She grabbed Max’s arm and yanked him to the closet, flinging open the door and shoving him inside, and she shouted at Matthew to come too, Matthew who was now flat on the carpet, his hands on top of his head, trying to keep out the noise, and at first she didn’t think Matthew heard her or if he did he wasn’t going to listen, but then he jumped to his feet and raced to her, tears streaming down his face.
The closet was small, filled mostly with her clothes, some of Ryan’s, and she backed into the farthest corner, her butt on the carpet, her back against the wall, and held both boys, all of them crying, while the driver out in the hallway kept shooting and kicking at the door.
The man stood in the closet doorway for a moment, stared down at them, and then stepped back out and closed the door, enveloping them in darkness.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
She didn’t know if it was Max or Matthew or both of them, sobbing into her, shouting it again and again, and she squeezed them tight, kissed both of their heads, telling them that it was okay, that everything was okay.
For a couple seconds there was silence, and then she heard the driver kick at the bedroom door again, a hard, solid kick, and she knew the door had opened wide enough for the driver to slip through.
The man fired at the driver but the driver fired back—she saw it all in her head, the men exchanging gunfire—until suddenly there was no longer a volley but only the sound of one gun firing bullets, and she saw the man get shot when she heard him shout something but his words were unintelligible, just gibberish, and besides, all she wanted to focus on now were her boys, both of them clinging to her as she kept kissing their heads.
The closet door opened.
The driver stepped inside.
Tina opened her eyes and saw him standing there, a tall Hispanic man dressed in slacks and a suit jacket. The man reloaded his gun as he stared down at them, his eyes dark and hard as he observed them in their final moments.
The man pulled back on the slide, began to raise the gun at them—and that was all Tina saw, her eyes now squeezed shut, holding the boys tighter than she’d ever held them before.
Two sudden gunshots—boom boom—and Tina jumped with each one, screaming, certain that both of her boys were now dead.
She opened her eyes and saw the man still standing in the doorway. He dropped to his knees, half his face gone, and stared at her with just the one eye before he fell over dead into several of her blouses.
The man—the man she had pictured shot and killed, the one her sister sent—must have done it. He was the one Tina expected to see, but the man who stepped forward was a big white man with a beard.
He had a gun in his hands, aimed at the driver, and once he was satisfied that the driver was dead, he looked at them cowering in the corner of the closet.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Tina didn’t answer at first—she couldn’t—but she ran her hands over both boys, searching for blood, and when she thankfully didn’t find anything she shook her head at the man.
The gun now at his side, the man pulled out a cell phone and placed the phone to his ear.
“Family’s secure. Target’s down. And Erik—shit, we need an ambulance here ASAP!”
Forty-Two
Louis sets the backpack with the disassembled sniper rifle on the bed closest to the window, opens it up, and starts taking out the pieces.
I ask, “Can I do that?”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum have moved to separate corners, Berettas held at the ready. I might not have possession of the assembled rifle yet, but they aren’t taking any chances.
Louis glances at the men for a beat, then shrugs.
“Be my guest.”
I stand up from the chair and hold out my bound wrists. Louis motions at Tweedledee, and the freelancer slips his knife from his pocket as he approaches, slices apart the zip-ties, and then retreats to his corner.
Louis has the fob in his hand now, and motions at the bag.
“Get to it.”
I begin picking out the pieces—the stock, bipod, barrel, suppression, everything—and put the Valkyrie together. The magazine is empty, so I don’t insert it, and instead shoot a questioning glance at Louis.
He says, “Not yet.”
The clock on the nightstand reads 7:32. Another half hour or so until President Cortez is scheduled to arrive at his hotel.
“Then when? Don’t know about you, but I prefer not to have to scramble at the last minute.”
He checks his watch. Does the math in his head, chews it over for a few seconds, then shifts his gaze back to me.
“Ten minutes.”
I hold his stare, speak in a flat tone.
“I’m trembling with anticipation.”
I return to the chair in the corner and stare out the window at the city street below. The sun has been up now for well over an hour, playing shadows off the tall buildings.
My mind, of course, drifts to my family and whether or not Atticus heard enough of my message to try to make sure they’re safe. Then I start to wonder what if Atticus hadn’t heard the message because Atticus has passed away, or something along those lines—something that caused him to get out of the business. Maybe the phone number still exists, but nobody monitors it anymore, not even James. In that case, my family is as good as dead. As am I.
So the real question is, what’s going to happen to President Cortez?
He might die today, but it won’t be because of me. Sure, I plan to go through the motions—hunker down in the chair with the Valkyrie propped up on the windowsill—but as soon as the man steps from his vehicle, I won’t pull the trigger.
Well, that’s not true. I may pull the trigger, but it won’t be at his head. Maybe at the vehicle instead. At the windshield or the grille. If it’s a fancy car, I’ll try to take out the emblem that sits right on the hood.
Or … maybe I won’t do any of that. Maybe I’ll simply refuse to pick up the rifle when the time comes. Let Louis zap me as much as he wants. Let Tweedledee and Tweedledum threaten me with their guns. I’m not going to be walking out of this hotel room alive, so I might as well have some fun.
Then again …
What if Hayward is a man of his word, and he’ll spare my family if I follow through with assassinating President Cortez? There’s always the chance, isn’t there? In that case, I would be crazy not to follow through.
Louis says, “Go ahead and load your weapon.”
He pulls a single 6.5 Creedmoor cartridge from the backpack. The cartridge is wrapped in plastic. Smart. Keeps his fingerprints off the thing that will kill a country’s sitting president and will maybe set off an international crisis.
“Just one round—you’re joking, right?”
His expression remains predictably blank.
“Why? How many rounds does it take to kill a man?”
I don’t answer.
“This isn’t Fallujah. You aren’t raining down cover fire. You’re simply taking out one man with a headshot. You don’t need more than one round.”
He has a point, but I don’t tell him that. Not my style to agree with douchebags.
“Fine.”
I hold out my hand, but he tosses the cartridge on the bed beside the rifle. I lean over the bed to pick it up. Start to unwrap it. Go to load the bullet in the magazine but hold it up instead.
“Anybody want to kiss it for good luck?”
Nobody answers.
“Tough crowd.”
I load the Creedmoor into the magazine, taking my time because I don’t have anything else to do. I insert the magazine into the Valkyrie when Tweedledee’s phone buzzes.
Tweedledee, holding his gun at the ready, glances down at his pocket.
Louis says, “Who knows your number?”
Tweedledee shakes his head.
“Besides the team, nobody.”
Tweedledum keeps his gun aimed at my chest. He doesn’t take his eyes off me when he speaks.
“Igno
re it.”
But it’s a buzzing phone, and buzzing phones are hard to ignore. Keeping the Beretta trained on me with his one hand, Tweedledee slips the phone from his pocket with the other. Glances at the display on the front of the flip phone with a frown.
“Number doesn’t look familiar.”
Tweedledum says, “Ignore it.”
Tweedledee looks conflicted. He knows he should listen to his counterpart, but he also wants to know who’s calling.
In the end, curiosity gets the better of him.
He answers the phone.
“Hello?”
He listens for a couple seconds, and his frown deepens. Without a word, he closes the phone and drops it back into his pocket.
Louis says, “Well?”
“Wrong number.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It was some guy from a dry cleaners. Said they’d found all my pieces and they’re now safe and sound.”
Louis doesn’t like this at all.
“Let me see your phone.”
Tweedledee says, “Why?”
“Let me see the fucking phone right now.”
Louis’s focus is on Tweedledee, and Tweedledee’s focus is on Louis, which means the only person’s focus still on me at the moment is Tweedledum.
Which is why I decide to kill him first.
As Tweedledee steps forward to hand his phone to Louis, I pull back the bolt to load the only round into the chamber.
Tweedledum shouts, “What the fuck are you doing?”
I smile at him, all nice and sweet.
“You missed your chance to kiss the bullet for good luck. Now it’s pissed.”
I swing the Valkyrie around, so it’s aimed at his chest.
And pull the trigger.
Forty-Three
Due to the caliber and the close proximity, it’s like Tweedledum’s hit by a rocket—he flies back against the wall, instantly dead, his pistol falling from his hand.
I turn toward Louis and swing the Valkyrie at his face, and the suppressor clips his cheek as he tries to duck, the fob falling from his hand.
I pivot toward Tweedledee, jumping on the bed and springing at him as he raises his Beretta. He manages to fire off a round, which zings above my head, as I tackle him to the floor. The back of his head smacks against the wall, and his eyes cross momentarily. The gun is still in his hand, and I grab for it when lightning strikes and I jump back and hit the floor, shaking with all the electricity coursing my body.
I’m half-aware of Louis standing over me, the fob in his hand. Half aware that he has his cell phone to his ear, shouting, “I need you two up here, now!”
My focus right now is on Tweedledum, lying dead close by, and the Beretta that fell from his hand—the Beretta I’m right now trying to move toward, on my back, pushing myself across the carpet like a snail.
Louis’s face looms over me, his eyes aflame with anger. He keeps his finger on the fob, pressed as hard as it will go, and he probably intends on holding the fob like that until the two other freelancers arrive.
“Stupid bitch. Stupid, stupid bitch.”
He spits the words at me, then pauses long enough to glance over at Tweedledee.
“Get the fuck up.”
Tweedledee moans in response.
Louis grunts another curse—“Fuck it”—and starts to lean down to grab Tweedledee’s gun.
That’s when, with the lightning still streaking through my body as I continue to crawl on the carpet, I stretch and lunge and feel the Beretta, just the grip with the tips of my fingers, so close but so far away.
Louis, realizing my intention, scrambles to grab Tweedledee’s gun first—but by then I’ve managed to take possession of Tweedledum’s Beretta, and I have the sight aimed at Louis, right at the spot between his eyes.
I pull the trigger.
His head snaps back. His body falls to the carpet. His finger releases the fob, and that constant lightning bolt racing through me fades away.
I start to stand when the door is kicked open. A Hispanic man rushes into the room, a suppressed pistol in hand. He instantly scans the room and searches out the most prominent threat. Takes him half a second to realize the threat is me.
He fires at me as I dive across the bed, firing back at him. One of my bullets clips him in the shoulder, but he barely reacts, his feet planted firmly on the floor, tracking me with his pistol. He shoots again as I fall to the floor between the beds. Flat on the carpet now, I aim at the man’s feet beneath the bed.
Getting clipped in the shoulder may not have done much, but shattering his ankle is another story.
The man grunts in pain, tries to retreat into the hallway, but loses balance and falls to his knee. Before he can stand back up, I’ve already jumped to my feet and placed two bullets in his head.
I approach him slowly, this man I’ve never seen before, this man who I somehow know is a professional, the kind that works alone, not like the freelancers in this hotel room. Speaking of which …
Tweedledee’s still alive. The wall he’s leaning against is wet with blood. He probably hit his head in the right spot that there’s already brain damage and he’ll eventually bleed out. It’d be cruel to keep him alive, and I don’t consider myself a cruel person.
One bullet puts him out of his misery.
Taking a deep breath, I survey the room and make sure Louis and the two freelancers and the hitter are all down for good. Have to figure somebody on this floor has already called the front desk or even 911 directly, so time’s wasting.
I grab Tweedledee’s phone off the floor, shove it in my pocket. I search Louis for the key to the collar; put that in my pocket, too, along with the fob.
Tweedledum’s Beretta is almost empty. I toss it aside as I bend to pick up Tweedledee’s pistol and check the magazine. Fully loaded.
I peek out into the hallway. Someone has their door open down near the elevator. Nobody to be concerned about, just a random hotel guest, doing that stupid thing people do when they hear gunfire and so they want to poke their heads out like nobody will shoot at them too.
The elevator door opens. One of the freelancers steps out. He already has his gun in hand. He spots me down at the end of the hallway. The hotel guest’s head disappears as he slams the door shut. The freelancer moves forward without even giving the guest a second’s thought.
The door to the stairs is off to my right. Only a couple yards away.
I step out into the hallway and begin walking backward toward the stairwell door, firing at the freelancer.
The freelancer returns fire, and the wall by my head spits plaster.
A second later I reach the door and push into it with my back, and that’s when I hear the frantic footsteps coming up and turn to see the second freelancer a half flight down. When he sees me, he raises his gun.
I step into the stairwell, let the door fall shut, and fire down at the freelancer. He has no cover and goes down in a second, the single gunshot echoing against the brick walls.
I don’t move for a beat, trying to recalibrate, to catch my breath, knowing that right now there’s the freelancer out in the hallway but also knowing there might be others.
Who sent the pro?
Five seconds pass. Ten seconds.
I keep the Beretta trained on the door, waiting for it to burst open. By now the freelancer has probably checked the hotel room, found all the dead bodies, and figured that his buddy is dead, too. Otherwise, his buddy would have called out to him. The freelancer might be standing on the other side of the door, debating what to do next.
After another five seconds, I decide I can’t wait any longer. I start down the steps. Taking them at an angle, so my gun is aimed at the door. Stepping over the dead freelancer and continuing down.
Keeping the gun in hand, I dig the key from my pocket and I use my finger to feel for the tiny latch on the collar. Once I find it, I tear the collar from my neck but don’t fling it aside. Instead, I stuff it in
my back pocket, along with the key, and then pull out Tweedledee’s phone.
I punch in Atticus’s number and wait for the automated voice saying it’s Scout Dry Cleaning.
“It’s me. Call me back on this number.”
Atticus calls back thirty seconds later, as I’m heading down to the second floor. By then an alarm has sounded, not the fire alarm but an emergency siren. The door on the second level opens. It’s a man and woman and three kids, the kids shouting and their parents telling them to stay quiet.
I slip the Beretta in the waistband of my jeans. My T-shirt’s not that baggy, and I hope nobody in their panic notices the slight bulge.
Atticus says, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What about my family?”
“They’re safe. Where are you?”
More people have filed into the stairwell. A few families but mostly business people wearing business clothes.
“We’re evacuating the hotel right now.”
Someone behind me says, “I heard there was a shooting.”
Another person says, “I thought it was a fire.”
One of the kids ahead of us, a little girl, starts screaming, “Are we going to die?”
In my ear, Atticus’s calm voice says, “Have you eliminated all of your captors?”
Captors. That’s one way of putting it.
“Almost.”
“What does almost mean?”
“It means almost.”
The alarm keeps going, echoing in the stairwell just like that single gunshot. We reach the first floor and pile into the lobby. The staff directs everybody to go outside. Police cars have already arrived, officers jumping out of the cars with their guns in hand.
Atticus says, “Holly?”
“Hold on.”
The morning air feels good on my skin as we file outside. I scan the sidewalk and the street, searching for the freelancer. If he’s made it out, I figure he’ll try to disappear. That would be the smart thing to do.
Turns out the guy isn’t smart.
He’s standing across the street, on the fringe of a crowd that’s started to grow, watching everybody exit the hotel.
I hurry over to one of the cops sliding a Kevlar vest over his head.
Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3 Page 65