Search and Destroy (12 page)

Danny opened the duffle bag and pulled out the three Motorola disposable cell phones, all freshly charged. He slipped one in his pocket, then handed the others to Clay and Andrea.

“You give me a holler at the first sign of any trouble and I’ll be back.” Clay gripped Danny’s shoulder as he spoke.

The side of Danny’s mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re one of only two numbers in my speed dial.”

“Damn right. Be careful. I’ll be back in half an hour.” Clay drove off without further comment.

Andrea and Danny crossed the parking lot and then the main road at a trot. “You stay here. I’ll take a look,” said Danny. He punched a couple of buttons on his Motorola. Andrea’s identical handset began ringing.

“Like walkie-talkies?”

“Exactly,” said Danny. Andrea nodded and went to stand in the shade of the building. She pulled the straw cowboy hat she’d found in Tansen’s truck lower over her hair to shield as much of her face from passers-by as possible.

Danny rolled his neck and shoulders then arched his back. Both the muscles and skin around his midsection were tender but wouldn’t stop him moving fast if required. After taking a deep breath through his nose, Danny stepped from the burning heat into the coolness of the hotel. He allowed his eyes to adapt to the change of light as he looked around the lobby.

The interior of the hotel was a combination of postmodern bland with occasional nautical themes. Framed pictures of ropes knotted into intricate patterns marked the junctions in the corridors and several decorated the area behind the check-in desk, which occupied a third of the lobby. Three members of staff were busy behind the desk, two attractive women checking guests in, and a heavy-set black man who was probably security, flicked through a filing cabinet, his back to Danny. The man’s shoulders were much wider than the cabinet.

Danny scanned the room. Nothing alerted him to any danger. No tough-looking men with bulges under their jackets stared back. Just a normal smattering of couples and families on vacation. One man sat alone at a low table, a small cup of coffee untouched in front of him. The man held his head in his hands. Danny had two guesses: heavy losses at the casino or a heavy night last night.

Danny lifted his cell phone to his mouth. “Clear.”

Thirty seconds later Andrea entered the lobby, passed Danny without making eye contact and approached the desk. A woman whose name badge identified her as Tania, smiled at her. “Hi, welcome to the Lakeview. How may I help?”

Danny saw the tension in Andrea’s shoulders.
Breathe
. “I’m in room 4495. I left my room key here while I was visiting the Hoover Dam.”

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s something to see.”

Danny saw Tania hand over an old-style key complete with a red plastic fob. Not many hotels still used the traditional key; most had long since moved over to the key card.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No that’s everything thank you.” Andrea began to turn away.

“Oh, Miss Chambers, you have a letter. This came in two days ago for you. I’m sorry, my colleagues should have given it to you when you checked in.” Tania produced a large padded envelope emblazoned with the FedEx logo and handed it over with a smile. Andrea thanked her and walked towards the elevator doors.

Danny slipped his hand into the crook of her elbow as she pressed the call button. “We should take the stairs.”

Andrea glanced around the lobby. “Is there anybody here?”

“I don’t think so. I just don’t like being boxed in if there’s even a slight chance of danger. I’ll go first. Stay about six feet behind me.”

They climbed the stairs without incident. As they reached the fourth floor Danny paused at the stairwell door, listening. Nothing. He waved Andrea forward as he slipped into the corridor.

“It’s down here.”

When they reached the room Danny held his hand out for the key. Andrea handed it over without comment and took a few steps back. Danny drew the Glock 37 he’d taken from one of the dead gunmen. He’d checked the clip earlier and knew it to be full. The Glock contained ten .45 calibre rounds, each one more than enough to kill. He put the key in the lock without a sound and turned it, then pushed the door ajar with his foot, allowing it to swing fully open before crouching and scooting inside. A rapid sweep of the room followed. His whole body worked as a single unit. Wherever his eyes went the Glock travelled simultaneously.

“Clear.”

Andrea followed him into the room and he locked the door behind her. Maid service had been; the bed was made, the room neat and orderly. She opened the closet to reveal a safe, punched in the four-digit code and it opened with an audible clunk. After removing her passport and a document wallet she sat on the bed. She opened the wallet and wordlessly showed Danny the contents: money, medical insurance card, plane tickets. He nodded, and she began pocketing the paperwork.

“Is that everything?” asked Danny. He received a nod in response. “Good, let’s go.”

Suddenly Danny pivoted, gun at the ready, as a repeated scraping sound came from the door. Danny recognised the sound. Someone was using a lock-pick gun. Certainly no staff member would use such a tool.

The door began to open.

The ringtone on his phone played the first three lines of “Jailhouse Rock” before he answered. He gave his surname by way of response. “Lincoln.”

“Go secure.”

Lincoln entered a five-digit code and a red light on the display lit up brightly. “Secure.”

“I’ve got an assignment for you. Are your team good to go?”

“Always.”

“This is a highest priority. A previous team may have dropped the ball, we need a swift resolution.”

“Brief?”

“I’m sending through the dossier now. Read it and respond within the next thirty minutes.”

Lincoln returned Magson’s call twenty-two minutes later. “Mission understood and accepted. The team’s good to go.”

“Do you require any ordnance?”

“Negative, we’re fully equipped. Just have the pay cheques ready.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, we’ll need transport once we hit Vegas: one truck and one bike that can go cross country as well.”

“No problem. One of our people will meet you at the airstrip. Your transport will be waiting.”

The man known to his employers as “Lincoln” downed the last inch of Wild Turkey in one gulp. He turned to his long-time friend and fellow President, “Washington”. “Round up the guys. We saddle up in an hour.”

Washington nodded as he uncurled his huge frame from the easy chair. He gave one last lingering look at the
Girls Gone Wild: Spring Break Special
DVD he’d been watching, then headed for the parking bay of Lincoln’s LA duplex.

The rest of the team assembled. Only “Clinton” proved difficult to locate. This was due to his being otherwise occupied with two Russian prostitutes on Wilshire Boulevard. He finally answered his phone with an annoyed gasp and grudgingly arranged a rendezvous with the rest of the team at a diner next to the Pavilion for Japanese Art. The five men—Clinton, Washington, Roosevelt, Kennedy and Bush—listened with detached acceptance as Lincoln gave the mission brief. Then Clinton began to describe, in intimate detail, the depraved act that the summons had interrupted.

It was a short hop on a private plane from the City of Angels to North Las Vegas Airport. Situated in what the locals referred to as Northtown, the airport catered for private and business flights far more readily than the larger McCarran International Airport. As promised, there was an SUV waiting for them in a hangar. Parked next to the Toyota Land Cruiser was a Harley-Davidson; the operative known as Bush preferred the extra mobility.

The men gathered around the SUV, unpacking their go-bags, strapping on body armour, checking weaponry. Washington booted up a laptop and launched tracking software. Bush examined the Harley and pronounced it serviceable, then he and Clinton prepared to leave. They were to do a sweep of the target’s last known residence—the Lakeview Hotel. Within minutes of the plane landing, the bike was tearing out of the airport via a service road. Bush leaned into the wind, enjoying the speed. Clinton clung on behind him.

The Lakeview didn’t impress either man as they sailed past the baseball stadium, hung a tight U-turn and pulled into the parking lot. The target, Andrea Chambers, had already left the hotel by time the first team had arrived on the scene. The chances of her returning were slim but both men had learnt not to underestimate the stupidity of a fleeing target.

They entered the lobby and strolled past the check-in desk as if they were guests. A pretty Latina on the desk flashed them a smile as they passed. Clinton pressed for the elevator. He glanced back at the woman. He hadn’t ridden a Latina for a while.

The ride between floors was short and they stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. A large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a Penn & Teller cap brushed past them and took up most of the elevator himself.

Bush smiled as the elevator doors closed behind him. “Buffet must be open.”

Clinton coughed into his hand. “Fat fuck.”

“Did you see that shirt? Guess he thinks
Magnum, PI
is still cool.”

Clinton shook his head. “He looks like he ate Magnum.”

The men chuckled as they approached room 4495. Bush lowered his voice to a whisper. “You do the honours. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Clinton produced a small pistol-shaped tool. After slipping the narrow blade into the lock, he depressed the trigger repeatedly as fast as he could move his fingers. The lock-pick worked a treat. The tumblers in the lock relinquished their grip and the door opened an inch. He gave Bush a satisfied nod after stashing the lock-pick and drawing his Kel-Tec PF9. He favoured the pistol due to the fact it was easily concealed and had real stopping power at the ranges he worked at. He liked to be within spitting distance of his target and prided himself on his one-shot, one-kill prowess. Bush too carried a Kel-Tec, but his chosen model was the futuristic looking PMR-30, due to the thirty .22 Magnum rounds it held. His rule of thumb was, if you can put one bullet in your man, you can put in ten for good measure.

Clinton dropped into a practised crouch and listened. The room beyond was silent. He pushed the door open with his foot and took two steps inside. The warning shout caught in his throat as something slammed hard into his face. As he brought up his pistol and squeezed the trigger, the door slammed behind him.

As he threw the coffee machine at the intruder’s head, Danny Gunn burst out of the hotel bathroom. From the corridor he could hear another man’s voice yelling a name—Clinton?
No time.
He moved low and fast, one hand sweeping down onto the gunman’s wrist, as the other slammed into his throat. Danny aimed the blow so the web of his hand between the thumb and forefinger would crush the trachea.

But it was clear that this “Clinton” was no novice. He angled away from the blow, tucking in his chin. Danny pivoted as he fought to remain out of the line of fire. Clinton also pivoted, squeezing the trigger of his weapon. One bullet punched a hole into the headboard of the bed, while another went wide and hit the telephone, making it leap into the air. The two men whirled in a tight circle.

Danny felt a lance of pain shoot up his leg as Clinton landed a boot just below the knee. Momentarily distracted, he didn’t rock back far enough to avoid two glancing blows to his jaw and cheek. He sensed the weight shift as Clinton began to launch another kick. Knowing that if he went down, a bullet in the head was sure to follow, Danny stamped down on Clinton’s foot, stopping the kick before it started. As Clinton struggled to maintain his balance, Danny slammed his forehead into the man’s nose. Not a graceful move by any stretch, but it had the desired effect. At close quarters, the head-butt along with the elbow and the knee were the weapons of choice.

Clinton slumped with his back against the door. Danny clamped down on the man’s gun hand with his teeth, half the thumb in his mouth. After a couple of shark-like shakes of his head, a Kel-Tec PF9 pistol dropped to the floor. Stepping back, Danny watched Clinton curl into a semi-foetal position. One hand was clamped over his ruined nose, the other cradled against his chest. Danny drew his own pistol. He jabbed it once hard into his opponent’s face. “One chance! Who sent you and why do you want the woman?”

Clinton opened his mouth, seemingly ready to talk, when a series of bullets ripped through the door. One of the rounds caught him low in the back. He slumped down further.

Danny didn’t wait for the second man to enter. He sent four rapid shots through the door panels: two at chest height, and two more up high. He waited two seconds then put another three rounds through the thin walls either side of the door. He knew the instinct to duck against the wall when being shot at through a door. With a solid brick wall you were relatively safe. Against a wall comprised of breeze blocks and one-inch plasterboard you were as protected as a horny teenager with a pin-pricked condom.

The shots to the right of the door were rewarded with a muffled yelp.

Andrea appeared from the bathroom, her face a mask of terror. “We better get out of here,” said Danny. He desperately wanted to interrogate one of the men. Hoped that there was only one on the other side of the door.

On the floor, Clinton rolled slowly onto his back. He was trying to breathe. All he achieved was a series of short, ragged gasps. Danny knew why. Although the shooter was wearing a lightweight Kevlar vest, the effect of being shot at close range was much like being punched in the stomach by a professional boxer: heavy bruising, broken ribs and internal bleeding. He was not a threat, at least for the moment.

“Stay behind me,” Danny said to Andrea. His voice held no room for negotiation and she nodded. He reached for the ruined door handle. He knew that the gunman in the corridor was probably not dead. There was a strong chance of being shot at as they exited the room. He could try sticking his pistol around the door and firing a few blind shots, but a trained operative would most likely respond by blowing his hand off.