nature to intrude. He concentrated on finding beer, snacks, and the planning of his menu for the next gargantuan meal.
Was there a more delicious beer than ice-cold St. Pauli Girl? If there was, well then, God help him, his duty was to seek it out, buy it, and bring a large quantity back to the room. His thoughts were of hops and barley and delicious foodstuffs, so he did not allow his vibes to warn him of the unmarked vans and their escort cars from the Shelby County Justice Center, downtown at Third and Poplar, that pulled into the busy parking area of the hotel as soon as the target cleared the place. Nor did he dwell on the obvious, that he could never lose himself so long as the implanted locator was functioning.
The unmarked vans and escort cars were long gone by the time he returned. The meat wagon was parked around in back of the hotel in the form of what looked to be an off-duty Shelby County ambulance. There was a full complement of “medical and paramedical personnel” already inside the hotel, on the fifth floor and in the room next to his. There was even a shooting team, just for emergencies, disguised as visiting soccer coaches, loitering not far away.
Chaingang parked and came in, his arms full of treats, joking and jiving, a sight to behold. He got on the nearest elevator and headed for the fifth floor, listening to a couple of young soccer hardbodies talk about how whipped they were. The door opened, he got off, went to 569, unlocked the room, shoved the door closed behind him, and carried his bags to the wet bar. The room was exactly as he'd left it, all the lights and TV on and the faucets running. He took out his cold St. Pauli Girl imported from the Bremen, Germany, brewery, tasting it in his mind, and was so distracted by his taste buds he didn't let his warning system get his attention in time. Of course he realized his error the moment he opened the refrigerator. They'd probably put a sensor-operated device in the microwave too, knowing he'd be sure to open both. The dart struck him squarely in the belly, and he let the beer drop, grabbing for the nearest heavy object before the Alpha Group II took him completely under. He might not escape, but he could certainly fuck up their day. The tub chair was flung with every ounce of strength he had and it went sailing right through the drapes, curtains, and windows of 569 in a shower of exploding glass.
He'd have been disappointed at the results. It was so noisy downstairs and along the balconies from all the screaming soccer lunatics that nobody even heard the glass break.
Only a visiting advertising man and his assistant, out of an agency in Oklahoma City, who had the misfortune to be sitting five levels below in Guido Lucci's Italian restaurant, were alarmed when a shower of glass shards fell into their Miss Martha salad, and lobster thermidor with shrimp and almonds. But that's life. As they say, into every life a little pane must fall.
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