I release a heavy sigh.
“Fine. I’ll take a sandwich. What’s left?”
Tweedledee swings his feet off the bed and opens the small cooler on the floor. They brought along prepackaged sandwiches and bottles of water as they didn’t want to deal with room service or be seen outside the hotel picking up food.
He holds up two sandwiches.
“Ham and cheese or tuna salad.”
Gag me.
I ask, “Is the cheese low fat?”
He just stares back at me.
I release another heavy sigh.
“Fine, the ham and cheese.”
Tweedledee drops the other sandwich back in the cooler and brings me the ham and cheese with a bottle of water.
My eyes drift down from his face to what he probably thinks is the sandwich and water, but it’s really to the phone in his left pocket. His pants look to be a size too loose, probably for comfort, but it means the phone isn’t tight in his pocket. Which is good.
After Tweedledee hands off the sandwich and water, he climbs back onto the bed.
Louis says, “Anything else, your highness?”
Yeah, you can shove that fob down your throat and choke on it, I think, but decide not to say out loud.
I start unwrapping the sandwich.
“Chips would be nice.”
Louis’s face remains expressionless.
“There are no chips.”
“This place has vending machines, doesn’t it?”
Louis decides he’s bored with me and turns his attention back to his phone.
The two freelancers keep watching the news. Something about a recent scandal involving the president. On screen, four pundits keep talking over each other.
I take a bite of the sandwich, watching the freelancers and Louis.
Thinking about how I need to get that phone.
Even if it kills me.
Thirty-Seven
The sicario circled the block only once before he spotted Hayward’s men.
They were parked along the curb in an SUV, the windows smoked just enough so at night it concealed its occupants but not enough that it would immediately raise the suspicion of any police officer that passed it.
He assumed there were at least two men stationed outside the hotel, which meant the two other freelancers were inside along with Hayward’s right-hand man. He didn’t know Hayward personally—had only met him the other day when he and his brother passed through the man’s place—but he had heard enough about the man to know he prized his right-hand. Hayward probably didn’t care much about the freelancers—they were simply hired guns—but he most certainly would miss his right-hand when this was all said and done.
But that was Hayward’s fault. From what he understood, Hayward was advised to keep his right-hand behind, let the other men see this thing through, but Hayward was too worried the freelancers might somehow fuck it up—especially as President Cortez was coming in sooner than planned—so Hayward sent his own eyes and ears to ensure the whole thing went smoothly.
He drove a stolen black Mercedes C-Class sedan, whose plates he’d swapped out with another black Mercedes C-Class sedan in the parking lot of the Hollywood Park Casino in Inglewood. The thing handled beautifully, and he thought maybe he would purchase one when he returned home, though he knew that level of luxury was too flashy for somebody in his line of work.
Maybe when he retired, then. Yes, he would purchase one when he retired.
He used the parking garage under the hotel and took the elevator to the lobby. He carried an overnight bag because that was to be expected for a businessman such as himself, though he wore only slacks and a dress shirt and jacket, no tie. A casual look for this late at night. Getting in late from a delayed flight, he would tell the clerk if asked.
The clerk didn’t ask anything further than his name. Pablo Santander, the name on his credit card and ID said, though they were not his real name. The clerk entered the information into the computer, confirmed there was already a room booked, and handed him a keycard and asked if he’d like a porter to carry his bag.
He smiled and said, “I’m okay, thank you.”
The clerked nodded and wished him a pleasant stay, and soon he was in the elevator headed to the seventh floor.
He found his room down the hallway, close to Room 736. That was where Hayward’s men and the woman were right now. The room was booked two weeks ago, though Hayward’s people managed to get in earlier than planned. The people he worked for managed to book his room on the same floor and in the same hallway. Across the hallway, to be exact, and one room away.
The room was nice enough for the price, but not anything special. There were two beds, though he had no intention of sleeping. It was almost four o’clock now, and with Cortez arriving first thing in the morning, the job should be over quickly. He would be gone well before noon. He’d leave the keycard on the desk by the door and check out remotely. After he wiped down the room, of course. Even now, as he navigated the room, flicking on the lights, he made sure not to use his finger but the back of his hand.
He set his overnight bag on one of the beds, zipped it open, and dug under the clothes he packed as a decoy to the pistol buried beneath.
It was a Smith & Wesson M&P9 with a threaded barrel, what he’d come to decide was his favorite piece to use on a job like this. The magazine held seventeen nine-millimeter rounds with one in the chamber. More than enough to accomplish the job, plus take out the two men parked outside on the street.
He withdrew the suppressor from under the clothes and screwed it onto the barrel, then set the pistol on the bed next to the bag.
He grabbed a tissue from the bathroom and wrapped it around the TV remote to work the buttons. Soon he had the television on and was flipping through the channels as he settled back on the other bed.
He pulled out his cell phone and sent an
