"Leave your luggage!" he yelled at them.
His order emboldened the other officers, who actively corralled and hustled them to the door, enforcing Anthony's impromptu "no luggage" rule. Of course, he'd be relieved of this temporary command as soon as their shift's senior patrol officer or one of the sergeants arrived, which should be any minute now. The sooner the better. The prospect of facing automatic weapons with his Smith and Wesson .40 S&W semiautomatic pistol didn't appeal to him. Anthony and his partner would be hopelessly outgunned, and their bulletproof vests would offer little resistance to the new breed of high-velocity calibers they were seeing on the streets.
As the first responding officer, he felt compelled to remain in the lobby and offer what little firepower he had available to protect hotel guests. It wasn't the best idea, but there was little doubt that it was the right one. If his sergeant wanted to pull everyone out and wait for SWAT, that was his call. Until then, they'd try to cover four approaches with two guns. He turned to the terrified front desk staff.
"Get out of here with the rest of them. Where's your manager's office?"
One of the women pointed behind the desk to the right at an open doorway before scrambling around the side of the counter and running for the exit. The guest services manager reappeared in the doorway.
"The alarm was set off on the ninth floor," she said, eyeing her staff as they disappeared with the crowd into the front parking lot.
"Did you send the message to all of the rooms?" he said, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and the four possible approaches to their position.
"No. I can't do that with a fire alarm. Someone reported an explosion up there. The entire hotel might be on fire."
"Fuck," he hissed.
She was right. If the gun battle on the eighteenth had started a fire, the message might confuse guests and keep them in their rooms. Then again, a general exodus down the stairwells could lead to a massacre or a hostage situation. He had run out of good options for handling the hotel's guests, so he sent the guest manager on her way to the exit. He would hold this position with Kingston until they were given different orders. All he could do was continue to move guests out of the hotel. He'd already started that. When the first wave of evacuees arrived, he'd help them onto the street, keeping a close eye out for the shooters.
He grabbed his handheld shoulder-mounted microphone to pass this plan onto the other officers, but something hit the stairwell door hard and caused him to stop. He heard some yelling on the other side, then pounding. Was it locked? He looked at Kingston, who raised her shoulders. The yelling intensified, along with the pounding. The guests pouring out of the Lobby Bar started to push and shove to get through to the hotel's front entrance. Several turned for the hallway containing the shops and an escape through the side entrance onto Peachtree Road.
The lobby would be clear in a few moments, giving him the opportunity to open the door without exposing guests to automatic gunfire. He had no idea who was knocking on that door, and he didn't want to unleash a bigger problem. The pounding beckoned him as the last of the guests cleared the front lobby door. Two police officers from his precinct pushed through the doors with their service pistols drawn, focused on the stairwell door. They took cover behind the sturdier pieces of lobby furniture as the pounding continued.
Officer Anthony slid past the corner of the front desk, pointing his pistol in the direction of the service elevator to the left. He approached the stairwell door cautiously, expecting it to burst open at any moment. Based on the location of the door handle, he could tell that the door would hinge open in his direction, providing him momentary concealment from any shooters that might emerge. He'd have time to duck into the elevator lobby and return fire. Unfortunately, the elevator lobby was a dead end if they pursued him, though he might be able to use one of the elevators for further cover.
He wouldn't be able to escape without a fire service key. He knew from experience that a hotel fire alarm would automatically engage the elevator system's fire service mode and send all of the elevators to the Fire Recall Floor, where they would remain until the alarms were reset or bypassed by a fire service key. He might not be able to use the elevators to escape, but at least he could rule out the possibility of surprises from the elevator lobby.
He spun into the rectangular-shaped area, leading with his pistol. He quickly confirmed that one of the guest elevators was open and empty. The second elevator's doors remained closed, and he had no way to tell where the elevator car might be. God forbid the Ritz Carlton disturb the precious, polished mahogany wood interior to install a floor indicator. He could barely find the buttons that activated the elevators. Maybe you had to be rich to see them. He edged forward, aiming at the open door across from the guest elevators. He "sliced the pie," moving slowly to his right, gradually exposing more of the parking garage elevator car to the sight picture over the barrel of his pistol. Empty.
He rushed back to the elevator lobby opening and nodded to his partner, who concentrated her pistol on the stairwell door. He heard frantic screaming from behind the door and decided that he had no choice but to open the door.
"Hold your fire. No shooting!" he yelled.
The three officers in the lobby nodded, though he didn't get the sense that the order registered. He edged up to the door and reached across the mahogany panel to grip the thick metal handle. The door swung open easily, which almost surprised him more than the thick volume of smoke that immediately billowed from the open doorway and swirled toward the front lobby exits. At least a dozen people initially poured out into the lobby, pushing each other out of the way, coughing and hacking. This group was followed by another surge of guests, assisting each other and yelling. Anthony didn't see any weapons evident, though he admittedly couldn't see very effectively through the thick acrid smoke. He holstered his weapon and rushed in to stabilize an elderly woman, who looked confused.
"Where was the fire?" he asked.
She looked up at him, coughing and squinting. "I don't know. Where's my husband?"
"We'll find him, ma'am," he replied. "Head out the door to get some fresh air."
He singled out a young couple that appeared to be under control. They were headed toward the far right exit, helping another man with a smashed nose. Needing some basic information about the situation, he approached them. As their features became clearer through the smoky haze, he noticed the woman had short brown hair and deep blue eyes, resembling a movie star that he thought he recognized. She was dressed in a black turtleneck dress. Her shoes were missing, but she had probably ditched them in the stairwell. He imagined she'd worn high heels with this outfit. She grasped hands with a serious-looking, well-heeled gentleman with jet-black hair, who supported a slightly taller, equally well-dressed injured man.
The taller man had brown hair and leaned heavily on the other man, unable to put weight on his left leg. His nose was clearly broken, with the bright crimson evidence still pouring down his face and chin onto his crisp white shirt. They were all coughing as they trudged toward the exit. He stepped in front of the group. Nothing about this group set off any internal alarms for Anthony.
"What happened to him?" he said.
They stopped, and the black-haired man leaned his friend against the wall.
"He fell on the stairs and hit his face. We couldn't see a fucking thing in there, Officer. We were waiting for the elevator on five when the fire alarm went off. We hit the stairs, but they were already filled with smoke," he said, coughing into his elbow.
When the man raised his right arm to cough, his suit coat opened, briefly exposing a gun tucked into his right waistline. Officer Paul Anthony instantly felt sick as an incredible surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He fought against every panicky instinct telling him to pull his weapon. The man's steely gaze told him that he'd probably never clear the pistol from his holster. He wasn't some brash mafia hit man or wild-eyed gang-banger. Anthony was staring at the real deal. Something he had never seen before. He didn't know how he knew this, but the sudden realization saved his life.