Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  Nova asked, “Any luck yet?”

  The defeat in Atticus’s voice was sharp.

  “None so far. It’s like she disappeared off the grid.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, Nova, but I’m searching. It would be easier if I had James here with me, too—he’s much more proficient with this kind of stuff—but I believe the team is better served having him with you right now.”

  Nova had to agree. Especially because without James it would only be Nova and Erik, and Nova still wasn’t sure he trusted the kid.

  The quadcopter floated over the trees, dipped down, and landed back on the picnic table from where it had launched.

  Nova said, “I wish we could take them out right now.”

  Atticus sighed on his end.

  “I know. But unfortunately that isn’t an option at the present time. The moment you take out those men, Holly’s life is over. Right now I believe it’s best you don’t make a move until you have no other choice. As long as Holly is still valuable to these people, they won’t move on her family.”

  Nova picked up the quadcopter and started back through the park toward the car.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about right now.”

  Atticus was quiet for a beat.

  “What are you worried about?”

  “The team packing up and leaving. Maybe grabbing the cameras and tracking devices before they disappear, just to make sure there’s no trace, but still they disappear. Because you know what it means if that happens.”

  Another sigh on Atticus’s end, this one much more despondent.

  “I do, Nova. It means Holly is dead. But look on the bright side.”

  The car was up ahead. James stepped out and went to the trunk so they could put away the quadcopter.

  Nova said, “What’s that?”

  “They haven’t packed up and left yet.”

  Thirty-Six

  The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 3:37 a.m.

  The hotel room has two beds. The TV sits on a dresser facing the beds, and one of the freelancers has turned it to cable news.

  Louis sits at the desk, staring down at his phone.

  Two of the freelancers lounge on the two separate beds, their feet up, chowing down on prepackaged sandwiches as they watch the news.

  The other two freelancers—well, I don’t know where they are. Once we entered downtown, I lost sight of them. We parked in the basement garage and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Louis made me wear a scarf to hide the collar in case we ran into anybody.

  I’ve been sequestered to the chair in the corner, my wrists zip-tied together.

  The only window in the room is off to my left; it’s a large window, about six feet across, and curtains conceal the outside. When we first entered the room, Louis parted the curtains enough for me to see the hotel five blocks away. The window has locks on both sides and can slide open a couple inches for fresh air. The space will be more than enough to shoot through.

  Speaking of which, the Valkyrie sits in pieces in a backpack on the desk. No reason to get it out and put it together quite yet. It’ll probably wait until an hour or so before President Cortez is scheduled to arrive.

  Louis glances up from his phone and notices me watching him.

  “You should try to get some rest. We need you focused in the morning.”

  I tilt my head toward the two freelancers.

  “Tweedledum and Tweedledee are hogging the beds.”

  The freelancers ignore me; one has his cell phone out, looking at who knows what, while the other hasn’t touched his phone. It’s remained in his left pocket since we got here. All the phones—even Louis’s—look to be disposables. These men are professionals and wouldn’t bring their own personal phones with them on a job like this, but that doesn’t matter as long as I can make a call with one of the phones.

  Louis says, “I’m sure you can get some rest just fine in that chair.”

  “You want me to get a crick in my neck? That might throw me off in the morning.”

  The fob rests on the table. Louis absently touches it with his finger. Like that’s supposed to scare me.

  I force a smile.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “We offered you a sandwich.”

  “I’d rather have something else as my last meal. Something that doesn’t taste like shit.”

  Louis’s finger doesn’t leave the fob.

  “A sandwich is your only option.”

  I release a heavy sigh.

  “Fine. I’ll take a sandwich. What’s left?”

  Tweedledee swings his feet off the bed and opens the small cooler on the floor. They brought along prepackaged sandwiches and bottles of water as they didn’t want to deal with room service or be seen outside the hotel picking up food.

  He holds up two sandwiches.

  “Ham and cheese or tuna salad.”

  Gag me.

  I ask, “Is the cheese low fat?”

  He just stares back at me.

  I release another heavy sigh.

  “Fine, the ham and cheese.”

  Tweedledee drops the other sandwich back in the cooler and brings me the ham and cheese with a bottle of water.

  My eyes drift down from his face to what he probably thinks is the sandwich and water, but it’s really to the phone in his left pocket. His pants look to be a size too loose, probably for comfort, but it means the phone isn’t tight in his pocket. Which is good.

  After Tweedledee hands off the sandwich and water, he climbs back onto the bed.

  Louis says, “Anything else, your highness?”

  Yeah, you can shove that fob down your throat and choke on it, I think, but decide not to say out loud.

  I start unwrapping the sandwich.

  “Chips would be nice.”

  Louis’s face remains expressionless.

  “There are no chips.”

  “This place has vending machines, doesn’t it?”

  Louis decides he’s bored with me and turns his attention back to his phone.

  The two freelancers keep watching the news. Something about a recent scandal involving the president. On screen, four pundits keep talking over each other.

  I take a bite of the sandwich, watching the freelancers and Louis.

  Thinking about how I need to get that phone.

  Even if it kills me.

  Thirty-Seven

  The sicario circled the block only once before he spotted Hayward’s men.

  They were parked along the curb in an SUV, the windows smoked just enough so at night it concealed its occupants but not enough that it would immediately raise the suspicion of any police officer that passed it.

  He assumed there were at least two men stationed outside the hotel, which meant the two other freelancers were inside along with Hayward’s right-hand man. He didn’t know Hayward personally—had only met him the other day when he and his brother passed through the man’s place—but he had heard enough about the man to know he prized his right-hand. Hayward probably didn’t care much about the freelancers—they were simply hired guns—but he most certainly would miss his right-hand when this was all said and done.

  But that was Hayward’s fault. From what he understood, Hayward was advised to keep his right-hand behind, let the other men see this thing through, but Hayward was too worried the freelancers might somehow fuck it up—especially as President Cortez was coming in sooner than planned—so Hayward sent his own eyes and ears to ensure the whole thing went smoothly.

  He drove a stolen black Mercedes C-Class sedan, whose plates he’d swapped out with another black Mercedes C-Class sedan in the parking lot of the Hollywood Park Casino in Inglewood. The thing handled beautifully, and he thought maybe he would purchase one when he returned home, though he knew that level of luxury was too flashy for somebody in his line of work.

  Maybe when he retired, then. Yes, he would purchase one when he retired.

  He us
ed the parking garage under the hotel and took the elevator to the lobby. He carried an overnight bag because that was to be expected for a businessman such as himself, though he wore only slacks and a dress shirt and jacket, no tie. A casual look for this late at night. Getting in late from a delayed flight, he would tell the clerk if asked.

  The clerk didn’t ask anything further than his name. Pablo Santander, the name on his credit card and ID said, though they were not his real name. The clerk entered the information into the computer, confirmed there was already a room booked, and handed him a keycard and asked if he’d like a porter to carry his bag.

  He smiled and said, “I’m okay, thank you.”

  The clerked nodded and wished him a pleasant stay, and soon he was in the elevator headed to the seventh floor.

  He found his room down the hallway, close to Room 736. That was where Hayward’s men and the woman were right now. The room was booked two weeks ago, though Hayward’s people managed to get in earlier than planned. The people he worked for managed to book his room on the same floor and in the same hallway. Across the hallway, to be exact, and one room away.

  The room was nice enough for the price, but not anything special. There were two beds, though he had no intention of sleeping. It was almost four o’clock now, and with Cortez arriving first thing in the morning, the job should be over quickly. He would be gone well before noon. He’d leave the keycard on the desk by the door and check out remotely. After he wiped down the room, of course. Even now, as he navigated the room, flicking on the lights, he made sure not to use his finger but the back of his hand.

  He set his overnight bag on one of the beds, zipped it open, and dug under the clothes he packed as a decoy to the pistol buried beneath.

  It was a Smith & Wesson M&P9 with a threaded barrel, what he’d come to decide was his favorite piece to use on a job like this. The magazine held seventeen nine-millimeter rounds with one in the chamber. More than enough to accomplish the job, plus take out the two men parked outside on the street.

  He withdrew the suppressor from under the clothes and screwed it onto the barrel, then set the pistol on the bed next to the bag.

  He grabbed a tissue from the bathroom and wrapped it around the TV remote to work the buttons. Soon he had the television on and was flipping through the channels as he settled back on the other bed.

  He pulled out his cell phone and sent an encrypted text to his brother three thousand miles away, who had needed to hustle even faster to make it to Washington, D.C. in time.

  In position. Go when ready.

  Thirty-Eight

  At just after 5:00 a.m., Louis’s phone vibrates on the desk. He grabs it as he stands from his chair and starts toward the bathroom, the phone to his ear.

  I nearly shout at him.

  “I have to pee.”

  He pauses, glances back at me with a frown.

  “Hold it.”

  “Not sure I can. You want me to pee my pants?”

  The phone to his ear, he makes a face, takes a deep breath.

  Tweedledee and Tweedledum are still lounging on their respective beds. Tweedledum isn’t on his cell phone anymore, but he has it on the bed beside him. Tweedledee’s phone is still in his pocket.

  Louis gestures at Tweedledee, whose bed is closer to me.

  “Take care of her.”

  Louis doesn’t wait for a response; he steps out into the hallway, murmuring into the phone.

  Tweedledee grunts as he slides across the bed and stands up, facing me.

  I push to my feet at the same time—and lurch forward, as if tripping over my own feet. Straight into Tweedledee.

  Tweedledum is on his feet a second later, his Beretta in hand, the barrel aimed at my head.

  Tweedledee pushes me away angrily—“What the fuck?”—and I stumble back and fall into the chair.

  “I’m sorry! I just”—I hold up my zip-tied wrists—“I don’t have much balance with my hands like this. Plus, I’ve been sitting for hours. My legs fell asleep.”

  Tweedledum keeps his gun trained on me while Tweedledee takes a step back. He glances at his counterpart, then at the door Louis disappeared through, and motions at me to stand up again.

  I stand up.

  Tweedledee reaches into his pants pocket—the right-hand side, fortunately—and pulls out a tactical knife, pops the blade. He motions with the knife toward the bathroom.

  I move past him, conscious of Tweedledum tracking me with the Beretta. The bathroom door is closed, and I push it open and hit the switches inside the door, turning on the light and overhead fan.

  Tweedledee says, “Toilet.”

  I pause, turn back around.

  “Is that how you get your rocks off—watching a girl use the toilet?”

  Tweedledee doesn’t answer. For some reason, he doesn’t get my sense of humor.

  The lid is already up. I unbutton my jeans and push them and my underwear down as I sit on the cold toilet seat.

  I stare back up at Tweedledee, ignoring Tweedledum who stands a couple feet behind him with his gun still aimed.

  “Like what you see?”

  He steps forward, holds up the knife. I hold out my hands, and with one simple twist of his wrist the zip-tie snaps and falls to the floor.

  As he shuts the door, he says, “One minute.”

  The moment the door closes, I reach for my jeans pocket, where I slipped Tweedledee’s cell phone once I lifted it from him. Thankfully, the phone isn’t locked. Of course it isn’t. Why bother locking a phone that will be destroyed in a couple hours and doesn’t contain any personal information?

  I punch in Atticus’s number, the same number I gave Erik the other day. I have to assume Erik didn’t contact Atticus, and even if he did, it doesn’t matter. Atticus needs to know I’m still alive. He needs to know what’s happening, and how President Cortez is in danger. Most importantly, of course, he needs to know about my family.

  “Thank you for calling Scout Dry Cleaners. Our normal business hours are Monday through Friday, seven a.m. to seven p.m., and on Saturdays eight a.m. to three p.m. We are closed Sundays.”

  A beep sounds, and that’s when I hit the plunger to flush the toilet and start to whisper.

  “It’s Holly. My entire family is in danger. They need protection ASAP. I’m in L.A., and they want me to assassinate—”

  The door handle turns, and at once I disconnect the call and shove the phone back into my pocket as I stand and start to pull up my underwear and jeans.

  The door opens. Tweedledee stands there, the knife still in his hand, his face stoic.

  “Minute’s up.”

  “Can I at least wash my hands?”

  He says it again, this time slowly.

  “Minute’s up.”

  He moves away as I step into the room. I head toward my chair in the corner when Louis returns.

  Closing the door, he says, “We’re still on schedule.”

  I’m almost to the chair when Tweedledee speaks, his voice low and menacing.

  “You bitch.”

  I pause, glance back at him.

  He says to Louis, “She took my fucking phone.”

  Before I can even argue my case, Louis grabs the fob from his pocket, and a firework explodes around my neck. I turn and fall back into the chair, my body jerking for the couple seconds it takes before Louis disengages the fob.

  Tweedledee advances toward me, his face a storm of rage, the knife held up at his side.

  “You fucking bitch.”

  I manage, “Wait—”

  Louis zaps me with another firework, and I’m starting to wish I used the toilet, because if this keeps up much longer, I’m probably going to pee my pants.

  With a shaking finger, I point at the floor.

  “There!”

  Tweedledee pauses long enough to spot his phone on the carpet, right beneath the bed. It’s where I managed to kick it when Louis entered the room, granting me a second or two of distraction. I didn’t
have time to delete the call from the log, so if they check it, I’m screwed.

  Louis disengages the fob, and I sit slumped in the chair, breathing heavily.

  Tweedledum covers his counterpart with the Beretta as Tweedledee retrieves the phone from the carpet.

  Tweedledee stares down at it for a beat, then shakes his head as he glances at the two men.

  “Musta slipped from my pocket.”

  He tosses it on the bed and turns to the bag on the floor. He takes out a fresh zip-tie and crosses back over and tells me to hold out my wrists.

  Once he’s bound my wrists together, Tweedledee asks Louis, “How much longer before this shit’s over?”

  “Two more hours, give or take. Mr. Hayward will alert me once he gets notification. Then we can wrap this up and go home.”

  He pauses, and smiles at me.

  “Well, except you.”

  He pulls the hollow point from his pocket, holds it up.

  “You’re going to stay here with this in your head.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Nova had positioned his car in a lot across the highway that faced the motel—about four hundred yards down from the park—and that was where he still was at almost nine o’clock that morning, his head tilted back on the seat, the windows down, listening to the morning traffic and trying not to fall asleep.

  Besides the few times the motel door opened to let the same two freelancers out to smoke, nothing else happened. A housekeeper pushing her cart of towels and sheets had ignored the do not disturb sign hanging on the doorknob. She knocked at the door, and one of the men answered, shook his head at her, and the housekeeper had continued on her way to the next room.

  Despite the fact they believed all the men who posed a threat were in the motel room, James had returned to keep an eye on Holly’s mom, just as Erik stayed in the neighborhood to keep an eye on Holly’s sister and her family. Erik texted not too long ago to alert them that the sister’s husband had left for work, but so far that was it.

  Nova’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from Atticus.