This got Hayward’s attention.
“What? No, that’s impossible. That—”
She cut him off.
“We had a deal, and you fucked it up.”
“I didn’t fuck anything up. It’s not my fault—”
“Cortez is still alive. And the girl just spoke with him outside the hotel.”
Haywood didn’t respond, thinking about it. He hadn’t heard from any of his men, which had concerned him, but now hearing that both the girl and President Cortez were still alive, he began to panic.
Obviously, Hayward didn’t know the two sicarios who passed through his place only days ago had been tasked with taking out his men. Imna had looked forward to telling him about it once Cortez was dead and she stepped away to cry in private—in an empty bathroom, perhaps, just herself and the cell phone and Oliver Hayward on the other end, at first happy that he had come through and then crestfallen once he learned about his men. She hadn’t imagined he would be too angry—they were freelancers, from what Imna understood—but he would still feel betrayed. He should have known any trace to this hit would need to be eliminated; the cartels would want nobody left alive as witnesses, maybe not even Hayward himself despite the other service he provided.
Imna wanted to say something else, something to rub the salt in Hayward’s fresh wounds, but that was when an alarm went off and strobes all around the lobby began flickering.
Hayward said, “What is that?”
Before she could answer, the man in the gray suit hurried over to her.
“Fire alarm, Ms. Rodriguez. We need to head outside.”
She opened her mouth, not sure what to say but wanting to say something, when along with the blaring alarm and flashing strobes came a series of sudden gunshots somewhere in the hotel.
A woman in the lobby screamed.
Another person shouted, “What was that? What was that?”
In her ear, Hayward spoke again, asking what was wrong, but she disconnected the call and hurried past the man in the suit. The man called after her, telling her they needed to evacuate, but she ignored him and pushed past the people moving toward the exit, running in the direction she’d watched Cortez head only minutes ago.
A few police officers hurried past her, their guns drawn, and one of them tried to stop her from proceeding, but once she explained—shouted, really—that she was President Cortez’s aide, he relented but told her to stay back.
Around the corner was a short hallway, and the emergency exit door at the end of the hallway stood open. One of the bodyguards was shouting at the police to hurry.
Imna followed them out to a side street and found one of the bodyguards still on the ground, though he was trying to pick himself up; blood ran down his face from his broken nose. The third bodyguard was standing but had his hands up. A gun lay at his feet; he was the one who fired it and wanted to make sure the police knew he was unarmed.
He pointed down the street.
“They went that way!”
Imna turned to the first bodyguard, the one holding the exit door open.
“What happened?”
The man’s face was red and tight. He had one job, and he had failed to do it.
“Once the alarm sounded, President Cortez came out of the bathroom and ran for the door. The woman from outside—the one President Cortez was speaking to on the line—was waiting. She”—he paused, swallowed—“she attacked us. She grabbed him and put a gun to his head. They got into one of the SUVs. We fired after them, but—”
She turned away from him, wanting to scream out her frustrations.
One of the police officers had a radio to his ear. He turned to them, and shook his head.
“They’re already on the freeway.”
Forty-Seven
This portion of the 110 has six lanes heading south, and I use all of them, swerving back and forth between cars as the speedometer ticks up to from 70 to 80 to 90.
I eye President Cortez in the rearview mirror, the man sitting in the back holding on to the “oh shit” bar.
“I suggest you put your seat belt on, Mr. President.”
I spot flashing lights a quarter mile back, what may be two or four or six police cars. President Cortez notices me looking past him in the rearview mirror, and glances back through the rear window.
Turning back as he clips in his seat belt, he says, “What do you think they will do?”
“Nothing right now. They’re just going to chase us. They won’t intervene as long as they believe your life is in danger.”
“Where are we going?”
The answer is I’m not sure, but that won’t ease his worry. The fact is, everything had happened so fast—Cortez agreeing to trust me, me hurrying around to the side of the hotel where the SUVs were parked, giving Atticus the signal to remotely set off the hotel’s fire alarm, and then waiting until Cortez and his bodyguards burst through the side door.
Now we were in one of those armored SUVs, a half-dozen police cars chasing us with more on the way, police helicopters no doubt headed in our direction, and the morning traffic on the 110 busy but not too congested, the speedometer now inching up to 95 mph.
I spot a sign for the 10 interchange, and keeping one hand on the steering wheel, I flip open Tweedledee’s cell phone and dial Atticus.
He says, “Where are you now?”
“On the 110, almost to the 10. What’s my timeline?”
“I’m still waiting to get confirmation from one of my contacts.”
“Goddamn it, Atticus. We’re running out of time.”
“There’s nothing I can do to pressure him. This is a big ask.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I can pull over to save us some time.”
Atticus is quiet for a moment.
“Perhaps you can.”
He tells me his idea, and directs me onto the 10 headed east. I cut off a bus as I take the turn, and soon we merge onto the 10.
Two helicopters are in the air, headed in our direction. At least one of them
