that her smile is gone again.
We’re standing about two feet apart, facing the elevator door. Our reflections are staring at us from the brass plating. Mia looks tiny and vulnerable with her backpack slung over her shoulder. I’m so glad I didn’t cross the line with her upstairs.
”Mia…“
She gives the slightest shake of her head. She can’t bear to discuss what happened between us. As I stare at her reflection, I realize there are tears on her face. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach out and take her hand in mine. It’s very small and soft, not so different from my daughter’s hand. After a moment, she squeezes my hand in return, then steps close to me and lays her head on my chest.
Putting my arm around her, I feel ineffable sadness at the plight of this girl. Her father abandoned her when she was two, yet she and her mother somehow struggled through, not just to the point that they’re okay-which would have been triumph enough-but to the point that Mia has become a self-possessed young lady accepted into one of the finest universities in the country. If Drew really is acquitted, I’m going to
The elevator dings, and the doors open onto the empty lobby. To our left, a clerk behind the desk stands and gives us a sleepy wave.
”Do you need anything, sir?“
”No, thanks.“
”My car’s in the back lot,“ I tell Mia, stopping by a large sofa. ”Stay here until I bring it around.“
She slips her heavy pack off her shoulder and drops into the soft cushion of the sofa.
”Don’t fall asleep.“
”I might.“
I point to a side door that leads to the hotel’s check-in lanes. ”That’s where I’ll be. You’ll be able to see me pull up.“
”Can you bring a pizza with you? I’m hungry.“
”We can grab something on the way home.“
I walk past the desk and out the back door.
The Eola parking lot occupies the hollow center of a large city block. It’s mostly empty, so I jog straight to my Saab. Laying the portfolio on the passenger seat, I crank the engine, back out of my space, and pull around to the check-in lanes. With six stories of hotel sitting on top of them, they’re effectively in a tunnel, and for some reason the arrows painted on the ground go against the normal American traffic flow. The right lane-which would put me in front of the hotel door-is painted with an arrow coming straight toward me, as it would in the UK.
”Screw it,“ I mutter, pulling into the right lane.
As I come abreast of the glass doors, I see Mia waiting just inside them. Then I see a man standing behind her. Not a man, really, but a boy. A boy with an Asian face. He’s pressing a gun against Mia’s right temple.
And he’s smiling.
Chapter 33
The Asian boy kicks open the glass door and shoves Mia through it, the gun still hard against her head. Mia’s face is drained of blood, her eyes blank with terror. I want to reach for the gun in my jacket pocket, but that would probably get Mia a bullet in the head. As I stare, I realize I’m looking at the guy who shot Sonny Cross from the black Lexus on Beau Pre Road. He’ll have no qualms about blowing Mia’s brains out.
I start violently at the crack of metal against my window. I look to my left. A second Asian boy is aiming a stubby submachine gun at me. It looks like a Heckler and Koch MP5, a favorite of law enforcement. He motions for me to roll down my window. I do.
”Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,“ he says in a Southern accent.
For some reason I expected him to speak Vietnamese, but why should he? He’s from the Mississippi Gulf Coast.
”Keys!“ he snaps. ”Give ’em here!“
If Mia weren’t part of this equation, I’d hit the gas and peel out of this tunnel. But she is part of it. I shut off the Saab and hand the boy my keys.
”That, too,“ he says, jabbing the gun at the portfolio on the seat.
I brought the portfolio with me because I knew other people had access to Quentin’s suite, and I didn’t want to take a chance on losing it. I glance at Mia as I reach into the passenger seat and pass the portfolio across my chest. Her mouth is hanging slack.
”Get his gun!“ yells the boy holding Mia. ”We’ll take his car.“
As the boy at my window reaches inside, a shadow appears behind the one holding Mia. I assume it’s another member of his gang, but then the right side of his forehead explodes, and he drops like a sandbag.
Mia screams and looks down.
The hand at my chest jerks out of the window.
Whoever shot the guy holding Mia is firing to give me cover. I shove open the passenger door and dive onto the cement, wondering who the hell it could be.
As my unknown savior fires, I crab-walk across the cement and dive through the glass door. It’s swinging shut behind me when a burst of machine-gun fire blasts plate glass all over my back.
Mia is hiding behind a gigantic Oriental vase. I crawl to her and take cover, searching for whoever saved us. Gunfire from the tunnel sends glass spraying through the lobby. Thank God it’s two in the morning.
”Get her clear!“ screams a voice from my right.
”Who are you?“
”Logan! Don Logan!“
”Get her out of here, Penn! There’s probably more of them!“
He’s right. ”We’ve got to run for it, Mia.“ I look out into the seemingly empty lobby. ”Call for backup, Don!“
”On the way! Get moving!“
As I pull Mia to her feet, Chief Logan rises from behind a club chair and begins firing his handgun through the shattered windows.
”Don’t go outside!“ Logan yells.
I’m not headed outside. There’s a staircase in the hall that leads to the mezzanine, which has sheltered access to the elevators. When we reach the stairs, I start to send Mia up first, then change my mind. As I lead the way, I try to do what my father often preaches:
”Don’t hesitate,“ I say as I run. ”If something happens, shoot first, sort it out lat-“
Mia screams so sharply that it hurts my ears.
I whirl, figuring someone is chasing us, but Mia is pointing past me,
