Michael nodded toward the door between the rooms. “In ten seconds they’ll be in that room. You know how to use this?” He pulled the nine millimeter from the holster at his hip.
“No.”
She was truly frightened now. A different kind of fear. “It’s easy,” Michael told her. “Fifteen rounds. Semiautomatic. Just point and pull the trigger. If anyone comes through that door, you shoot him. Just keep squeezing the trigger. The safety is off.”
“What about you?”
He moved her back, against the wall. She had a clear line of fire at the adjoining door. “Anybody,” Michael said, then drew the forty-five and crossed back to the window. The men clustered on the sidewalk. The lot behind them was empty. They made a thorough check, then laid down the duffel bag and unzipped it, pulling out a thirty-pound sledgehammer. One last look around and the weapons came out. They kept them low against their legs, and when the hammer came off the ground they stepped back to make room for the swing. The man was large. He got his weight behind it, and when the hammer hit, the door didn’t stand a chance. It blew open with a tortured squeal. He dropped the hammer, and the other two entered first, the third right behind them.
Michael gave them exactly two seconds, then opened the door and stepped outside. The day was just as warm, but felt cool. Wind licked his face, and part of him felt regret. He took five steps down the sidewalk, then rounded into the room behind them, his feet light and soundless, his heart rate unchanged. All three had their weapons up, their focus on the bathroom door and the shower running beyond it. No one looked back. No one heard him. It took Michael two seconds to kill all three men.
Two seconds.
Three bullets.
The shots came so quickly, they sounded like strung firecrackers. Weapon leveled, Michael closed the door and checked the bodies. They were dead, no question: two in the back of the head, one in the side as he’d turned. Two of them had wallets in their back pockets. Michael checked the IDs, then tossed them in one of the shopping bags. He spared a glance at their weapons to confirm his suspicions, then gathered up spent casings and the bags of clothing. He made a last check and walked out of the room.
The men he left on the floor.
At the door to the adjoining room, he knocked. “It’s me.”
“Come in.” Her voice shook.
Michael found her crouched on the floor, weapon up and aimed at the door. “I heard…” She began to shake, and Michael took the weapon from her hands. She covered her face. “I thought… Oh, God.” She smeared her palms across her face, but there were no tears yet.
“We’re leaving,” Michael said.
“What happened?”
“They were amateurs.”
“How do you know?”
“They died easy.” Michael was moving quickly, re-holstering the nine millimeter, pushing the shopping bags into Elena’s arms. “Someone will have heard the shots.”
“They’re really dead? You-”
“I should have seen it.” Michael shook his head. “The plates threw me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The van was here when we came back. I saw it, but it has Maryland plates. I was looking for New York.” Michael checked the window. “They’re contract players, probably out of Baltimore. I didn’t expect that. Wasn’t looking for it. I say they’re amateurs because they are. The van is parked so that it could be easily blocked in. No one watched their backs. Their weapons were low grade and poorly maintained. Two of them carried ID.” He shook his head. “Amateurs. Are you ready?”
“Where are we going?”
“North Carolina.”
“Why?”
“To find my brother.”
She blinked, still stunned. “You killed them.”
Michael opened the door, took her by the hand. “I’m trying to quit.”
They got in the car and drove from the lot. Michael made a number of turns and kept an eye on the rearview mirror. “We’ll need a new car.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m going to be sick on you.”
Michael worked his way back to the mall. It swarmed with people. There were thousands of cars. He drove up one row of cars and down another. “This will do.”
“What?”
He tilted his head at a late-model sedan. “Nondescript. No visible damage.” He parked four slots away.
“And we’re stealing it?”
Michael grinned. “The window’s open. It’s like an invitation. You want to come?”
“No.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Michael…” Her face caught the afternoon sun. “Those men you killed…”
“Those men were coming to kill us.”
“No innocents,” Elena said. “Is this what you meant?”
“More or less.”
“Marietta was innocent.”
“I didn’t kill Marietta.”
“Would you have?” She held him with the urgency of her question. “If things were reversed and it was you back in New York? Would you kill her to get what you want?”
“I guess it depends.”
“On what?”
“On how badly I wanted something.” Michael slipped out of the car. In three minutes he was back. “Let’s go. Keep your head up. Act normal.”
They unloaded their belongings from one car and carried them to the other. Elena stumbled twice but no one noticed. No one said a thing. In the other car and moving, Elena said, “I can’t accept your answer. I can’t sit here and accept what you said.”
Michael drove in silence, Elena tense and miserable beside him. On the interstate, he said, “Some people deserve to die, if not for one sin, then another. When it happens to people like Marietta, it’s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?”
“It’s a bigger word than you think.”
“She was my friend. She had parents, plans, and ambitions. A boyfriend. Jesus, Michael. She thought he was going to propose.”
“I’ve never killed a civilian.” Michael waited until she looked at him. “If you’re smart in this business, you never have to.”
“And you’re smart in the business?” She was angry, now, the fear fading. She wanted to lash out, and Michael understood. He’d felt it himself: survivor’s guilt, the first taste of how fast something bad could happen.
“Yes,” he said.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I take precautions to keep the innocents innocent. It means I plan ahead.”
