Jason stooped, at the same time releasing the bolt with his left hand. With his right, he swung his belt so that it looped around an ankle outside the stall and slid back the door’s latch.
Not expecting either the release of the lock or the leather around his ankle, the man with the bandaged face stumbled forward. With his left hand now free, Jason grabbed the belt’s loose end and pulled with all his strength.
The intruder’s momentum forward was abruptly reversed, yanking his feet out from beneath him. He did a half gainer that would have scored a 10 by any panel of judges had he been in dive competition rather than a public restroom.
His head met the surface of the tile floor. The sickening thud of bone smashing into ceramic froze not only the man’s partner but the lavatory’s other patrons.
Jason was on the sprawling figure with the quickness of a striking viper. Plunging his hand inside the man’s jacket, he snatched loose the GSh-18 automatic from the nylon, angle-draw shoulder holster.
Jason looked up just in time to see the second man’s hand going for the inside of his windbreaker. Rolling violently to his left for momentum, Jason sprang to his feet, the front sight of the Russian automatic aligned with the spot where the man’s eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose.
“OK, OK!” Realizing Jason could get off a shot before his own weapon cleared the holster, the man slowly raised both hands.
Jason stepped out of range of the arms and legs of the man on the floor. “OK, folks,” he addressed the audience, “showtime’s over. Walk, do not run, to the exit.”
There is nothing like a gun in a man’s hand to ensure prompt, unquestioning obedience. Their eyes never leaving Jason, the five or six men in the restroom edged toward the door. Jason guessed he had maybe fifteen to thirty seconds before one of them found a cop.
Edging sideways so he could keep both the man on the floor and the other in sight, Jason indicated the near wall. “OK, now you assume the position.”
The man looked at him blankly.
“Don’t make it easier for me to kill you than take your weapon. You heard me!”
When the man was spread against the wall, Jason approached cautiously. With his shoe, he kicked the man’s feet a little farther away from the wall, ensuring that the man’s balance was such that any sudden movement would land him on the floor. Keeping the GSh-18 level in his right hand, Jason found its mate in another shoulder holster. Using his thumb, he pushed the clip release and let the magazine clatter to the floor. Ejecting the round in the chamber, he tossed the gun into the paper-towel disposal. The man on the floor was struggling to his feet.
“So long, boys. It’s been a real pleasure.”
Jason was no more than a dozen steps outside the entrance to the restroom when four burly men in police uniform, weapons drawn, dashed past. Once they were out of sight, he dumped the remaining gun in a trash bin. If the airport went into lockdown, he didn’t want to be caught with a firearm.
Outside, Jason was embraced by an envelope of humidity. Prickles of sweat tickled his back. He toyed with the idea of concealing himself in hopes of a chance to follow his assailants once they exited the airport. Too risky. There was too good a chance the local cops might be looking for the man with the gun in the men’s room.
Besides, he had a plan.
Instead, he slid into the first cab he saw, thankful for the air-conditioning.
The coquí were in full song in the little plaza in front of the hotel. The tiny tree frogs had voices far disproportionate to their one-inch sizes. Catty-corner to the hotel and small park, San Juan Cathedral’s alabaster facade, bathed in spotlights, pierced the night sky.
As he paid the cabbie and retrieved his bag, Jason was reminded of the church’s most celebrated occupant: Juan Ponce de León, entombed there since his death by an Indian arrow in 1521. The man had to be one of Spain’s more confused conquistadors. Searching for the Fountain of Youth, rumored to be on the island of Bimini, he found Florida, perhaps the last man to see the state with more flowers than high-rise condos.
Believing he had found an island rather than the southern part of North America, he set sail back to Puerto Rico, landing instead on the Yucatán Peninsula, this time convinced he had found Bimini.
Jason entered the hotel’s high-ceilinged reception area across an Andalusian floor of large black-and-white tiles. The walls around the lobby were hung with tapestries depicting medieval scenes of hunts and battles. Jason wondered how the fabric survived the mildew endemic to the tropical climate. Beyond the open lobby, he could see a three-tiered courtyard bordered on three sides by cloisters. It took little imagination for shadows to become nuns silently sliding by the three-hundred-year-old níspero fruit tree that dominated the center. At the rear, a pool shimmered an inviting cool blue. No doubt an addition since the nuns’ departure. At the end near Jason, a bar was doing a brisk business serving those waiting for a seat at the alfresco restaurant.
Jason resisted the temptation to join them, ignoring a protesting stomach. He’d had nothing but a light snack of pressed and tasteless chicken between dry bread garnished with wilted lettuce and perhaps a dozen potato chips on the plane. Through some oversight of the airline, though, the slice of dill pickle had a trace of flavor.
But at least he had arrived, nearly on time, on the flight he had booked and in the seat he had purchased. Today’s air traveler was learning to be thankful for things taken for granted a few years earlier.
He needed to get to his room. If the bully boys at the airport had learned of his arrival before he had even deplaned, there was a good chance they knew where he was staying, as well. The downside of modern computerized society was that there was little information not available to even a modestly talented hacker.
His third-floor accommodation, the one he had requested after a virtual tour before booking his reservations, was at the end of an open-air corridor looking down on the courtyard. Designed and furnished to remind the occupant of its origins, the room had a high, oak-beamed ceiling, making the space seem as tall as it was wide and long, the dimensions of a monastic cell. The floor was Spanish tile. Furnishings, though stark in appearance, were tasteful and certainly more comfortable than the sisters would have enjoyed. Floor-to-ceiling French doors opened onto a terrace looking onto the plaza and cathedral below. He guessed daylight would bring a view of the rain forest beyond.
Jason stepped into the steamy night and paced the terrace. Empty lounge chairs were his only company. Only two rooms, including his, had access other than by way of the hall outside his door. All as he had seen on the computer before leaving home.
Perfect.
43
During the summer in San Juan, you can set your watch by the rain showers. Between four and four thirty a downpour of short duration sweeps the city streets clean but leaves the air saturated. Shortly after dark, the cooling temperature squeezes the afternoon’s lingering moisture out of the air like wringing a wet rag. This shower passes quickly also, making alfresco dining on Old Town’s myriad patios almost comfortable.
By late night, the evening’s rain was only a steamy memory. The sound of the patrons of the bar in the courtyard was diminishing. Guests were retiring to their rooms and other customers were slowly leaving for a livelier scene, for a nighttime flirtation with chance at the casinos, or to simply go home. Either way, the comparative quiet allowed Balduino, the night clerk, to slip into that semi-somnambulistic state of near sleep that would last until he was relieved at the hotel’s front desk in the morning.