73
Coburn’s name flashed up on Carrie’s cell phone. She clicked the answer button. Behind her, activity at the hospital had slowed to a crawl as the media mopped up the last shreds of information about the failed assassination attempt on the President.
‘You’ve got some nerve,’ she said. Lock had told her about Coburn leaving him hanging back at the cathedral.
‘Where is he? I need to speak to him.’
‘Emergency’s over, so he’s getting some rest,’ she told him.
‘You’re staying at the Argonaut, right?’
Carrie couldn’t remember either her or Lock telling anyone where they were staying. ‘What is it with you people?’ she snapped. ‘I told you, he’s resting. You can talk to him tomorrow.’
‘It won’t wait until then. What room’s he in?’
Carrie hesitated. ‘Room 426,’ she said at last.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and hung up.
Coburn put his cell phone back into his pocket and glanced at the crowd of people packed into Capurro’s Restaurant and Bar, which sat on the opposite side of Jefferson Street from the Argonaut. With some difficulty he muscled his way over to the man nursing his beer at the bar. He ordered himself a beer and leaned in towards the man.
‘Room 426,’ Coburn told him.
‘I got it,’ said Cowboy, raising his beer bottle in salute to Coburn and tilting the dregs into his throat.
Coburn slapped Cowboy a high five and watched as he elbowed his way towards the front door of the bar. The bartender slid Coburn his beer, and he took a big gulp. In a few minutes, Lock would be dead, and he could relax.
74
Cowboy tipped his hat to a well-dressed Asian couple pushing a stroller as he exited the elevator on the fourth floor and they got in. He waited for the doors to close on them, glancing across to his right at the room number guide. Then he turned right and followed the corridor for around twenty yards, counting off the numbers as he walked, before hanging another right.
A long corridor stretched ahead of him. His boots sank deep into the blue- and gold-patterned carpet. Aside from a maid’s cleaning cart parked at the far end of the hallway, the place was deserted. Still, the cart meant that he would have to force Lock back inside before he killed him. Once he had him inside, Cowboy would crank up the volume on the TV and take care of business. Coburn had warned him to be careful, that Lock was dangerous, but Cowboy had dealt with guys like Lock before.
Coburn finished his beer, left the bar and waited across the street from the hotel, sticking close to a group of tourists checking out T-shirts in the next-door gift shop. Once Cowboy had killed Lock and taken care of Ty, he would head upstairs and take care of Cowboy. That only left Chance, and with her in custody, he would have ample opportunity to deal with that problem.
Coburn picked up a hat from the rack in front of him. Emblazoned across its front were the words ‘Alcatraz — Mental Ward — Outpatient’. He turned it over in his hands, then put it back on the rack, and waited.
Standing in the corridor outside Lock’s room, Cowboy finally caught a break. The velvet bag holding that day’s newspaper was wedged in between the door and the frame of room 426. Lock must have opened the door, left the bag still swinging on the handle, and gone back into the room. As the door had closed, the bag had jammed in there, preventing the door from clicking shut.
Cowboy pushed the door open and snuck in, making sure to close it behind him, as quietly as he could. Directly ahead of him was a bedroom. There was also a living area with a couch and a coffee table. Off to one side was a dark wooden door. It was open a few inches and Cowboy could hear the blast of a shower running. Perfect.
He crept towards the bathroom, then stopped. He’d need more than the sound of running water to cover the noise of a gunshot. He walked slowly into the bedroom and picked up the remote control for the TV. He clicked it on, and kept the remote in his left hand. As soon as he had Lock in front of him, he’d max the volume.
He crossed back to the bathroom door and pushed it open, his gun raised in his hand. The shower curtain was pulled over the bath. He stepped back to the doorway and snuck his left hand back round the door frame, aiming it towards the TV, clicking on the volume up button. He was all set.
‘Hey, Lock,’ he called out.
There was no response other than the white noise of water blasting into the bath.
‘Game’s up, Lock,’ he announced, a little louder this time.
The curtain didn’t even move. Cautiously, Cowboy dropped his right foot back and reached out with his left hand towards the shower curtain. He yanked it to one side.
The shower was running but the bath was empty. He whipped round, expecting to see Lock standing behind him, but he was alone in the bathroom. He took a deep breath, tipped his hat back on his head and swiped the moisture that had gathered on his face from the hot blast of the shower away from his eyes.
Then he stepped out of the bathroom.
He was sideways on to the door leading into the room when the bullet slammed into his neck with a wet thud.
Lock walked over and toe-poked Cowboy’s limp corpse. Behind him, Ty looked on.
‘Wrong room, asshole,’ Lock said. ‘I’m staying in 427.’
‘One down,’ said Ty.
Lock nodded. ‘Coburn can’t be far behind.’ He stared down at Cowboy’s body, noting the tiny shamrock tattoo on his right hand. ‘Let’s get him moved.’
Together, they dragged Cowboy into the bathroom, leaving a smear of blood on the carpet, which didn’t matter, Lock concluded. Coburn would be expecting blood, and, contrary to the white supremacists’ beliefs, one man’s blood looked the same as any other.
With Cowboy’s body hidden from plain view, Lock handed Ty his room key card. Ty crossed the five yards to the other side of the hall to wait while Lock reset the door of room 426 with the newspaper bag. Coburn, who was surely less gullible than the dead man in the bathroom, would assume his buddy had done it.
Lock stepped back into the room and took a seat on the couch, facing the door. If Coburn bolted, Ty would be watching from across the corridor, ready to take him down.
Lock didn’t have long to wait. Less than five minutes later, the door was pushed open.
‘Lock, you OK?’ Coburn called out, stepping inside.
The concerned ATF agent, thought Lock bitterly.
Coburn froze when he saw Lock, then, looking down at the carpet, he caught sight of the bloody trail leading into the bathroom. ‘Jesus H. What the hell happened here?’
‘I could ask you the same,’ Lock said, taking his time. ‘Don’t you knock first?’
Coburn looked behind him. ‘Sorry. I… I thought you might be in trouble when I saw the door open.’
Lock smiled. ‘Close it.’
This was the moment of truth. Coburn could either close the door, step back into the room and try to front it out, or he could make an escape. Either way, Lock thought grimly, he was going to take him down.
Carrie had called him about five minutes after he’d arrived in his room to tell him that Coburn was looking for him. Going on gut feeling, and after what had happened back at the Cathedral, she had decided to give Coburn the wrong room number.
Coburn leaving him to hang like that had also been preying on Lock’s mind. His disquiet prompted him to
