I’m half-aware of Louis standing over me, the fob in his hand. Half aware that he has his cell phone to his ear, shouting, “I need you two up here, now!”
My focus right now is on Tweedledum, lying dead close by, and the Beretta that fell from his hand—the Beretta I’m right now trying to move toward, on my back, pushing myself across the carpet like a snail.
Louis’s face looms over me, his eyes aflame with anger. He keeps his finger on the fob, pressed as hard as it will go, and he probably intends on holding the fob like that until the two other freelancers arrive.
“Stupid bitch. Stupid, stupid bitch.”
He spits the words at me, then pauses long enough to glance over at Tweedledee.
“Get the fuck up.”
Tweedledee moans in response.
Louis grunts another curse—“Fuck it”—and starts to lean down to grab Tweedledee’s gun.
That’s when, with the lightning still streaking through my body as I continue to crawl on the carpet, I stretch and lunge and feel the Beretta, just the grip with the tips of my fingers, so close but so far away.
Louis, realizing my intention, scrambles to grab Tweedledee’s gun first—but by then I’ve managed to take possession of Tweedledum’s Beretta, and I have the sight aimed at Louis, right at the spot between his eyes.
I pull the trigger.
His head snaps back. His body falls to the carpet. His finger releases the fob, and that constant lightning bolt racing through me fades away.
I start to stand when the door is kicked open. A Hispanic man rushes into the room, a suppressed pistol in hand. He instantly scans the room and searches out the most prominent threat. Takes him half a second to realize the threat is me.
He fires at me as I dive across the bed, firing back at him. One of my bullets clips him in the shoulder, but he barely reacts, his feet planted firmly on the floor, tracking me with his pistol. He shoots again as I fall to the floor between the beds. Flat on the carpet now, I aim at the man’s feet beneath the bed.
Getting clipped in the shoulder may not have done much, but shattering his ankle is another story.
The man grunts in pain, tries to retreat into the hallway, but loses balance and falls to his knee. Before he can stand back up, I’ve already jumped to my feet and placed two bullets in his head.
I approach him slowly, this man I’ve never seen before, this man who I somehow know is a professional, the kind that works alone, not like the freelancers in this hotel room. Speaking of which …
Tweedledee’s still alive. The wall he’s leaning against is wet with blood. He probably hit his head in the right spot that there’s already brain damage and he’ll eventually bleed out. It’d be cruel to keep him alive, and I don’t consider myself a cruel person.
One bullet puts him out of his misery.
Taking a deep breath, I survey the room and make sure Louis and the two freelancers and the hitter are all down for good. Have to figure somebody on this floor has already called the front desk or even 911 directly, so time’s wasting.
I grab Tweedledee’s phone off the floor, shove it in my pocket. I search Louis for the key to the collar; put that in my pocket, too, along with the fob.
Tweedledum’s Beretta is almost empty. I toss it aside as I bend to pick up Tweedledee’s pistol and check the magazine. Fully loaded.
I peek out into the hallway. Someone has their door open down near the elevator. Nobody to be concerned about, just a random hotel guest, doing that stupid thing people do when they hear gunfire and so they want to poke their heads out like nobody will shoot at them too.
The elevator door opens. One of the freelancers steps out. He already has his gun in hand. He spots me down at the end of the hallway. The hotel guest’s head disappears as he slams the door shut. The freelancer moves forward without even giving the guest a second’s thought.
The door to the stairs is off to my right. Only a couple yards away.
I step out into the hallway and begin walking backward toward the stairwell door, firing at the freelancer.
The freelancer returns fire, and the wall by my head spits plaster.
A second later I reach the door and push into it with my back, and that’s when I hear the frantic footsteps coming up and turn to see the second freelancer a half flight down. When he sees me, he raises his gun.
I step into the stairwell, let the door fall shut, and fire down at the freelancer. He has no cover and goes down in a second, the single gunshot echoing against the brick walls.
I don’t move for a beat, trying to recalibrate, to catch my breath, knowing that right now there’s the freelancer out in the hallway but also knowing there might be others.
Who sent the pro?
Five seconds pass. Ten seconds.
I keep the Beretta trained on the door, waiting for it to burst open. By now the freelancer has probably checked the hotel room, found all the dead bodies, and figured that his buddy is dead, too. Otherwise, his buddy would have called out to him. The freelancer might be standing on the other side of the door, debating what to do next.
After another five seconds, I decide I can’t wait any longer. I start down the steps. Taking them at an angle, so my gun is aimed at the door. Stepping over the dead freelancer and continuing down.
Keeping the gun in hand, I dig the key from my pocket and I use my finger to feel for the tiny
