Stay

by Victor Gischler

  This was not a night Larry needed extra hassles.

  The Shriners were good guests, but this was the final night of the convention, and they were bringing the party strong. Larry had called in every bartender and waiter he could get to answer the phone. All hands on deck.

  During almost every minute of the day something was going wrong—broken ice machines, clogged toilets, problems in the kitchens, missing luggage, and any of a hundred other things. Larry would be lost without a small army of assistant managers, bell captains, and desk clerks who stood the front lines between him and a never-ending flow of needy guests. A problem had to be fairly significant to demand Larry Meadows’s personal attention.

  Like when the police wanted to search your hotel for a missing fugitive.

  Fortunately, a parking valet had identified David fleeing the scene, negating the need for a room-to-room search.

  And, man, what a huge pain in the ass that would have been. The guests would have definitely bitched about it to no end.

  The police had gone, and for now, everything in the hotel seemed to be running smoothly. Only a temporary situation to be sure, but Larry took advantage of the lull to keep a promise. He’d told David he’d check in on his wife. Probably not strictly necessary, but it might ease her stress to see a friendly face for a few minutes. Larry didn’t know the woman, but he imagined she might be feeling all alone up there.

  Larry didn’t want to arrive empty-handed, so he headed back to the kitchens and flagged down one of the chefs.

  “Brenda, you have any of that good strawberry cheesecake left by any chance?”

  “Just made another one.”

  “Slice me a double-size piece, would you?” Larry asked.

  Brenda raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “You know what your wife said,” Brenda reminded him. “Diet.”

  “It’s not for me,” Larry said. “It’s for a special guest.”

  She sliced it for him, put the dish on a tray, and covered it with a little silver dome. Larry thanked her, took the cake to the elevator, and headed up to the top floor.

  Larry knocked, and a moment later, Amy opened the door. “Mr. Meadows.”

  “I know the kitchen up here is fully stocked,” Larry said. “But this is the dessert chef’s specialty. You won’t get this anyplace else.”

  Amy smiled politely and stepped aside to allow Larry to enter. “What is it?”

  “Strawberry cheesecake.” Larry took the tray into the kitchen and set it on the counter. “It’s good stuff. Just stick it in the refrigerator if you want to save it for later.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Amy said. “But please don’t go to any trouble. You’ve done enough already, and I know you have a hotel to run.”

  “The cheesecake was just an excuse, ma’am,” Larry admitted. “Fact is I told David I’d look in on you. He’s worried.”

  Amy sighed. “He’s worried about me? I keep checking my phone for a text every ten seconds hoping to get word from him.”

  “Ma’am, this probably won’t help, but please believe me. David knows what he’s doing. He’s good at what he does. Maybe the best there is.”

  Amy summoned a wan smile, nodded absently.

  “You need anything, just pick up the phone,” Larry said. “Army people look after one another. That extends to families, too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Meadows,” Amy said. “But all I want is sleep. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life.”

  “I can imagine,” Larry said. “So I won’t keep you. Just remember, I’m a phone call away.”

  On his way back to the elevator, Larry Meadows envied the notion of a good night’s sleep, but there would be no rest for the hotel manager until every last Shriner had been tucked safely into bed.

  * * *

  A short time later, Amy sat up in bed, feeling foolish. The notion she could sleep was idiotic. How many times had she texted David without a reply?

  She knew the answer. Nine times.

  She turned on the nightstand lamp and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She wore only white cotton panties and a Jets T-shirt. She grabbed the pair of jeans from the floor where she’d kicked them off earlier. That made her laugh. An article of clothing lasted about ten seconds on the floor with David around.

  She missed him. She missed when she’d come home from a long day, tossing off her work cloths, David following her around the bedroom picking them up and carrying them to the clothes hamper.

  Nine times she’d texted him.

  She wriggled into the jeans, zipped them up. They were tight and she felt an irrational stab of anger at the fact. All the damn hours on the elliptical. But they were still too tight.

  Nine times.

  She left the bedroom and walked out into the living room, turning her head and taking in the place again. It was nice. A rich man’s getaway.

  A pair of French doors led out to a balcony. She hadn’t been out there again and decided to take a look. There was a breeze. A good view, the lights of the city glittering. She looked down. The hotel’s pool and spa were illuminated ten floors below on the roof of the annex.

  It was a great place for a getaway. She imagined a weekend here with David. Drop the kids off at her sister’s, a nice dinner and take in a show, retire early. Champagne.

  But all it was really was a fancy place to hide.

  Nine times.

  She grabbed her makeup bag and headed into the bathroom. Why she’d grabbed her makeup bag when her husband had declared an emergency and told her they needed to flee the house was something best left for some future time of self-examination. Everyone had a different definition of essentials. For now she was glad for the distraction.

  She pulled a stool up to the bathroom’s makeup vanity and turned on the mirror lights. She’d start with her nails. The ritual of carefully painting each nail one at a time with the tiny brush was something she found calming. She selected a color called Neon Mango.

  She methodically applied the polish to her first fingernail.

  Amy had texted David nine times because ten times was one of those nice round numbers. If she texted him a tenth time, and he didn’t answer, then that meant she’d have to do something. And Amy had no idea what that might be. She’d have to go somewhere or call somebody. Every time she started to think about it, she stopped herself.

  She blew on the freshly polished fingernail, squinted at it, and determined she’d done a satisfactory job.

  Nine more to go.

  * * *

  Dante Payne poured himself another Scotch in the back of his limousine. They had aimlessly been circling Midtown, waiting for a call. A holding pattern. Payne grew impatient.

  The phone rang at last and Payne answered it. “Talk.”

  “I think I know where the woman is.” Yousef’s voice. “The attorney.”

  “Where?”

  “A hotel called the Royal Empire,” Yousef said.

  “Then go kill her,” Payne said.

  “We need to wait,” Yousef cautioned. “The husband isn’t there yet. If we move too fast we might only get one or none at all. If we scare them and they run, we’ll just have to track them down all over again.”

  “I will take the men I have with me and go over there,” Payne said.

  “No. I’ve sent Reagan and some of your other men to watch all of the entrances,” Yousef told him. “As soon as Sparrow enters the building, I’ll know. And then we’ll close in on him.”

  “And what would you have me do in the meantime?” Payne asked.

  “Wait.”

  More waiting! Payne bit off a curse and hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Yousef chastised himself. He should have been gentler with Payne. The man was proud and unaccustomed to being told to wait, even more unaccustomed to letting a situation get out of his control.

  Yousef had a job to do and little time for diplomacy.

 
But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Not just a job.

  It was revenge. Yousef had taken Payne’s offer for one reason only. Well, yes, there was the money. One could never have too much of that. But his primary motivation was crystal clear.

  Yousef would have David Sparrow’s head.

  First, business.

  He dialed Reagan.

  The Chechen answered after the first ring. “Yes?”

  “You and the others are in position?” Yousef asked.

  “We are,” Reagan said. “He won’t get into the hotel without our seeing him.”

  “Do not engage if you see him,” Yousef said. “Call and tell me and we’ll all take him together.”

  A pause.

  “Do you hear me?” Yousef asked, a slight edge in his voice.

  “Yes,” Reagan said. “We’ll call you immediately.”

  “Good.” Yousef hung up.

  His thoughts returned to his revenge upon Sparrow. There is a difference between revenge and justice, Yousef knew. And while there would be an element of justice in Sparrow’s demise, simply killing him would not constitute revenge.

  Sparrow must know who is responsible. He must know it is me who is killing him.

  Yousef dialed another number and rehearsed in his mind what he would say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  David was about to head down into the subway when the phone vibrated in his pocket. He stepped to the side and looked at the screen, saw an unfamiliar number but no name. He didn’t answer.

  A moment later he got a text:

  Talk to me, Sparrow.

  Somebody knew David had the phone.

  It rang again. What could he gain by answering? Then again, what did he have to lose?

  He answered after the fourth ring. “Hello.”

  “Do you know who this is, Sparrow?”

  The lightly accented voice did sound vaguely familiar, but David was clueless. “No.”

  “How disappointing,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “But you are smart. I’m sure if you thought about it, you would remember me from Syria, government man.”

  A sharp, sudden memory hit David upon hearing the words government man. He remembered the man who’d called him that, remembered they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. “Yousef Haddad.”

  “Ah, see that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Yousef said. “I’m flattered you remember me. Especially since I remember you so well. I remember you as the man who promised me that my wife and daughters would be safe. Do you remember that, government man, or do I need to jog your memory?”

  There was a brief temptation to tell the man that it couldn’t be helped or that he was sorry or that they’d tried their best for his family, but David knew instinctively none of that would matter. “I remember.”

  “In a perfect world, I would kill you last,” Yousef said. “So you would know vividly and in detail what had befallen your wife and children before you died. I must content myself with simply telling you that we will get around to them eventually.”

  David’s mind raced. Yousef Haddad must have been one of Pope’s relocation projects. The man was a ruthless killer and motivated beyond money to see David and his family dead. His task to eliminate Payne had just become ten times more dangerous.

  “You’ve gone quiet, my friend,” Yousef said. “You’re thinking fast. Let me give you something further to think about.”

  There was a muted beep in the phone’s earpiece.

  “I’ve texted you a little present, government man. Take a look and see if it amuses you as much as it does me.”

  David switched over to his text in-box. Yousef had sent him a photo. David looked at it and winced.

  He almost didn’t recognize Gina at first. She was still wearing the thin dress David had seen on her in the apartment over at Jerry’s but it was ripped down the front revealing one of her breasts. In the photo, she sprawled on the floor, head to the side, eyes open but lifeless. Her lips were swollen and bloody, a purple bruise around one eye.

  David put the phone back to his ear. “Was that really necessary?”

  “Necessary to illustrate a point,” Yousef said. “There was not time for a rape, and to be honest I’m not generally inclined for such a thing, but we will make an exception for your wife. Don’t worry, we’ll take our time and do it properly.”

  What to say when somebody announces his plan to rape and kill your wife and murder your family? A wisecrack, a threat? Reason with the man?

  All options seemed equally futile.

  “I took her to the airport hours ago,” David said. “She’s a thousand miles away by now, protected by good people.”

  “Truly?” Yousef asked. “She’s no longer at the Royal Empire Hotel?”

  The breath left David’s body.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t lie to me,” Yousef said. “But one mustn’t leave stones unturned. I suppose I should stop by the Royal Empire and just see for myself if—”

  David hung up the phone and ran into the street, waving his arms to flag down a taxi. Horns blared at him and tires squealed. The first taxi sped past him, the driver making a rude gesture.

  The next taxi stopped for him, and he jumped in and slammed the door closed behind him.

  “Royal Empire Hotel in Midtown.” David opened his wallet, took out all the cash he had, and tossed it through the window into the seat next to the driver. “Run the red lights.”

  “Easy, buddy,” the driver said. “Might not be the best idea.”

  David pulled the Browning from his waistband and stuck it through the window. “How about now?”

  The driver stomped the accelerator, and the taxi shot through the intersection just as the light turned red, the blare of horns chasing them to the other side.

  They got lucky most of the way to Midtown, and had to run only two more red lights. No cops around to see it. Whatever the speed record was from Chinatown to Midtown, David was pretty sure the cabbie shattered it. David told him to pull down the side street next to the hotel and let him off.

  The cabbie pulled over.

  “Sorry about the gun. I wasn’t going to shoot you,” David told him. “Keep the money.”

  The cabbie scoffed. “Damn right I’m keeping the money.”

  David got out and the taxi pulled away.

  He didn’t want to risk the front entrance of the hotel again. Likewise, going through the parking garage where the police had already discovered his Escalade also seemed like a bad bet. That left a side entrance that took him in near the convention halls.

  David took a quick look around, pretended not to see the man watching from the deli window across the street, and went into the hotel.

  * * *

  Reagan dialed Yousef the second he saw Sparrow enter the Royal Empire.

  “He’s here,” Reagan said.

  “Excellent,” Yousef said. “I thought he might arrive soon. Keep watching that entrance. Tell the others to keep watch on the other exits and to sing out if they see him. I’m on my way.”

  “A lot can happen by the time you get here,” Reagan said. “He’s right in there. It would be easy.”

  “Was it so easy on the boat?”

  “That was different.”

  “It’s always different,” Yousef said. “Wait for me to get there.”

  Reagan formed a cutting response but swallowed it. “Fine.”

  He hung up.

  This was ridiculous. Reagan was a professional. If he moved fast, he could catch up with Sparrow and end this now. He tossed back the tepid coffee he’d been nursing and tossed the paper cup into the trash on the way out of the deli.

  Reagan crossed the street and went through the same entrance Sparrow had. He found himself in a quiet part of the hotel, deserted meeting rooms and convention halls. Sounds of a party emanated from somewhere deeper inside, laughter and boisterous conversation and the clink of ice in glasses.

  Reagan needed to determine which way Sparrow might
have gone. If he had a room in the hotel then he would have gone along the main hall toward the elevators and—

  In his peripheral vision, Reagan saw the gun swinging for his face. He flinched away and took the hit on the shoulder, spun back, his fist coming up to block Sparrow’s attempt to bring the pistol around for a shot. He blocked Sparrow at the wrist and punched with his other hand, but Sparrow caught his arm and tried to pin it against his body. Sparrow came in for a head butt, but like last time Sparrow tried that move, Reagan lowered his head to avoid taking it in the face.

  The head butt never came.

  Reagan felt Sparrow’s knee come up hard into his balls.

  The air whooshed out of him, and a wave of nausea flashed through his gut. He gulped air to recover and twisted out of Sparrow’s grip. He tried to turn back for a punch but something hard slapped across his face. He felt his cheekbone crack. Stars went off in front of his eyes.

  Reagan stepped back and kept stepping back, trying to get out of Sparrow’s reach and blink his eyes clear. Pain throbbed through every part of him.

  When his vision cleared, he saw Sparrow advancing with a blackjack in his hand. Sparrow brought it down hard, aiming for Reagan’s head. Reagan brought up a forearm to fend it off and took the blow across the hand.

  Reagan screamed as multiple small bones broke.

  He took another strike on the collarbone and another on the other shoulder.

  The hall blurred and the floor came up to hit him hard in the side of the face.

  Reagan tried to push himself up, but his arms went watery and he kissed the carpet again. He shifted his gaze to see Sparrow standing over him.

  Sparrow looked down at him a moment, face blank.

  “Hey…” Reagan panted, feeling sick. “Hey … let’s … let’s talk a minute.”

  Sparrow glared down at him, eyes like bright stones.

  Reagan gulped for air again. “Let’s … work something out.”

  He watched Sparrow raise the blackjack, pause a moment, and then bring the blackjack down fast on his face before the world went dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  David dragged the body into an unused convention room and rolled him under a banquet table. The tablecloth hung low enough to hide him. As David suspected when he spotted him in the deli window, it was the same man he’d fought on Payne’s yacht.