Cautiously, he made his way down to the second floor. He was now two short flights of stairs, plus the center landing, above the fellow below him. He recognized him as the second man he'd seen at the registration desk. He knelt down to the floor and sneaked a glance over the edge of the concrete. The agent was looking through the crack of the door to the lobby, as he had not closed it securely. He was paying no attention to the stairway. Styles almost felt sorry for him. Worse, he had his back to the stairway. Styles watched him for two minutes. Not once did the agent move, continuing to watch the lobby. Styles straightened up and started down the second-to-last flight of stairs toward his quarry. At the landing, he paused, double-checked any shadows, and proceeded. Two steps above him and four feet away, he pounced. He simultaneously cupped his hand over the man's mouth and punched him hard in his right kidney and then immediately put him in a rear choke hold.
"Relax; I'm only going to put you to sleep. Don't fight it," Styles whispered.
In ten seconds, the man was out. Styles kept the hold for another five seconds and then lowered him to the floor. He reached down and pulled the man's communication earpiece from him. He inserted it into his own ear, making sure he turned off the microphone. Might as well hear what they have to say. He opened the door and checked the lobby. The two agents were still at the elevators. He looked around but didn't see the fourth. He texted Phillips, "Cameras down?"
"Yes."
He texted her again. "Move in two."
Slowly, he emerged from the stairwell so as not to draw attention. He moved over toward the main entrance as though he were entering from the street. He noticed a bit of a commotion over at the service desk. A door opened from behind the counter, and the fourth agent exited, followed by who Styles guessed was probably a manager. Styles knew they would all be armed. He had his silenced Beretta in the small of his back but did not plan on drawing it. He judged the distance between the elevators and the service desk to be about thirty feet. He knew he could travel that and be over the counter in about two seconds. He judged the agent behind the counter to be early forties and probably the agent in charge at this scene. There was a large decorative pillar halfway between the elevators and the counter. Checking the angle, he knew it was partially concealing the area immediately in front of the elevators. That would give him an extra couple of seconds before anyone realized what was happening. Nothing beats the element of surprise. Walking casually toward the elevators, he noticed that none of the men were communicating.
Right then, the elevator chime rang, announcing its arrival. When the door opened, both agents riveted their attention to it. Out came a rolling luggage cart. A familiar figure dressed in a lavish hotel jacket with matching hat appeared. Styles had to suppress a smile as he strode quickly toward the elevator.
"Hold that for me, please?" he half shouted. One of the agents took three steps toward it and held the door. These guys really need serious training. He glanced toward the stairwell door and nodded. Then all his attention was devoted toward the two agents. As he walked past the first agent, Styles's fist shot out and caught the agent square in the side of his neck. Without stopping, he caught the agent and threw him into the second agent, knocking them both into the open elevator. Styles sprang after him. The second was fumbling, trying to get out from under the first agent, when Styles struck him with a vicious palm strike to his solar plexus. The air wheezed from his lungs. Though not knocked out, the man was sent to his back, helpless, gasping for breath. Whirling, Styles hit the button for the top floor and exited the elevator, heading for the registration counter. Guy doesn't have a clue. He glimpsed over to see Phillips and Christman going through the front door.
Styles was three feet from the granite countertop when the fourth agent realized he couldn't see the two that had been stationed in front of the elevators. He moved slightly to his own right for a better view of the elevators. As he started to become aware, Styles sprang onto the counter, landing on both his hands, pivoted, and kicked the agent square in the forehead, sending him sprawling back against a wall. Styles, immediately over the man, realized he was unconscious. Without a word, and avoiding looking at the two employees, he was back across the counter and headed out the door. He crossed the wide sidewalk, turned to his right, and began walking alongside the road. Walking less than one hundred feet, the Yukon that Starr and he had been driving pulled alongside, and he jumped in.
"What happened inside?" questioned Starr.
"Not much. Those guys were definitely not field agents."
Christman queried, "You didn't have to—"
"No, just knocked them out. Well, three of them. One I just knocked the breath out of and sent him and his partner for a ride up in the elevator."
"Aren't you worried about the witnesses?" Phillips asked.
"No. Eyewitnesses are the worst. You can have five people who will give five different descriptions. Unless someone has been trained by the military or law enforcement, generally people make lousy witnesses. That's why I needed you to remove us from the security tapes."
Phillips confirmed, "Taken care of. I deleted the last ten hours, so they have no image of us anywhere. Like I said, soon as I have time, I've got to do a better job of trying to get the three of us out of any system anywhere. I feel like it's my fault that they even knew about us."
Styles answered firmly. "Not true. Any of us can be found if someone looks hard enough, and apparently the CIA is. If this Backersley wasn't sticking his nose up our asses, it wouldn't have happened. End of conversation."
"Airport?" inquired Starr.
"Yes," Styles said. "I don't think there's anything here that Phillips can't find faster. Let's get to Alaska."
Reaching into a bag, Starr produced a cell phone. "J. C., be sure you don't speed. We don't need to be stopped for anything."
13
The elderly man who had checked into the Quality Suites immediately went into the bathroom. In less than ten minutes, he had removed the disguise that had taken over four hours to apply, including the liquid latex that had dried into a remarkable mask. He then stepped into a steaming-hot shower. What emerged was a man of obvious Middle Eastern descent. Toweling off, he retrieved a cell phone and dialed the only number programmed into it. A voice answered a simple "Yes."
"I have arrived."
"Good. The van will be parked in the motel's parking lot within the hour. The key will be inside the driver's front tire on the ground. Everything you need will be inside. May Allah guide you in your mission."
"Allahu Akbar."
Sirhan al-Razar had come into America under a student visa. He had attended New York University and graduated with a perfect 4.0 grade point average. The day after graduation, he went underground. He had volunteered for this mission. It was generally acknowledged he would martyr himself, but he had no plans on dying. He was doing this for the money. He had been promised US $5 million should he survive. With an IQ of 160, he firmly believed he was smart enough to carry out his plan. He spotted several menus on the bureau the television was placed upon for restaurants that specialized in room delivery. He ordered a chicken dinner from KFC and waited for his food.