here to do. Maybe there wasn’t enough diet Coke in the vending area. Maybe the snack machine was out of butterscotch Krimpets.
“What room you looking for?”
This bastard was persistent.
“It’s right down here. Man, I really should have stopped at three apple martinis, you know? But they’re so damned good. My boss is going to hand me my ass in the morning. He’s down there right now, sleeping like a good boy. Not me.”
Mr. Vincent chuckled and nodded, but he didn’t budge. “You can probably squeeze in a few winks before dawn.”
“Like that’ll help. I need a big glass of water and a fistful of aspirin.”
Another polite chuckle. “After you, boss. Here at the Sheraton, the guests come first.”
Kowalski had no choice but to walk toward 702. He faked a bit of drunken swagger to sell the apple martini line, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t be necessary. It was going to come down to incapacitation. Get this bozo out of the hall and out of his way for at least ten minutes. He visualized Mr. Vincent in his head. Tall and stocky, with close-clipped hair that screamed
Kowalski threw an elbow backward. It caught Mr. Vincent in the nose. He followed up with a roundhouse punch to the side of Mr. Vincent’s head, which, if it had been delivered correctly, would blind him for a few seconds. Then Kowalski went for the balls, which made the security chief fold in half and drop to his knees right outside room 705. Now it was time for a little creative asphyxiation. It was a move he’d learned in Bosnia, for when there wasn’t time (or need) to hold a boot to a man’s face and slice open his throat. A minor strangulation that would rob the subject of air long enough to make your escape without killing him.
And killing this guy was the last thing he wanted to do. He was getting
Mr. Vincent, however, still had a little fight left in him. He threw out a punch that caught Kowalski off guard —and pum-meled his stomach. The air gushed out of him. He staggered back and bumped up against the wall. He felt his knees weaken. That had been one brilliant shot. Totally unexpected. Superb. A follow-up landed on the side of Kowalski’s knee. There was that military training. Mr. Vincent here was trying to bust his kneecap from the side, where there was little natural protection. It almost worked, too. As he stumbled, Kowalski threw a fist at Mr. Vincent’s neck— one that should rob him of air for a few seconds. He heard the man gasp. Kowalski hit the carpet but then popped up quickly, intending to deliver a roundhouse kick to the head. But Mr. Vincent was already on him, tackling him, hurtling him forward. Room 704, 703…
2:10 a.m.
The door burst open. Two men, one in a navy blue blazer, the other in an expensive- looking black suit, came tumbling in from the hall. The guy in the expensive suit hit the carpet face-first, while the beefy man in the blazer sat on his back, like he was riding a horse.
Jack tried to stand up, but the handcuffs pulled him back down to the carpet. He looked at Kelly, but her mouth was hanging open, too. Who were these guys? Did they burst into this room by accident? Or was this hotel security coming to check up on them in some strange roundabout way? The beefy guy in the blazer looked like he was winning the argument, whatever the hell it might be. He was pummeling away at the back of the other guy’s head like he was trying to tenderize a slab of roast chuck.
But the guy in the expensive suit had a trick up his sleeve. He pounded his fists behind him, catching Mr. Blazer on the sides of his ribs. His mouth made a perfect O shape, one that tightened as the guy on the floor delivered a wild kick that struck him on the back of his head. Mr. Blazer’s eyes fluttered.
Jack had no idea whom to cheer for. Mr. Blazer seemed like a safe bet. Then again, he admired the spirit of the guy on the floor. That had been one hell of a kick—part John Woo, part break-dance move.
Within seconds, the tables had completely turned. Mr. Expensive Suit had Mr. Blazer in some kind of painful- looking headlock—not exactly the kind you see on Saturday-morning wrestling shows. Mr. Expensive Suit kicked the hotel door shut with his heel, and for the first time, he looked at Jack and Kelly.
“Good evening, kids.”
Mr. Blazer’s eyes were shut, but he was awake and struggling madly, as if he knew what was happening to him. Consciousness being stolen from him one oxygen-deprived brain cell at a time. His lips trembled.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”
Kelly stood up, and Jack had enough sense to stand up alongside her.
“I see you two have been busy,” Mr. Expensive Suit said, glancing down at the handcuffs. “Look, I won’t take too much of your time. Just got a question for you. Which one of you bitches is Kelly White?”
This
“Who are you?”
“Does it matter, Kelly?”
“Who the fuck
Jack said, “Let go of him.”
“Ah, don’t worry about Mr. Vincent here—though that’s mighty sweet of you. I’m cutting off his air long enough to knock him out, but nothing serious. He’ll be right as rain.”
This apparently was no comfort to Mr. Vincent, whose body bucked, fingers clawing wildly at his captor’s forearms.
Jack wanted to do something to help the poor bastard, but Kelly was two steps ahead of him. She screamed and threw a fist at Mr. Expensive Suit’s face. Jack felt the handcuffs drag him forward. Oh shit.
Mr. Expensive Suit blocked Kelly’s punch but not her kick, which, unfortunately, caught Mr. Vincent in the leg. No reaction. Kelly threw another punch. It connected. Mr. Expensive Suit let Mr. Vincent fall to the floor, then returned an open-palm slap to the side of Kelly’s head. It dazed her. The handcuffs yanked at Jack’s wrist. Mr. Expensive Suit slapped her again, and Jack heard her shriek, “No.” Whatever this was, this guy was playing for the wrong team. Fuck it. Jack kicked outside and wide, around Kelly, aiming for testicles. At the same time, Kelly slammed her fist, the flat of her hand like the business end of a hammer, into Mr. Expensive Suit’s left eye.
Mr. Expensive Suit was ahead of both of them. He twisted to avoid the groin kick. He ducked so that Kelly’s jackhammer blow merely bounced off the top of his head.
And then he chopped his own hand into the chain links of the handcuffs. Powerfully. Cleanly. The chain hit carpet. Jack and Kelly tumbled to the ground after it.
He slapped Kelly again, as if to wake her up, then grabbed her by the throat. Squeezed. Then he slipped his forearm around Jack’s neck.
“Nighty night,” Kowalski whispered in his ear.
2:25 a.m.
Lordy lordy, thought Kowalski. I’ve got two unconscious guys on the floor of a hotel room. A broken door. A semiconscious woman gagged and handcuffed to a chair. Hey now—add an oversized tube of K-Y jelly a car battery and some jumper cables, we could call this a Saturday night.
But back to business.
The two unconscious guys. First: Charles Lee Vincent, hard-ass hotel security chief. A worthy adversary. A lot
