Smoke and cordite hung in the air.
Before Crocker could scramble to his feet, the wrestler was on him, spitting curses and reaching for his throat. Crocker could feel the man’s sweat and smell the madness on his breath. His thick hands were strong, with nails that sunk into Crocker’s neck.
Doubting that he had the strength or leverage to pry them loose, the American reared his head back and smashed it into the wrestler’s nose. Then again, and two more times, until its bridge gave way and he felt the man’s warm blood on his face.
But when the American tried to get his feet under him, he slipped on the broken glass, blood, and sweat, and went down hard on his ass.
The wrestler roared and kicked Crocker in the stomach. Then the big man threw himself on him, and the two grappled on the shower floor. Body against body. Strength versus strength.
The physical dynamic of wrestling had never been Crocker’s strong suit. But here he was side by side with a beast who was using his powerful legs to push against the door opening and pin him against the wall.
Crushing him.
Each man had his arm around the other’s neck, but the wrestler had the advantage, because Crocker couldn’t move his legs or arms. The pressure against his ribs and chest was growing by the second, making it increasingly hard to breathe.
Trapped and losing ground, Crocker heard something move by the sink.
Peering past the wrestler’s thick head and chest, through the shower doorway he saw the pockmarked guy trying to push himself up on his elbow and steady the pistol as blood gushed from his neck. It was a desperate last effort. His hand shook badly. But he still had the determination to curl his finger around the trigger and squeeze.
Shit…
Crocker ducked behind the wrestler as the shots rang out.
Three bullets in succession glanced off the floor and struck the wrestler, who jerked and groaned.
The pistol clattered across the tile floor.
“In sha’Allah,” moaned the man by the sink. God willing.
The big wrestler was trembling and loosening his grip enough that Crocker could pull away and stand in a crouch.
On the floor by the sink, the pockmarked man lay still in a dark pool of his own blood, his mouth caught between a smile and grimace, a look of expectation in his eyes.
Crocker stepped quickly out of the shower and recovered the Makarov pistol. Then turned and pointed it at the wrestler’s head.
His big yellowish eyes pleaded up at him. “No.”
“Yes!”
Two quick rounds into his skull. Then silence.
Just the loud thumping of Crocker’s heart as he reached down and retrieved a hotel keycard and passport from the dead man’s pocket.
Chapter Sixteen
Without knowledge, skill cannot be focused. Without skill, strength cannot be brought to bear. Without strength, knowledge cannot be applied.
– Alexander the Great’s chief physician
Using a wet paper towel to wipe the blood from his face and neck, Crocker remembered his circumstances-the hotel, his men waiting near the garage, Sheik Rastani, Cyrus and, hopefully, Malie, in a suite not far away-and knew that more trouble was coming.
He strode down the hallway unaware that he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints.
He felt like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and the Ugly, walking straight into the face of evil. Determined to stop the wolves. But there was no Ennio Morricone music playing in the background. No two-note howl to let the bad guys know he was coming to kick their asses.
Just the pounding of his boots into the carpet.
Nor was there time to call for help.
Crocker assumed that the shots fired in the bathroom had been heard and that Sheik Rastani, Cyrus, and others were scrambling to stop him and/or escape.
He wasn’t going to let that happen, not when he was so close he could smell victory in the air ahead of him.
His heart pounded. His mouth, ribs, and neck hurt. His teeth ached; so did his face and jaw.
The adrenaline shoved all physical pain aside and pushed him forward, around the corner, where he saw the double mahogany doors to Suite 6C.
Bingo!
He knew this was his destination because of the bloody keycard and cardboard sleeve he clutched in his right hand. In his left he held the Makarov the pockmarked thug had dropped on the floor of the bathroom. Still warm.
He put his ear against the door and listened. An announcer’s voice in English reporting on a flood in the Philippines. A rescue was under way.
I’m glad.
Then tried the keycard. The lock flashed green and beeped. One deep breath later, he swung the door open and waited.
Come out, you motherfuckers.
The newscast segued into a Madonna song on the radio, her voice soaring and pleading at the same time.
His mind made thousands of lightning-quick calculations-the depth of the space, the darkness of the shadows, the quality of the light, the smell in the air.
It was a big, luxurious open space divided into functional areas. His eyes scanned right to left. A big flat-screen TV on a paneled wall. Tan leather sofas, a vase full of orchids, a view of the ocean, a prayer rug on the floor near the window. A half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs, a cup of tea, steam rising from a metal and glass table, and a hallway at an angle to his far left. Someone had been here seconds before.
Every second marked with a beat of his heart.
The song climbed to a crescendo.
He sensed that there was at least one other door into the suite, and somewhere people were escaping.
Gritting his teeth, he held the pistol in the ready position-like an extension of his arm-and stepped inside. Crossed past the sunken sitting area, swung around the table with the orchids, and entered the hall.
Like entering a bubble that was about to explode.
His back against the wall, he waited as the seconds ticked from a clock in a room to his right. Thought he heard a low voice like a moan. Maybe the wind? Or a big cat?
How likely is that?
Then something moved behind him and he spun, half expecting a panther or a cougar to lunge at him.
Phugt! Phugt! Phugt! Like someone spitting.
Bullets from a silenced pistol whizzed by his chin and tore into the wall. Throwing himself back, he crouched behind the corner. Residue of wallboard pelted his face and stuck in his eyes.
Tearing. Wiping the dust away. Trying to focus.
Aware of footsteps hurrying across the floor in the opposite direction, he stole a quick look only to see the blurry backs of two men running to the door. One wearing a long white shirt and pulling a large black suitcase, the other in a white dishdasha and ghutra.
The one pulling the suitcase turned and squeezed off a succession of shots. Crocker aimed and fired back.
A bullet tore into the man’s arm, causing him to let go of the suitcase and scramble out the door.
Crocker had a split second to decide whether to pursue them or keep going.
The person he was really looking for was Malie, so he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and continued down the hallway, inch by inch. Rooms to his left, two doors to his right.
Trying to calculate how much time the men had to get away. Confident that Davis, Akil, and Jakob would do what they could to stop them. Then considering the problems they might encounter.
There was absolutely nothing he could do about that now.
The first opening left led to a kitchen. Lots of cherry wood and stainless steel. A shiny double-doored refrigerator purring. Toblerone chocolate bar, a bottle of Evian water, two Orangina bottles, a roll of paper towels, and a money belt on the counter, but no people inside.