The Inner Circle (5 page)

Our bullets took them down almost at once.
 

Again, silence.
 

Carver vaulted over the counter. He nodded at me and Ian and the three of us made a quick circuit of the lobby, checking the restaurant and gift shop and anywhere else someone might be hiding with a semi-automatic weapon. Once we established the place was clear—at least for the time being—Carver approached the Racist, who once again had his head raised, looking around to make sure all was safe.
 

“Where is she?” Carver repeated.
 

“Please,” the Racist said. “I don’t know what’s happening. I just—”
 

“What room did Simon tell you to go to?”
 

And like that, a kind of understanding filled the Racist’s face. He was in the process of standing up, getting first to his knees, then placing one foot on the ground. This was where he stopped, looking like a man about to propose to the love of his life.
 

“What ... what did you say?”
 

Carver leveled the barrel of his gun right at the man’s face. “What room?”
 

For the longest moment the Racist didn’t say anything. Then, his voice trembling, “Room three-thirty-nine. Third floor.” His gaze skipped around at our faces. “Who
are
you people?”

10

After a sudden volley of gunfire in the lobby of a hotel in Miami Beach, you’d expect there to be some people around. Employees, guests, a random vagrant—anyone to poke their heads out from doors, to maybe scream out loud at the insanity of it all. But there were no doors opening partway to reveal frightened faces. No screams or even murmurs floating down the hallway. Nothing.

The Racist climbed to his feet. Both Ian and I kept our guns on him. The man stood there, clearly confused.
 

“What the fuck is going on here?”
 

“We’re here to help you,” Carver said. “Now go with them. They’re going to take you to safety.”
 

“But what about Gloria and Anthony? What’s gonna happen to them? What about—”
 

“They’re already dead. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that, but this is how Simon works. You never even had a chance to save them in the first place.”
 

Ian and I maintained close proximity to the Racist. He didn’t look at us. Instead he glared back at Carver, anger and fury in his eyes.
 

A soft noise suddenly filled the silence. A noise that was almost impossible to hear over the ringing in my ears. But it was a noise I recognized, a noise I understood, and I wasn’t surprised at all when the Racist glanced down at the right front pocket of his jeans, at the bulge of a cell phone there.
 

“Give me that,” Carver said. He held out his hand. Kept it there, his palm up, until the Racist slowly pulled the black phone from his pocket and placed it in Carver’s hand. Carver answered, “Go ahead, Simon.” A pause, then a small grin. Carver said, “Yeah, fuck you too,” and dropped the phone to the floor where he stomped on it once, twice, three times.
 

Maybe a minute had passed since the initial shootout. The astringent odor of burnt cordite was still thick in the air. The ringing in my ears had begun to fade. And still no one had entered the lobby.
 

“Now,” Carver said to the Racist, “go with them.”
 

“But—” the Racist started to say, then glanced at Ian and me, saw the guns in our hands.
 

“Let’s go,” I said.
 

For some reason I expected more protest from this man. I expected some real trouble, especially after what had happened earlier at The Spur. A loose cannon, Carver had said about our latest target, how we might have another Christian Kane on our hands, and he was right. So right now, I figured this man was at the end of his rope and was apt to do anything unreasonable.
 

But he glanced once again around the lobby, at the plaster and the bits of foam from the couches and chairs. At the two dead bodies lying near the restaurant.
 

And without a word he started walking.
 

Heading right toward the lobby exit.
 

Ian pulled out a plastic zip tie. “Do us a favor and let us put these on you.”
 

The Racist stopped walking, stared directly down at the black plastic binding. “For what?”
 

I said, “For our safety.”
 

The man shook his head. “No. No fucking way I’m letting you touch me with that fucking stuff.”
 

Carver was behind the Racist an instant later. Kicking the back of his knees, forcing him to the floor. Carver grabbed the man’s arm, yanked it behind his back, then did the same to his other arm.
 

The whole process took less than five seconds.
 

The Racist fought this of course, kicking and rocking his body, trying to get Carver off of him. But at the moment Carver had the advantage, his knee right in the small of the Racist’s back, grasping both of the Racist’s wrists together so Ian could bend down and wrap the plastic zip ties around them, squeeze them tight.
 

Once it was done, Carver stood up. He yanked the Racist back to his feet. It was surprising to watch, because the Racist was at least one hundred and fifty pounds heavier than Carver.
 

“We don’t have time to deal with this bullshit,” Carver said to the Racist, who wasn’t even looking at Carver, was instead facing the glass doors. Carver pushed him forward. The man stumbled a little. Ian and I immediately came up behind him, taking one elbow each and leading him across the marble tiles toward the exit.
 

The electric eye sensed us and the doors slid apart. The SUV was parked at the end of the walkway, Ronny having been in radio communication the entire time, knowing we were headed out with the target. He stood beside the opened side door, a gun held at his side.
 

“You guys all right?”
 

“So far,” I said.
 

We were less than ten yards away from the SUV when Ian let go of the Racist. I watched it happen from the corner of my eye. It took only a second, Ian releasing his grip on the target’s elbow so he could switch hands. But it was all the Racist needed. He was in motion at once. His arms were behind his back, sure, but that didn’t stop him as he swung around, trying to get at us. His teeth bared, his face flushed, he growled as he kicked out first at me, then at Ian.
 

Ronny didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward, withdrawing an EpiPen from his pocket. Instead of containing epinephrine, this pen was filled with a special form of methohexital—a barbiturate—we had cooked up for situations such as these. In one smooth motion, Ronny stabbed the Racist in the side of the neck.
 

The effect wasn’t instantaneous. It would take nearly a minute to knock the Racist out. But it slowed him, and gave us the extra time to hurry him over to the SUV and shove him inside.
 

Then Ronny turned to me and said, “Go.”

•
   
•
   
•

C
ARVER
WAS
WAITING
for me in the lobby, his gun in hand. In his other hand was the black plastic keycard.
 

“Nothing yet?” I asked.
 

He shook his head.
 

We started toward the stairs. Both with our guns out, neither saying a word. Now that the ringing had completely left my ears, the silence surrounding us was just too palpable.
 

Through the fire door then and up the stairs.
 

First one flight, the second flight, the third.
 

Carver and I paused in front of the fire door, our guns at the ready. I placed my hand on the knob. Carver nodded once. I pulled the door open, just a little, giving Carver enough space to aim his weapon.
 

Keeping his gun aimed and his focus through the space looking onto the third floor, he nodded again.
 

I pulled the door open further, enough so Carver could slip through. I followed. Here there were four elevators, a potted plant in the corner, a polished oak table standing against the wall with a lamp and telephone on top. The carpet silenced our footsteps as we approached a T-intersection of the hallway. There were signs on the wall, pointing which rooms were to the left, which were to the right. The ice machine directly across from us hummed quietly, working its hardest to produce its required one-ice-cube-per-hour quota.
 

The direction we wanted to go—where room 339 was located—was to the left.
 

The silence seemed even more oppressive up here. In our ears we could hear Ronny and Ian situating the Racist in the SUV. The noise was low but still too much of a distraction that we took out our earpieces and slipped them in our pockets.
 

Carver placed his back against the wall, peeked around the corner. He raised a fist—clear.
 

We started down the hall, Carver covering the front while I covered the back. The hallway was carpeted in a design of seashells. Doors lined both sides.
 

Besides the humming ice machine, the silence thickened.
 

We were only five rooms away from room 339 when a door suddenly opened. A man stepped out. He had a rifle in his hands, aimed directly at Carver.

11

It was as if time had slowed. The man fired only twice and I watched each bullet as it tore loose from the rifle’s barrel and tore into Carver’s chest. I watched Carver’s body jerk. I watched his shoulders hitch. I watched as he fell to his knees. Then time sped up once again and I stepped forward, raising my gun, and fired.

The shooter disappeared back into the room. My bullets tore chunks from the wall, from the door.
 

Carver was at my feet. He had fallen onto his side. Groaning. Gurgling. The front of his jacket had been ripped up. He’d been hit right in the chest. Blood was everywhere.
 

The shooter appeared again, his rifle aimed at me.
 

I fired at him, taking out more chunks of the wall and door, causing him to disappear back inside.
 

I grabbed the back of Carver’s jacket and backpedaled down the hallway. Pulling Carver with my left hand, keeping aim at the door with my right. Farther and farther back, until the shooter appeared again.
 

I squeezed the trigger—one, two, three, four shots until there was nothing else.
 

“Shit,” I said, because my magazine was empty, because I knew I didn’t have time to reload.
 

But the shooter must not have realized this. He must have assumed I was taking my time again, waiting for him to reappear.
 

On the floor Carver was still groaning, gurgling, choking on his blood. I glanced down and saw he still had hold of his Glock.
 

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. We only had another ten, fifteen yards before we reached the bank of elevators. Not too far, sure, but distance and time are both relative while you’re dragging a dying man and you’re out of bullets and the man who’s trying to kill you is just biding his time.
 

I dropped the Sig and went to grab Carver’s Glock.
 

He wouldn’t let go.
 

“Carver, come on!”
 

But he was oblivious. Still groaning, still gurgling. And staring down at his face, I became aware he was also trying to speak.
 

“Ba—ba,” he was saying, his dark face becoming somehow pale, and at that moment I sensed movement further up the hall. I knew the shooter was going to make another appearance, so I did the only thing I could think to do—I stomped on Carver’s hand, the one holding his gun. He let go. I grabbed it and immediately started firing.
 

This time the shooter didn’t have a room to disappear into. He had already begun to advance and had to push himself up against the doorframe of the next room, as if this was somehow going to save him. By that time I had reached the elevator bank.
 

Somehow I’d made it, dragging Carver the entire way. I yanked on the back of Carver’s jacket some more, pulling him back completely, then went to the corner of the hallway, peeked around.
 

The shooter was peeking from the doorframe too, his rifle aimed toward me.
 

I reached around the wall, started firing, just as he started firing.
 

A moment later I was back on the floor with Carver, feeling for a pulse, staring down at his paling face as he continued to try to speak.
 

“Ba—boo,” he was whispering, gurgling, groaning.
 

“Shh,” I told him, glancing at the four elevators, at the fire door, at the ceiling.
 

I heard heavy footsteps coming my way.
 

I glanced down at Carver’s face. His dark eyes stared up at me, or past me, it was impossible to tell.
 

His mouth moved, trying to form words, and he attempted again, saying, “Boo—boo—
boojum
.”
 

I stared down at him another moment, a moment that seemed to last a very long time. I realized the footsteps were getting even closer, that they were right around the corner, and before I realized it I’d stood up, Carver’s gun in my hands, and started firing again. Walking closer and closer to the corner, taking out even bigger chunks of the wall.
 

Wherever the shooter was behind the corner, he wasn’t going to come out in the next couple of seconds. He was waiting for something, though whatever that something was I had no clue.