The lock was cheap and Tracie knew if the Russian had any experience at lock-picking — and there was no doubt he did — the two men would be into the room in a matter of seconds. She had to hurry.
A string of ornamental shrubs, brownish-yellow and dying, lined the rear of the parking lot, forming a barrier between the motel property and the trash-strewn alley behind it. Tracie ducked down below the tops of the shrubs and raced behind them, using them for cover, limping only slightly. She disappeared into the darkness at the rear of the dummy room, then made her way back along the side until she reached the corner. She bent down, hands on her knees, and worked to quiet her breathing.
A couple of seconds later, she heard a muffled grunt of satisfaction and eased her head around the corner just in time to see the lock-picker begin easing the door open. He worked slowly, clearly concerned a squeaky hinge might awaken the occupants.
She waited patiently, just out of sight, as the two men stood in the doorway. The first man faced into the room, unmoving, door partly open, and she became concerned she had not done a good enough job of disguising the blankets on the bed to look like sleeping people. Then she realized the Russian was letting his eyes adjust to the darkness in the room before proceeding. It made sense. It was what she would have done.
At last the first man disappeared inside, while the second man maintained his position at the door, facing outward with his back to the room. He held his silenced weapon against the side of his leg. The gun would be invisible should a car happen to drive into the lot, but Tracie could see it clearly, its black matte finish muted by the dirty light.
Within seconds, the assassin inside the room would discover they had been duped. She had to make her move before that happened or she would lose the advantage of surprise. Still she waited. She would get an opportunity soon. The Russian hit team was being sloppy, careless because their intel had come directly from their high-ranking CIA connection. They were confident their targets would not suspect a thing, that the doomed man and woman would feel safe and secure inside their anonymous New Haven motel room.
Instead of maintaining an active scan, the Russian at the door stared impassively into space, bored, occasionally glancing left and then right. The third time he looked toward the motel office, Tracie acted.
She broke from the cover of the motel building, moving silently but quickly. Before the guard could react, Tracie grabbed his gun with one hand. She used her other to place her own gun against his head, nestling the barrel in the soft tissue between the skull and the jawbone. She pushed hard. “Don’t move,” she said softly.
The man didn’t move.
Tracie ripped the Russian’s weapon out of his hand. He would have a backup, probably in an ankle holster, but she didn’t have time to worry about that. “Move into the room as quietly as you can,” she whispered.
The man pivoted slowly and eased into the room, Tracie right on his heels. The first Russian had arrived at the bed and stood next to it, his back to the doorway. The lookout cleared his throat and the first Russian froze for just a second and then whirled, sensing a problem.
He wasn’t quick enough. Tracie trained the lookout’s gun on the assassin’s chest, her hand unwavering, her Beretta still pressed against the first man’s head.
“Drop your weapon,” she said quietly. “Do it now or you die, and so does your friend. I won’t say it again.”
For a long moment nothing happened, as if the Russian was calculating his odds of survival should he try to shoot his way out of the room. Tracie let him do it. He would inevitably come to the same conclusion she had — that he was out of options.
A moment later, the gun dropped with a muffled thud to the thinly carpeted floor. “Now kick it over to me,” she said, and he did, undisguised malice in his hooded eyes. The gun skidded to a stop a couple of feet to her left. For now she ignored it. She didn’t have a free hand to hold the third gun, and it was far enough away from either of her captives that they would not be able to make a play for it without catching a bullet in the head.
She flicked her gun toward a small chair at a writing desk next to the TV stand. “Go sit down,” she said, wondering how she was going to immobilize the assassin without giving the lookout an opportunity to jump her or go for her gun.
“I’m right behind you,” a voice said, and she jumped, resisting the impulse to pull the triggers on both weapons. She realized it was Shane’s voice and wondered briefly how he had made it to the doorway without her noticing.
The Russian assassin was a cool character — he was facing Tracie and must have seen Shane standing in the doorway behind her, but he had given nothing away with his cold, calculating eyes. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of the unexpected visitor to make an escape attempt. Now it was too late.
Tracie spoke to Shane, still talking quietly. “You were supposed to wait in the other room.” She didn’t know whether to be glad he was there or angry he had ignored her instructions.
“I thought you might need help and I was right.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Okay, the duct tape is in my right jacket pocket. Take it and secure our friend here,” she nodded in the direction of the assassin, “to the chair. Tape his wrists to the arms of the chair first, then his ankles to the legs. Use plenty of tape and wrap it as tightly as you can.”
Shane eased past. She kicked the door closed and shuffled forward, prodding the lookout with her weapon. Her arms were beginning to tire from the strain of keeping both guns raised and trained on their targets. The pair moved forward, locked in a bizarre dance, and finally she stopped when they had moved to within a few feet of Shane and the other Russian. She watched closely as Shane slid the chair out from the desk and turned it around. The Russian reluctantly sat and he got to work.
It took only a couple of minutes to immobilize the man. Finally, Tracie felt comfortable lowering the weapon in her right hand. She told Shane, “Tape his mouth shut.”
He wrapped the duct tape around the man’s head, and when he had finished, Tracie said, “We’re going to split these two up and I’m going to get the information I need. This guy’s not going anywhere. Come with me and help me tape down this one,” she nodded toward the lookout, “then come back here and babysit our murderous friend. It won’t take me long.”
She shoved her gun into the ribs of her captive and moved to the parking lot. Shane picked the third gun up off the floor and walked out behind her, closing and locking the door. Then they hustled across the lot to the second room. Within seconds, Shane had taped the man to the chair while Tracie held her weapon on him.
“I need a little private time with this guy,” she said to Shane. “The safety is off on the weapon you’re holding. If Mr. KGB over there,” she nodded at room across the lot, “does anything other than sit quietly, shoot him, and don’t stop shooting until the clip’s empty.”
Shane hesitated for just a moment and then nodded without a word. He pulled the door closed quietly as he left, and Tracie was alone with her captive. She stared at him without speaking. He returned her gaze, trying to look defiant but only managing uncertain.
She smiled thinly. “What do you say we get to know each other?”
33
The iron was ancient, two decades old if it was a day, a cheap model with just a few heat settings and a long, fraying power cord. Tracie could see a hint of bare copper wire nestled behind the rubber plug and wondered how long it would be before the damned thing sparked and burned the entire wooden motel structure to the ground.