Erebus

by R K MacPherson

  “What’s going on?” Dash’s voice quavered.

  The gunman ignored his question. “Pull it out,” he ordered.

  “Um, it’s in the middle,” Rasul replied. “I have to stand up first.”

  The gunman nodded. “By all means. Just remember that your brother gets the first bullet if you are anything other than docile and cooperative.”

  The calm tone sent a shiver of fear up Dash’s spine.

  Rasul eased himself out of bed and knelt. He flipped the blankets onto the mattress, then slipped his arm between the mattress and the box spring. He grunted and stretched as he searched around.

  “Today, please, Mr. Bandari.”

  Rasul gave a sigh of relief. “Found it. Slippery little thing.”

  Fabric and foam erupted in front of Rasul’s face as a loud, but muffled crack filled the room. The mirror shattered as a bullet punched through it.

  The gunman flinched, and his own gun barked.

  The bullet tore through the side of Dash’s bicep. He screamed and grabbed his arm, instinctively rolling away and dropping off the other side of the bed.

  The loud reports of gunfire drowned out his cries. Rasul kept shooting, his bullets tracking in on the gunman. Two spurts of blood erupted from the assassin’s suit coat. He staggered back a step before his pistol coughed three times.

  Rasul’s skull split and blood and brains spewed across the bed and wall behind him. He body went slack as an eerie sigh escaped from his lips.

  The assassin collapsed backwards, laying against the desk’s chair. Blood gushed from the wounds and his skin looked pale as a ghost.

  Dash stood on shaking legs, clutching his arm, as warm blood seeped from between his fingers, dripping on the carpet.

  The gunman’s eyes tracked his movement and he lifted his gun up to aim at Dash, but he lost all strength and went limp. The gun fell from lifeless fingers as his eyes went blank.

  Dash's stomach churned as the stench of blood, cordite, and feces filled the room. He stared at the wreckage of his brother's skull, unable to quite reconcile the fact that Rasul was gone. Dash gaped at the carnage in the room, his chin trembling.

  “R-Rasul?” He whispered.

  Two

  DASH SWAYED ON rubbery legs, then forced himself to look up at the ceiling. He walked to the closet and grabbed the first thing he saw, a man’s blue dress shirt. He retrieved his tiny Swiss Army knife from his pile of possessions on the bed, then used it to cut the shirt into strips. He rolled one into a fat wad and pressed it into his wound. A whimper escaped his lips as he wrapped another strip around the wounded arm, staunching the flow of blood.

  He shook his head to clear it. Why had Rasul called him here and who was his killer? The law enforcement pretense made for a good cover, but what could Rasul have been into that would have warranted someone being sent to kill him?

  Rasul’s gun had fired from under a thick mattress and the killer had employed a suppressor. Given the time of day, it was possible no one heard the short battle. Plus, it was a Wednesday and a lot of this hotel’s business came from cruise ships. He doubted many people were staying there at the moment. Even so, Dash didn’t want to spend another second he didn’t have to in the room, so he got to work.

  The killer had wanted data and Rasul had known what he was talking about. Dash knelt next to his brother’s body and slid his arm in between the mattress and the box spring, feeling around. His fingers encountered the still warm metal of Rasul's gun, a snub-nosed revolver by the feel of it. He lifted it from Rasul's hand lest a spasm cause another gunshot. His fingers searched the space for some clue, but his brother hadn't hidden anything else there.

  Dash pulled his arm out and looked around. He didn't see any baggage, which didn't surprise him. Rasul had always been fastidious and unpacked his luggage in any hotel he stayed at. Dash searched the drawers, but only found socks and underpants. He unpeeled the socks, but he hadn't hidden anything in them either.

  Returning to the closet, he saw several other shirts and pants, pressed and hung up, but their empty pockets yielded no secrets. Rasul had traveled with a single rolling carryon, so he searched it. No matter where he looked, however, the mysterious data eluded him.

  “Damn it! Where is it?”

  Dash glanced down at his brother's corpse, realizing where he had to next search. He took a few deep breaths, then filled his lungs. He knelt next to Rasul's body and patted him down. Nothing in his shirt pocket. Wallet in the back. Hotel card key in the front pocket, along with a rental car key, and several Jolly Ranchers.

  Nothing else.

  “Why do you have two keys, Rasul?” He still had the card that had opened the door, so where did the need for a second card come from?

  Dash stepped away from his brother and checked the hotel furniture. His fingers slid down behind cushions, up under the desk, and underneath the air conditioner.

  Zilch.

  Inside the desk, Dash found a notepad, a stubby pencil sans eraser, and copies of the Book of Mormon, the Holy Bible, and the Qur’an. Rasul was an observant Muslim, who probably owned several Qur’ans. He held the book upside down and flipped the pages, but nothing fell out. Even more telling, no organization had stamped the book.

  “Is this yours?” Dash wondered.

  Knowing Rasul, the book would probably come in handy, so Dash wrapped it in a clean shirt from the closet and slipped the bundle into his bag.

  Now for the killer’s possessions.

  Blood soaked the assassin’s clothes; which Dash took care to avoid. He used the stubby pencil to check the pockets. A mobile phone and a satellite phone. A wallet and another set of rental car keys, the same company as his brother, no less.

  “You followed him here,” Dash murmured.

  The killer had a shoulder holster under his sport coat and a pair of magazines in a pouch under his armpit. Dash left them alone and finished his search. He found another pistol, a tiny brushed-steel semiautomatic, tucked into an ankle holster, and two thin ceramic stilettos concealed under the lapels.

  His name was Robert Stephens according to a Texas driver's license, with a home address in Houston. Dash wondered if that was a coincidence. His foster mother now lived in Houston with her new husband.

  The killer had two credit cards and small stack of hundred-dollar bills. No matter what he'd said, however, this man wasn’t a cop. No one had a wallet with only three cards, unless their identity was forged.

  Dash grabbed the cash and pocketed it. He didn't want to leave a data trail showing he'd been there, or any presence if he could help it, so he wiped down everything he'd touched. Blood splashed everywhere, but he couldn't hide that. He just needed to get away in case his brother's murderer had friends nearby. With the key cards and phones in his bag, he slipped on Rasul’s too-tight jacket and left the room.

  Rasul had said his favorite number was 1123, which sounded plausible to anyone who didn’t know him, but he had lied. For one thing, the hotel didn’t have an eleventh floor, so Rasul had misdirected his killer. His brother loved mathematics of all kinds, including the Fibonacci Sequence, but he admired pi. If he’d been trying to hide something, it made sense to have a second room, which is why Dash slid the second key card into Room 314’s lock without hesitation.

  The lock clicked, and the light turned green.

  “Alhamdulillah, little brother.” All thanks to God. He said it more to thank Rasul than God.

  Dash glanced up and down the hall to make sure no one could see him, then went inside.

  The room was identical to Rasul’s in layout, though the carpet and bedding were different colors. The air carried the generic tang of cleaning solvents and linens. Thick curtains blocked out most of the daylight, though a thin glowing shaft cut through a gap in the drapes. The golden beam caught swirling motes of dust.

  Dash rushed to search the room, jerking the drawers out and sliding the closet doors open. He flipped the mattresses from the beds, ripped off the blankets and
sheets, as well as peered beneath the box springs.

  Nothing. No envelopes, no boxes, no trail of candy that led to Rasul’s secret.

  “It must be here,” he hissed. “Something!”

  Rasul always thought of himself as the clever one, but even as a child Dash always found his secret caches. He liked inconspicuous hiding places. What in this room fit that definition?

  A simple notepad lay atop the nightstand, next to the phone and clock. A television remote control was glued down to prevent theft. In the drawers, Dash saw a tiny pencil with no eraser and a copy of the Holy Bible and the Book of Mormon, standard issue to hotels across the world, but no Qur’an this time. His devout Muslim brother would not have much use for either of the other books, but Dash flipped through them just to be certain. It was the sort of trick he might employ.

  No hidden clues, no underlined passages leaped out at him.

  Dash searched the bathroom sink and cupboards, even checking the underside of the drawers. Nothing stuffed in the towels, the tissue box, or trash bins.

  Frustrated, Dash walked back to the door and turned around. “Come on, Rasul...where did you hide it?”

  He deduced the place would be easy to access, but hard to guess. It wouldn’t be something one would just stumble upon, but it wouldn’t take Rasul long to reach either. He’d probably play the odds on a location that wouldn’t see heavy usage.

  Dash opened the closet. Nothing stood out to him. The usual iron, garment rack, and folding stood plus hangers, and a small kettle for hot water.

  “Finally,” he said as with a loud sigh.

  The infestation of coffee shops meant very few people drank tea and fewer still would bother brewing a cup in their room in the City of Angels. Dash grabbed the brushed metal kettle and gave it a shake.

  It rustled.

  Dash popped the lid open and retrieved a small manila envelope. Pocketing it, he dropped the kettle and let himself out of the room. He didn’t bother trying to wipe his fingerprints as he’d touched every single surface in the room, but he also hadn’t committed any real crime. Sure, the housekeepers would have a crappy morning, but he hadn’t stolen anything the hotel would care about. The room was messy, but not damaged. It wasn’t likely the police would link him to Room 314 unless some clever detective noticed his brother had booked two rooms for the trip.

  Dash’s arm burned, reminding him that he still needed to treat his injury. His heart ached, and his stomach fluttered, but he strode down the hall with his forehead jutted out, as if ready to ram anything that got in his way.

  His brother was dead, and Dash demanded to know why.

  The elevator chimed as he approached. The doors opened and a pair of men in suits with bulges on their hips got out and took up position by call button. Dash stopped and frowned at them as the elevator closed.

  “Sorry, sir. Just routine security.” The first one spoke. “Going down?”

  “Um, yeah.” Dash took a step forward.

  The guard nodded and pressed the button for him. “Be just a moment.” He gave Dash a smile.

  “Thanks.”

  Dash crossed his arms and bit his lip as he eyed the elevator doors.

  After a brief eternity, the elevator chimed again, and the doors parted. Dash gave the two guards a polite nod and walked inside.

  “What?” The second guard tapped his earpiece.

  Their heads rotated in unison to face him as their expressions darkened.

  “Grab him,” the second guard yelled.

  Dash screamed and threw his bag into the air. It provided a distraction rather than a hindrance. The first guard snatched it, leaving him the opening he needed. Dash stepped in with his left foot, driving the heel of his left palm under his chin. The guard’s jaw snapped shut as Dash’s other palm slammed into his abdomen. As the air whooshed out of him Dash whirled to the right, driving his elbow into the second guard’s solar plexus, then spun around to rain a flurry of strikes to the face and abdomen.

  Caught by surprise, the guards went down as Dash slammed their heads together, then bounced them off the elevator walls. They collapsed into a groaning heap.

  Dash’s wound stung, and blood ran down his arm. He reached down and grabbed the earpiece and receiver off one of the men and plugged it into his ears.

  “Repeat, target is a male, age twenty-five to thirty, approximately six feet tall, with blond hair and a blue jacket. Detain at once,” ordered a woman.

  “I am not thirty yet, you jerk,” Dash growled.

  The elevator buzzer went off as the guards blocked it from closing. Dash needed to change his look and fast. He tugged the jacket off one guard and slipped it on. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbow and tugged his hair into a messy ponytail.

  “Sorry, boys.” Dash dragged them both into the hallway and the elevator closed behind him. The car descended but didn’t stop. A trap could be waiting for him in the lobby, though. Hotels had an enormous number of security cameras covering all the public spaces. He needed to move, so he glanced at the evacuation map, then ran for the nearest stairwell.

  Simplicity is always the basis of a good plan.

  His foster father had drilled that into his head countless times. Dash might benefit from a distraction, but his gut told him the best move was to just go. Someone wanted his brother’s data and they weren’t screwing around.

  “Fifth floor clear,” a man announced into the earpiece.

  “Sixth floor checks out,” a new woman added.

  “Shit.” Dash growled. If they were securing the floors, it wouldn’t take anyone long to realize the third-floor team couldn’t respond.

  Simplicity.

  Dash pushed the door open, then peered down the stairwell. He didn’t see anyone, so he slipped down the stairs with as much speed and silence as he could manage.

  “Third floor, what’s your status?” The first woman’s voice returned. She waited for two seconds, then barked out “All teams, secure floors three and down!”

  “Damn, damn, damn!”

  Dash all but flew down the stairs, leaping the last few steps and turning right down a long corridor, green with fluorescent light. He sprinted down the hall, pushing himself off the wall at the next corner. He saw the fire exit ahead, with large signs that warned that an alarm would go off if the door opened.

  With no time to look for an alternate way out, Dash took a deep breath and pushed the bar on the door. The alarm went off, the echoing klaxon hurting his ears.

  “Come and get me,” Dash muttered as he sprinted into the morning light.

  Three

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL MARISOL Castillo stepped out of the elevator. Dressed in a smart pantsuit, with professional but practical shoes, and a SIG Sauer P228 in a hip holster, Castillo led with her forehead, like an icebreaker ready to crack any obstacle.

  The two agents, nursing their bruises, straightened up as she appeared.

  “Ma’am.” They chorused.

  Castillo’s lips tightened to a thin slash across her face. “Report.”

  Vandeleur, the older of the two, spoke first. “He took us by surprise.”

  “You’re telling me a hotel gigolo took out two trained, experienced agents because he happened to surprise you?”

  Vandeleur’s tan face reddened.

  “What was it? He flash his verga at you?” Castillo barked. “This was supposed to be a simple collection. Now, I’ve got two dead bodies and a new liability in the wind.”

  The younger agent, Boscardin, shook his head. “Ma’am, it wasn’t like that. This man was a professional.”

  Castillo’s eyes narrowed as she glowered up at him. “I already know that.”

  “No, ma’am. Not a prostitute—don’t let the shirt fool you. An operative.” Boscardin gave a sharp nod for emphasis. “I promise you, he wasn’t here servicing anyone.”

  Castillo pulled a small radio from her left hip. “Everyone form up on the third floor,” she ordered.

  No reply came, bu
t Castillo hadn’t expected one.

  “All right, you two. If the ninja is what you say he is, let’s find him. Boscardin, secure all video footage, find him in it, and get his face into DELPHI.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Vandeleur, go over Bandari’s possessions. How did this man find him? He was a devout Muslim, so Boscardin’s right—not a hooker. Still, he showed up on our set. Tell me how.”

  The older agent nodded.

  “Time is a factor. Let’s move.” Castillo dismissed the men and strode down the hall to room 314. A middle-aged African American woman greeted her as she walked up.

  “Good morning, ma’am. This is the room the man went into.”

  “Morning, Mosley.” Castillo glanced inside, taking in the mess. “How long was he in here?”

  Mosley glanced down at a tiny flip notebook. “Hotel video says he was there about ten minutes or so.”

  Castillo stepped into the room and studied the damage. “Anything missing?”

  Mosley shrugged. “No, ma’am, not that I can see. The cleaning staff has a hell of a job ahead of them, but near as we can tell, the man came in, trashed the place, and left.”

  Castillo snorted. “Seems unlikely, so he probably found what he was looking for. What else did you find?”

  “We’re not inventorying, but the room is covered in prints. He wasn’t hiding anything. Also, there’s a few droplets of blood.”

  “Take it, type it, and see if there’s any DNA matches.” Castillo nodded. “Might speed up identifying him.”

  Mosley knew her job. “Already in motion, ma’am.”

  A faint smile turned the corners of Castillo’s thin mouth. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, so she retrieved it and checked the display. Two texts beamed a good morning greeting. Her smile broadened as her stony mask softened. An incoming call cleared the messages, however, and her warmth. Her thumb swiped the screen as she answered it.

  “Good morning, admiral. Here’s what we have.”

  The admiral interrupted her. “Colonel, is the leak contained?”

  Castillo’s chest tightened. “No, sir. We intercepted and eliminated subject Bandari, but a third party was involved. They may have the data.”