The Inner Circle (6 page)

I backed up then, right next to Carver, who was still on the floor, blood all over his chest and soaking the intricate design of the seashell carpet.
 

“Boo—
boojum
,” he said again, more emphasis this time, and I glanced down at his face, saw his eyes staring back at me, relating something I never thought I’d see there, something I didn’t want to believe was true.
 

Carver nodded at me, just slightly, and without a word or any further hesitation I started running.
 

Right as I made it to the fire door I sensed the shooter behind me. I turned back. Watched the shooter step around the corner and stride purposefully toward Carver. The rifle no longer in his hands, instead a silver handgun.
 

He aimed the handgun right at Carver.
 

Shot him once in the face.
 

“No!” I shouted, my back against the fire door, completely paralyzed in that moment.
 

I meant to bring up the Glock, to run back and shoot the fucker in the head.
 

But the man was faster.
 

He had his gun up even before I could, and then he was firing, the shots somehow deafening but somehow wide too, because miraculously I wasn’t hit as I sprinted down the steps toward what I hoped was safety.

12

Ronny heard the entire thing. His attention had mainly been focused on securing the Racist and checking to make sure he didn’t have any tracking devices on him, but the transmitter in his ear kept him in constant radio communication with Carver and Ben. So he, just like Ian, heard the shooting. He heard the shouting. He heard Carver dying.
 

Ian looked up at Ronny, his eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
 

Ronny checked the backseat where the Racist was completely passed out. Then he reached under his seat for his spare piece—a Ruger SR9c—and opened his door.
 

Ian asked, “Where are you going?”
 

Ronny was already stepping out, the Ruger in one hand, reaching for the piece he had holstered with his other hand. He looked hard at Ian and saw the fear in his eyes and knew the young man was worthless—more than worthless—but didn’t have time to berate him right now.
 

“Giving them backup,” he said. “Stay here and keep an eye out.”
 

“For what?”
 

“Anything.”
 

He used his elbow to slam the door shut and then hurried toward the entrance, a gun in each hand. He didn’t care who might see him. Carver was dying, and Ben very well may be too. Ronny wasn’t going to just stand by and let it happen.
 

The glass doors slid open and he strode purposely through the clutter-strewn lobby—thinking,
Where is everyone?
—when a door burst open.

•
   
•
   
•

I
SLAMMED
THROUGH
the fire door at top speed, running as fast as I could, and at first I thought the man aiming at me was another one of Simon’s. Then, an instant later, I recognized Ronny and ran straight toward him. I saw he had two guns. I threw mine aside and shouted, “Gun!” Ronny tossed me one of his pieces. I caught it in the air and spun around and lowered myself onto one knee, keeping the gun aimed right at the fire door.
 

Ronny stood only a few feet away, keeping his piece aimed at the door too.
 

Nothing happened. Besides the blood pounding in my ears, the lobby was silent.
 

Ronny whispered, “How many?”
 

“Only one. He came out of nowhere.”
 

“Do you think there’s more?”
 

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
 

“We should go.”
 

“No.”
 

“Yes,” Ronny said, stepping forward and grabbing my shoulder, “we should go now. Carver would want it that way.”
 

I didn’t move. I kept my aim on the fire door, knowing that at any second the shooter would reveal himself.
 

Ronny’s hand stayed on my shoulder. “Ben, come on.”
 

I counted in my head—one, two, three, four, five—and then took a breath, murmured, “Fuck,” and stood up and ran toward the glass entrance doors, Ronny close behind me.

•
   
•
   
•

T
HE
FIRST
THING
Ian said was, “What happened?”
 

Neither of us answered. I slid into the backseat next to the Racist. Ronny threw the SUV in drive and stomped on the gas. He took a hard right out of the parking lot back onto Collins Avenue and floored it.
 

“What
happened
?” Ian said again.
 

Ronny shot him an annoyed look. “Call the Kid.”
 

“What?”
 

“Call and let him know what happened.”
 

Ian still looked lost. “But I still don’t know what happened.”
 

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, pulling the vibrating iPhone from my pocket. “He’s calling me now.” I placed it on speaker. “Carver’s dead.”
 

“
Fuck
.” Then the Kid was quiet for a moment before saying, “I thought he might be. The page just disappeared.”
 

“What page?”
 

“Of the girl. It’s gone.”
 

We were at least three blocks away from the hotel now, weaving in and out of traffic.
 

The Kid said, “It was a setup.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“They knew you were coming. They expected you.”
 

“How do you know?”
 

“The fucking Beachside, dude. Even though you guys were going in, I looked into the place.”
 

“So?”
 

“It was bought a month ago. All the management, employees, everyone was given a pink slip. They were also given a thousand dollar severance pay. Even the fucking busboys. Seems the new owners wanted to have everyone going away happy, no hard feelings.”
 

“And?”
 

“Just last week the new owners—who so far are anonymous, no matter where I’ve looked—they sold the property to somebody. I forget who, but they got top dollar. So get this. The Beachside? It’s scheduled for demolition in three days.”
 

“Son of a bitch.”
 

“Exactly. It was a fucking setup. It’s a surprise the rest of you made it out alive.”
 

There was a beat of silence.
 

I said, “Kid, we’ll call you right back,” and disconnected the call. Then I said to Ronny, “Pull over.”
 

He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Are you crazy?”
 

I leaned forward and jabbed the barrel of the Ruger against the back of his head.
 

“I’m not going to tell you again.”
 

Ian, sitting turned in the passenger seat, said, “Jesus Christ!”
 

“Are you going to shoot me, Ben?”
 

“Just pull over.”
 

“No.”
 

I racked the slide. “Don’t test me. I’m in no mood to be fucked with.”
 

As it turned out, Ronny didn’t have much of a choice. We had been fortunate so far making it through all the green and yellow lights, but now there was a red with several cars in front of us.
 

“Don’t do this,” Ronny said.
 

I pulled the Ruger away, turned in my seat, started grabbing the spare weapons and ammunition from the back.
 

“Don’t do this,” Ronny said again. “I know what happened to Carver sucks, but there’s no changing that. He’s gone.”
 

I pulled two guns from the back and a few spare magazines. “He wouldn’t leave us back there.”
 

“He’s
dead
, Ben. It’s that simple. He’s dead.”
 

“The girl isn’t.”
 

Ronny shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”
 

“The mission was to save the girl. I intend to finish the mission. Now, do a U-turn and take us back.”
 

“No. It’s suicide.”
 

I looked at Ian. “You coming?”
 

Ian said nothing.
 

I stared at him hard for a moment, then glanced at Ronny in the rearview mirror. Up ahead, the light changed from red to green. Traffic began to move again.
 

“I’m not taking you back,” Ronny said. “I do that I might as well kill you myself.”
 

“Carver would want it this way.”
 

“No he wouldn’t.”
 

I kept my gaze level with his in the rearview mirror. I reached for the door handle.
 

“Damn it, Ben, you go and you’re dead.”
 

I hesitated. Then I opened the door, saying, “All of us are already dead, Ronny.” I stepped out into the drizzle and leaned back in. “We just don’t know it yet.”
 

I slammed the door shut.

13

The Kid called almost immediately. Even though I was hurrying back up Collins Avenue, I felt the iPhone vibrating against my leg. Both guns were concealed, as were the magazines. I had my headed tilted down just a bit, the drizzle soaking my baseball cap.
 

When I answered, the Kid said, “Are you fucking insane?”
 

“Did anyone ever tell you how pleasant you are on the phone?”
 

“You are out of your fucking mind.”
 

“I’m surprised we haven’t started a swear jar for you by now.”
 

“Ben, I know you’re pissed at what happened to Carver—shit, I am too—but this isn’t the way to make things right.”
 

“Save it. I already heard Ronny’s speech.”
 

“Good. Now you can listen to mine.”
 

The Beachside Hotel was about another five blocks away. It was a stationary object in the distance, growing more and more with each step. It wasn’t a monolith like many of the other buildings along Collins Avenue, but still it called to me just the same.
 

“Before you begin your monologue,” I said, “has there been any activity about the hotel over the air?”
 

The Kid was quiet for a moment. “Not yet. I’ve been keeping an ear on the Miami-Dade County radio since you guys arrived and there hasn’t been one call. Either nobody’s called—which is unlikely—or Simon’s redirecting the calls.”
 

“You have my location?”
 

Another pause as the Kid checked one of his many computers. The iPhones we carried were untraceable like disposables—no specific network carrier—but were still connected to the Internet. The Kid had a program running on each of our phones that could track our locations. It was so precise he could narrow down where we were in any given place to about a few feet.
 

“Yes,” the Kid said. “Why?”
 

“Because if you don’t want me ditching my phone right now, I’d hold off on the speeches for the time being.”
 

“I just ... I think this is a bad idea.”
 

“Do you have Carver’s location?”
 

“It’s gone.”
 

“What do you mean?”
 

“They probably destroyed his phone by now. Either that or turned it off.”
 

The Beachside was now less than four blocks away. Traffic continued past me on the street, their tires hissing on the pavement. The rain continued its light drizzle.
 

I paused at the corner, glanced back over my shoulder, then crossed the street to the next block. I said, “I’ll have to call you back.”
 

“Why?”
 

“Don’t call me back. If you do, I won’t answer.”
 

“Goddamn it, Ben, what’s going on?”
 

“I’m being followed.”

•
   
•
   
•

I’
M
A
COMPLETELY
different man than I was two years ago. Two years ago I was just a house painter that barely pulled in thirty thousand dollars a year. I had a wife and daughter. I had survived only two semesters of college before dropping out. My life was simple but fulfilling, and that’s all that really mattered to me.
 

Then, suddenly, that simple but fulfilling life was stolen. My wife and daughter were taken away. I was thrust into a hell nobody should ever be forced to experience, and many times I was only a few seconds or a few feet from death.
 

But then Carver Ellison entered my life. Carver and his men saved me and helped me understand that there was no way to win Simon’s game. That, despite Simon’s promise, my family was already dead.
 

Two years ago my life changed forever. It was no longer simple, no longer fulfilling. Before, my only purpose was to love and support my wife and daughter. Then, when they were taken away, when I knew they were dead, I realized I had nothing else to live for. Nothing else except to avenge them. I no longer cared about dying, because already most of my soul was dead.
 

Carver trained me well. I was a good student. I studied and trained and did everything I needed to do to become a great soldier. Most importantly, my senses became heightened. When I walked into a room, I immediately assessed the people in there, the number of exits, the different weapons. And I knew when someone was watching or following me.