Acoustic Shadows (21 page)

Millie Adkins – there was no sense in pretending she was Erica Weisz anymore – glanced back at Moral. He was hunched over, framed in the doorway, grimacing, his pistol lying impotently about five feet away, holding his arm, clutching at a bloodstain that grew under his hand.

‘Millie,’ he called her, using the name she’d gone by her entire life, before becoming enmeshed with this den of snakes. She stood staring at him, her mouth agape as she still struggled with the realization that Moral was one of the bad guys. The gun felt hot in her hand, a faint wisp of smoke curling out its barrel. She raised it and pointed it at his head.

‘Millie,’ he repeated, pleading, ‘don’t … please … Millie! You’ve got it wrong!’

‘Then why are you here?’ she screamed. She wanted to believe him, believe
in
him, or anything that could give her reassurance, make her feel not so alone. ‘With
them
?’

Moral sensed a glimmer of hope. Maybe he could bullshit her one more time. ‘I’m not with them. I tracked them here … you were right. Su … somehow they found you. I …
we
need to move you again.’ Then, trying for one more ounce of sympathy, he tried, ‘I can’t believe you shot me … ’

But, it didn’t stick. Even if he were telling the truth, she was done running. ‘Where are they, Robert?’ she said, her voice icy, almost mechanical. ‘And how many of them are there?’

Millie heard the ‘ding’ of the elevator stopping on their floor. She stepped past Moral to see who would emerge from the car, hoping it might be a tourist, or better yet, a cop. Her heart stopped as she watched an antique gun, like one of those a German soldier would have in an old World War II movie, extend from the elevator’s doors, the end of its long barrel encased in what appeared to be a homemade, cylindrical housing that she knew to be a silencer. A round face peeked out of the door, one eye squinting.

Millie raised her gun and fired. The head and gun tucked inside the elevator instantly, as the bullet ricocheted off the stainless steel doors. She heard them begin to close again. Millie glanced back at Moral who was trying to stand, his face ashen. She looked up and saw the ‘Exit’ sign that pointed to the stairs. Her choices were to stay and try to shoot it out with the man on the elevator, with Moral free to put a bullet in the back of her head, or to run for it and hope the cop and the FBI agent were already downstairs. She felt outnumbered in spite of Moral’s wounded arm. She decided to run for it, the hollow but prophetic quote,
A good run beats a bad stand any day
, creeping into her head.

She made for the exit, kicking Moral in the hip as she passed him. Moral stumbled to the floor again, cursing her as she flew by and scrambling for his gun. She kicked it further away from him. She grabbed the steel push handle of the exit door, just as she heard slapping sounds above her head, seeming to emanate from behind the patterned wallpaper. She glanced up to see holes as big as fingers appear in the wall. The ‘Exit’ sign exploded, raining red plastic shards on her as she pushed through the double doors, legs like rubber, and began her descent.

As she took two and three steps at a time, her side aching like an abscessed tooth, she heard sounds like thunder and realized it must be coming from the giant bald man running down the hall, coming after her.

Thiery and Logan entered the lobby of the Gaylord Palms, went immediately to the front desk, and told them to notify hotel security that armed gunmen were in the hotel, and to call 911. A manager appeared immediately, his plastic name tag identifying him as Noel. Noel demanded an explanation. Thiery and Logan showed him their identification. To their surprise, Noel immediately called his chief of security and told him to perform a lockdown with all guests ASAP, this was not a drill. Clear the pool and bar areas, he’d instructed, place men at all egresses. Noel pointed out to the agents that it was an enormous hotel. They would do the best they could.

Millie burst through the stairwell’s ground floor exit, emerging onto the far east side of the building. A sign on the wall with an arrow said ‘Lobby’. She was half way down the hall when she heard the stair doors bang open behind her; sounds like rocket-propelled wasps flew by her head.

Julio Esperanza and Anichka Drakoslava stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. They were both fully dressed, but wore hotel robes to help conceal the weapons they were carrying. His was a Taurus, ‘The Judge’ model, loaded alternately with .410 shotgun shells and .45 calibre bullets. Hers was a beautiful little Makarov, 9 mm, sleek and stylish, with armour-piercing rounds, their black, pointed bullets like the lethal heads of coral snakes.

Moral had called Julio and told him the ‘target’ was headed for the lobby and that he would meet them there. Thirty seconds after their arrival, Moral whirled into the lobby, his gun in one hand, his other arm hanging loosely at his side, blood soaking his jacket sleeve from hem to hand, his lips quivering in pain and anger. He didn’t see Millie, but he saw the two agents talking to the hotel manager at the front desk and recognized them from the news. He glanced at Julio and Anichka and nodded.

Millie rushed into the lobby, De De Davies following a few yards behind, a fleshy tsunami pushing after her, his gun extended in front of him like a lance. Between the concierge and transportation desks, while mulling around, waiting for someone to address their needs, hotel guests scattered as the melee burst down the hall. Overhead speakers boomed the announcement:

‘Attention guests, this is an emergency. Please vacate the common areas immediately and return to your rooms. I repeat, this is an emergency; please return to your rooms and await further instruction.’

Patrons already angered and curious as to why security guards were rushing about switched from mild irritation to panic and terror when they saw Moral clutching his bloodied arm.
What’s happening?
was the common thread as hotel guests clamoured to exit the building, scurry back to their rooms, or dive under tables and behind chairs.

Thiery saw Millie first, but prudence dictated an authoritative response.

‘Law enforcement officer!’ he called out in his best shut-the-fuck-up voice. ‘Everybody down!’ He drew his weapon, and the OK Corral was reborn.

Millie turned to the sound of Thiery’s voice and screamed, veins distended in her thin neck like hoses ready to burst. ‘It’s me, Agent Thiery. Millie Adkins.’

‘Put down your gun,’ Thiery ordered.

‘I … no … I can’t,’ she pleaded, peering over the bodies scattered about the floor.

‘Put it down, now,’ he said calmly, but forcefully.

Millie leaned against a column in the lobby. Her hands shook as she steadied herself with one and crouched to place the gun on the floor with the other. Thiery believed he saw more anger than fear in her eyes. Suddenly, a chunk of the column blew out and sprayed her with plaster dust as Davies sighted his gun at her and fired, his silencer-muffled gun spitting repeatedly. Millie threw herself to the floor and crawled behind the column. The gun stayed in her hand.

Logan turned and spied Moral and his bloody arm. She drew her weapon and aimed it at him. Moral shouted in a panic, ‘US Marshal!’ He laid down his gun and held out his badge. Logan quickly scanned the rest of the lobby with her gun, one eye closed, looking for the next threat. Without looking at him, she ordered, ‘Stay face down, Deputy, until we can get this sorted out.’

‘Sure,’ said Moral, but as soon as he saw Logan was distracted by Davies, he quickly and quietly retrieved his gun and crawled away.

Thiery and Logan drew down on Davies as he approached the centre of the lobby, a surprised look on his face, like a bull that successfully made its way through the chaotic streets of Pamplona, only to discover an arena of death at the end of its run. His tiny eyes went wide as he looked around, trying to decide who he should shoot first.

Julio and Anichka took advantage of the distraction and circumvented the cavernous lobby. They stepped over the costumed guests, some of whom had begun to cry, some lying in puddles of their own urine, helpless in their panic. They managed to manoeuvre behind Thiery and Logan, as Moral inched forward, as if to help his fellow law enforcement agents. He retrieved his gun and appeared to aim it at Davies.

Logan did not fire a warning shot. She was an incredible marksman; she and Thiery had gone to the shooting range on various ‘dates,’ and she always outshot him. She fired a single round into Davies’s head, throwing a piece of it across the lobby like a discarded pool towel. Davies stood for a brief moment as if waiting for someone to tell him to die. The last thing he saw was Anichka, his ferocious and relentless bed partner, staring at him aghast, her mouth open and round, like it was when she slipped into bed with him in the middle of the night. He fell like the columns Samson pulled down on the Philistines. Some of his brain spilled like red, wet Play-Doh onto the gleaming marble floor. He twitched, and curled into a pitiful foetal position.

From under her terry robe, Anichka pulled her Makarov and shot Logan in the back. The agent let out a small shriek as if she’d been goosed. She and Thiery looked at each other, as if one had played a joke on the other; an unbelievable prank. Logan smiled, let out a small laugh and specks of blood followed it to her lips. She went down on one knee. Thiery grabbed her arm, easing her to the floor as Anichka continued to fire.

Two security guards burst onto the scene, their inadequate .38 Specials blazing like old cap and ball guns, with no direction and no defence. Glass and ice sculptures adorning the lobby exploded as bullets filled the air but none found their target. Anichka took the hapless guards down almost as an afterthought.

Julio and Moral spied each other simultaneously, and nodded. This plan had gone to shit but, with a little luck, they might still be able to escape. Julio slipped his gun back under his robe and began to slink toward the rear exit of the lobby.

Moral crept over to Thiery and Logan like a crab. ‘There’re more shooters going out back,’ he said, though no one was listening. ‘I’m going after them,’ Turning to address the empty lobby desks, he yelled, heroically, ‘Someone call 911. We need a doctor!’ Then he scuttled toward the same exit door as Julio, fleeing into the rear parking lot.

Millie managed to pull up her knees to steady her shaking hands. She closed one eye, aiming at Anichka’s chest, and slowly squeezed the trigger. She hit her in the leg.

The wound seemed to startle Anichka, and she stopped her forward assault. She looked down and saw the hole in her thigh. Blood wasn’t coming out, yet, but it felt like she’d been whacked with a cutter Mattock. Her stomach rolled, and she felt as if she was going to puke.

Millie fired again. This time, the round hit the woman in the white robe in the centre of her chest. She seemed to disintegrate, the bullet exiting her back as easily as if it had gone through an offal-filled styrofoam cooler. She fell back, sprawled out like a broken doll.

Thiery heard the last shot, looked up to see the dead security guards, the dead bald giant, the dead woman in the robe. All the carnage had happened in less than a minute. Hotel guests stuck to the floor like quivering leeches covered in ice and glass and splotches of other people’s blood. Gun smoke hung in the air like ghosts looking for a place to stay. Thiery turned back to Logan.

‘Sara … ’ he said, lifting her head, trying to make it easier for her to breathe.

Millie slipped over silently, the gun in her hand so big it made her seem small. The artificial lights of the lobby cast her faint shadow over Logan. She watched as Thiery tried to comfort his partner. She felt the need to help, but was also driven by her now seething hatred of Moral, of Esperanza, of every witless killer she had encountered, and there had been so many. Police and fire rescue sirens screamed into the parking lot. Through the windows, she saw the Orlando Police Department and Orange County Sheriff deputies hurrying toward the front doors of the lobby, guns drawn. Her world spun but one idea locked in her head.

‘The US Marshal is one of them,’ she said, robotically, almost under her breath. ‘I’m going to kill him.’ Then, she turned and walked toward the exit where Moral and Julio Esperanza had disappeared.

Thiery watched her leave, knew he should follow, but quickly turned his focus back to Logan. She was staring up at him.

The corners of her mouth twitched as she tried to smile. ‘Glad we got one more roll in zee hay … lover.’

Thiery smiled and said, ‘Me too.’

She coughed. ‘Better go after her. She’s gone through a lot to end up … like this.’

‘No. I’m staying with you, till the medics get here … ’

Logan smiled, pink frothy bubbles formed at the corners of her sensuous mouth. ‘I … I’m going to be fine,’ she gargled. ‘Get … her out of here. This thing is too fucked-up. Give her some down time before … ’ she coughed again, harder this time, ‘before the media circus begins.’ She pulled a set of keys from the pocket of her pants. ‘Take my car. The keys to the beach house are on the ring.’

‘I … can’t,’ said Thiery, Logan’s face blurring as he looked at her.

‘Go,’ she ordered. ‘Get out of here, you fucking hayseed, or I’ll never give you another BJ.’

Thiery laughed, even as a tear fell from his eyes, even as Logan died, her glazed eyes fixed on his. He watched as the pupils grew large, as if widening to see what new place beckoned her. Her tanned skin blanched and a red-tinged bubble formed on her lips, then popped as her last breath left her body. Her grip on his hand slackened and he laid her head down, gently.

A rage built in him and pushed back his sorrow. He stood up and turned, machine-like, his feet taking him toward the rear exit. All these dead people and he hadn’t shot one of them. He was going to change that.

He ran into the parking lot and saw Millie walking quickly down a sidewalk, one arm extended, the gun leading the way. Ahead of her, he saw the US Marshal leaning over, talking through an open window to a man in the back seat of a black Lincoln sedan, a driver revving the motor. He could make out the face of the man in the back seat; he’d seen him in the lobby talking animatedly to the marshal. The man in the white terry cloth robe; Thiery thought he’d been a guest asking Moral what was happening. Now, Thiery recognized him as the man with the woman who had shot Logan in the back. If he had any doubts about Moral’s complicity, they were now gone. With his gun in hand, he started jogging.