, who then stepped from the SHO and leaned against the front fender holding a semiautomatic twelve-gauge shotgun underneath his trench coat. Through the glass doors he saw the marble-faced counter across the lobby and the old man standing behind it. After crossing the lobby, Sean Devlin would come into view from his right. He would grab her and bring her outside, where he and his partner would whisk her away.

  77

  At five minutes before eight, Sean placed the pistol in her backpack. She had made the choice between taking the train and keeping the gun, or dropping the pistol into a garbage can before she got near the metal detectors at the airport. She had decided that getting as far away, as fast as she could, was better than having the security of the gun. She put on her coat, grabbed her backpack and duffel, and looked around the room one last time to make sure she wasn't leaving anything behind. In a few hours she would be in Seattle. She credited Sam Manelli's image on television for her heightened anxiety level, and she couldn't rationalize her fear by telling herself that he couldn't possibly have a line on her.

  The phone rang and she jumped, almost dropping the backpack.

  “Ms. McSorley, your driver has arrived,” Max announced.

  “Thank you. I'll be right down.”

  She left the room, made her way to the elevator door, and pressed the call button. Four floors below, the gate closed and there was a rumble as the motor engaged. When the cage opened she stepped into the elevator and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart.

  “We're due for rain,” the operator remarked as they descended. “We can sure use it.”

  “Rain would be nice,” Sean agreed. She wondered how rain could affect the life of a man who lived in the hotel and spent his days going up and down in place like a piston.

  At the lobby level, he opened the gate for her and, even though it was night, he said, “Have a nice day.”

  Wire Dog, waiting outside the elevator like an impatient date, took Sean's duffel from her.

  The two women Sean had seen earlier were still sitting together on the leather couch in the center of the lobby.

  As she and Wire Dog passed by, Sean exchanged smiles with the women. The women stood, and the younger one's dark ponytail fell halfway down her back. She was well tanned and looked as if she made an effort to stay in shape. She had changed clothes since Sean had seen her that afternoon. Now she wore khakis, running shoes, and a jacket. The leather purse under her right shoulder was almost as large as Sean's backpack. The older woman, wearing a loose-fitting dress, had wet dark hair combed straight back.

  Sean handed Max her room key and said good-bye.

  As Sean walked toward the glass doors, a man wearing a black trench coat started inside, straight-arming the door open. He had a wallet in his left hand, which he held up as he entered. Through his open coat Sean saw a gun and a bulletproof vest covering his shirt. He glanced into the lobby, to his right, then immediately drew his gun.

  Looking for an escape, Sean turned and saw the young woman from the couch
striding toward the man. The large silenced pistol in her rising hand rocked gently as she fired it at the man in the trench coat. He fell backward from the impact of the shots. Sean saw that the object, now open as it fell from the man's left hand, was a badge case. She decided her only chance was to get behind the counter.

  After firing steadily, the young woman ejected the empty magazine, which clattered to the stone floor, and took another from her purse.

  Wire Dog dropped Sean's duffel and ran behind her toward the counter.

  The older woman, walking toward the counter, raised a silenced pistol and began firing just as Sean and Wire Dog sprang over the counter.

  Max stepped back, straightened, and stumbled backward as a bullet passed through his throat and slammed him against the antique room-key board, skewing it so violently that dozens of keys rained to the floor.

  Sean jerked her pack around and pulled out her gun. She aimed the Smith over the counter at the advancing younger woman and squeezed the trigger. The compact gun roared, bucking in her hand. Before Sean fired a second time at the running figure, the woman had scampered into the lobby, taking a dive behind the heavy couch.

  A plastic donations box on the counter near Sean exploded, scattering coins on the carpeted floor. Without looking, Sean reached the gun over the counter and fired in the older woman's direction. Sean had only three shots left.

  Wire Dog seemed perplexed as he stared down at the blood covering his fingers. As the red stain on the side of his T-shirt blossomed, he shuddered and his soiled hand fell to the floor.

  Sean heard the elevator door clanging shut and the car slowly rising.

  When the front door burst open, Sean chanced a quick peek over the counter. Another man, also in a trench coat and carrying a shotgun, had come into the lobby. As he ducked behind the wide marble column on his left, three shots from the older woman's gun chipped plaster from its face. The man behind the column fired back. Sean assumed that if the woman was firing at him, he might be on her side.

  When the man brought the shotgun around the column and fired, the older woman yelled out and went down hard.

  “United States marshal!” the man yelled. “Sean Devlin?”

  “There's another one. I think she's behind the couch,” Sean called out from her hiding place.

  Wire Dog's key fob hung from his pocket. Instinctively, Sean pulled at the chain and palmed the keys. Gripping the. 38 in her left hand, Sean shifted her weight, swung up over the counter, and ran for the door on a course that would take her between the man and the young woman in the lobby. She understood that if he wasn't really a marshal, he might be working for Sam, and he'd kill her. For all she knew the two groups were competitive mercenaries-winner take all.

  Sean extended the pistol out and fired the remaining three shots as she ran for the door, where she would be sheltered from the woman killer by the column between them.

  Her backpack swung violently to the side as the young woman fired at her. After Sean was past his column, the man fired out into the lobby-thankfully not at her. He dropped the empty shotgun to the floor, pulled out a dark automatic, and began firing again.

  Since Sean's gun was empty, she pocketed it, picked up the dead marshal's Glock beside her boot, and crouched behind the column, her back to the man behind the other column ten feet away.

  “Go now,” he ordered. “Taurus is across the street-key's in the ignition. Get in it and drive away fast. Call Shapiro from the cell phone in the console. It's secure. Only that phone. Got it?”

  Sean nodded. Her hand holding the dead man's Glock trembled. As the marshal peered out and aimed at the lobby, the young woman fired and he fell. His violated skull smacked against the marble, making a sickening wet sound.

  Sean ran through the door. She saw the Taurus parked across the wide street and Wire Dog's taxicab at the curb. Figuring she'd get shot if she crossed the street, she went for the taxi.

  Sean opened the driver's door and got in. She pushed Wire Dog's key into the ignition and the engine sprang to life.

  The killer broke from the building, her ponytail flying behind her. She had her gun in a two-handed combat grip, aiming across the street. Before the killer spotted her, Sean pointed the Glock out through the windshield and emptied it at her through the glass.

  The killer dived for cover behind a planter.

  As Sean jerked the shift lever and floored it, the woman fired, hitting the old, big-bodied Chevrolet's windshield and grill as Sean roared up the street in reverse.

  The killer ejected her spent magazine as she ran after the taxi, then shoved in a new one and resumed firing.

  Her ears ringing, Sean tossed the empty Glock onto the floor as the car flew away still in reverse. Once she had enough speed, she stomped the brakes, and jerked the wheel to the side forcefully, spinning the car 180 degrees. While the Chevrolet was swapping ends, Sean pulled the shift lever down into drive and, when the car was aimed up the street, she floored the accelerator. Sean had learned the maneuver from a “special” driving instructor she had had in her fifteenth summer. Until that moment she had never had occasion to use the maneuver, but she performed it perfectly.

  The wind coming in through the ruined windshield buffeted her stiff hair. She wasn't safe, but she was free.

  She took a few turns at random in case the assailant had come after her. Steam poured from under the hood. Dash warning lights blazed. Less than two miles from the hotel, the wounded radiator finished bleeding out through the. 45-caliber holes and the motor seized. Sean put the car in neutral and coasted to a stop at a curb.

  As sirens wailed in the distance, Sean grabbed her backpack and ran for her life.

  78

  From her seat in the corner booth Sean could turn her head to watch the rigs pulling in from the service road, see the activity at the gas pumps, or watch the southbound traffic up on Interstate 95. Although she forced herself to appear disinterested, Sean was very much aware of each of the customers who came and went through the restaurant's doors-the majority of whom were truck drivers.

  Three miles from where she'd abandoned Wire Dog's cab, she had met a seventeen-year-old couple in a convenience store and had offered the boy twenty dollars to take her to a restaurant near the interstate, which turned out to be a truck stop. The good thing about kids that age was that they didn't ask a lot of questions and would forget her as soon as she stepped from the vehicle.

  According to her name tag, Sean's waitress was Bernice. She was so emaciated that Sean was amazed she could carry the coffeepot without snapping her wrists, which were hardly thicker than spools of dime-store thread. Ruby, the other waitress, was a strapping blonde with breasts like honeydews. She looked as though she had been plucked from the helm of a Viking ship, her face still red from the bitter North Sea winds. She roared at the drivers and made comments that elicited howls of laughter from the male customers.

  Sean looked down at the backpack on the seat beside her, and studied the small hole in it. As she had run from the counter to the hotel's front door, the younger woman missed her rib cage by inches but had hit her inch-thick titanium-shelled computer. Sean had tried to turn it on just after arriving at the restaurant, but the sleek machine was dead. She didn't care, except that the hard drive contained information she wanted. She had $242 in her pocket, three credit cards, a driver's license in the name Sean Devlin, no extra clothes, no bullets for her pistol, and, now, no passport.

  She didn't want to think about Wire Dog and Max, but couldn't shake the images of them. She knew if she hadn't come into their lives, both would still be breathing. That was hard to deal with, but the blame wasn't hers-that she laid at Sam Manelli's feet. Sam was responsible for the deaths at Rook Island, Ward Field, and now at the Hotel Grand. She had to get as far from Richmond as she could, fast, and she needed to alter her appearance again as soon as possible. The marshals would be looking for her and she couldn't rule out that Sam's people were somehow getting their fixes on her through them. Sh
e wasn't going to call Shapiro-not yet.

  A wide-shouldered trucker swaggered in and took a seat at a table to Sean's left. With a shock, she realized that the driver was a woman. Her black hair was combed straight back, except for one dark cable that hung down over her left brow like a rat's tail. The freckle-faced woman sat with her knees wide apart, her shoulders rolled forward, forearms on the table fencing in the cup. She wore leather chaps, a belt with an oval silver buckle, and black boots with engraved silver toe covers. Her two-inch-wide watchband was made of silver and turquoise.

  “Where you headed to, Clancy?” another driver called over to her.

  “Baton Rouge, J.T.,” Clancy said. “Picking up paper bound for Frisco and bringing a load of knit shirts back to New Jersey.”

  Clancy looked around the room, and finally parked her raisin-colored eyes on Sean. When Sean smiled, the trucker looked away, picked up the piping-hot coffee, and took a swallow of it before lighting a cigarette.

  Sean's waitress seemed to know Clancy, so when she came over to give Sean a refill, she asked her about the female driver.

  “Clancy Ross out of Houston. She comes through several times a year.”

  Sean took her coffee and her backpack and walked over to Clancy's table, where the driver studied Sean suspiciously.

  “I hate to bother you,” Sean started. “My name's Sally. May I sit down and talk to you?”

  Clancy nodded, keeping her hard eyes on Sean. “If you're looking for a soft touch, sister, you're climbing a shaky ladder,” Clancy said.

  “Oh, no,” Sean said. “That isn't it at all.” She smiled as disarmingly as possible.

  Clancy was clearly expecting an angle, but nodded for Sean to sit. “I'm listening, little sister.”

  “I'm a freelance writer doing a magazine story on truck drivers.”