The guard gasped. Drew in a shuddering breath as if to scream. Didn’t. Half-coughed and half-gasped. Started to scream again. Nikolai covered the man’s mouth with his left hand as he used his right to shove the guard’s hand away from his gun. He clubbed the guard behind the ear with the butt of his combat knife, and the man dropped straight to the floor.
Nikolai swore again, angry and annoyed. The man would be dead within minutes, if he wasn’t already, but he was bleeding all over the place. There was suddenly a lot to do. If he didn’t get this mess cleaned up, it would be the first thing the employees noticed when they showed up for work in the morning.
Nikolai reached under the guard’s armpits and dragged him down the hallway to the roof-access door. A trail of blood marked the journey. He dropped the guard onto the floor and grabbed the cart with both hands. The stairway was too narrow to haul the guard up it without first moving the cart, so Nikolai was forced to forfeit his progress. He yanked it angrily back down to the seventh floor hallway where it wobbled dangerously and nearly tipped over.
Shit. Things were not going according to plan. Okay, take it easy. Relax. There was plenty of time to get everything back under control. Nikolai composed himself, slowing his breathing, clearing his mind. Finally, still muttering but now refocused, he hooked his arms once more under the guard’s armpits and dragged the man up the stairs to the roof.
He emerged, breathing heavily, through a rusting steel bulkhead that had once been painted grey but was now pocked with rust and faded almost down to the bare metal. The roof was flat as a flood plain and covered with gravel. Various protuberances — vents and air-conditioning units and pipes whose purposes were unknown to Nikolai — jutted up out of the structure, combining with the gauzy moonlight to make the surface appear stark and menacing.
Nikolai ignored it all. He had seen the roof in surveillance photos and even picked the lock and climbed up here himself during two of the three trips he had made into the building to familiarize himself with its layout in preparation for this mission. He pulled the guard through the entrance and turned toward the rear of the building. Once clear of the bulkhead, he placed the body alongside it as close as possible to the base, concealing the cooling corpse as best he could.
He retraced his steps to the seventh floor, moving quickly. In the hallway he examined closed doors until finding one with a sign on the front that said, JANITORIAL SUPPLIES. He opened the door and found a wheeled plastic cart in one corner. It was shaped like an oversized bucket with a wringer built into the side. A mop had been placed in the wringer, its handle reaching almost all the way to the ceiling. The bucket was half filled with dirty water. Nikolai thanked his lucky stars for the innate laziness of American workers.
He stuck his head out the door and glanced down the hallway. No one there. How likely was it the janitorial workers would notice the guard was missing?
He rolled the cart down the hallway, then stopped at the spot where he had gutted the guard. The man was big, the spillage substantial. There was plenty of evidence to clean. Nikolai dipped the mop into the dirty water and got to work, swishing the mop through the blood, smearing some around the floor but removing the heaviest of the stain, which had only just begun to dry at the edges.
Nikolai examined the floor and decided the stain was still too obvious. He rolled the cart back to the janitor’s closet. Dumped the dirty water and watched it disappear down the sink. Refilled the bucket with fresh water and some detergent, then rolled back to the murder scene.
Tried again.
Better.
One more pass and the evidence of the slaughter was now no more than a faded light brown stain that could have been anything. Nikolai wrung out the mop and moved quickly down the hallway toward the roof access door, erasing from the tiles most of the blood trail he had created when he dragged the guard up to the roof. He stopped when he reached the door. There was no reason to mop the stairway. The door would be closed soon — barring any further interruptions — and no one would see the evidence until it was much too late.
He examined the hallway with a critical eye. Not perfect, but it would have to do. He hurriedly returned the mop and bucket to the janitor’s closet. Stepped out and closed the door. Still no unwanted visitors. He turned and sprinted to the roof access and once more began the laborious process of pulling the tools of his murderous trade up onto the roof.
43
Shane’s head hurt. That was the first thing he noticed. His eyes were closed and he lay on his side and it felt as though someone was shining a flashlight squarely into his face. He opened his eyes slightly, two tiny slits. No flashlight. Nobody shining anything into his face. The motel room curtain was half-drawn, holding the morning sun partially at bay. From behind he could hear furtive sounds of movement.
He rolled over and sat up, moving slowly until he could gauge the extent of the pain inside his skull. From in front of the bathroom door Tracie flashed a tight-lipped smile in his direction, and just like that he didn’t give a damn about his headache. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, and he wouldn’t have thought that possible.
“You’re a heavy sleeper,” she said. She was dressed in an outfit he didn’t recognize, a business suit, something a young female executive might wear.
He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand across his face. He wondered what the hell time it was. “What the hell time is it?” he asked.
“Eight o’clock,” she said. “I knew you were exhausted so I tried to be quiet. We’re not far from the Minuteman Mutual Insurance building, so I wanted to let you get as much rest as possible.”
“Quiet? You were quiet as a mouse,” he said. “Last thing I remember is that noise you make when…well, you know.”
“I know,” she agreed with a smile.
“Where’d you get the outfit?” he asked. “You look terrific.”
“Went shopping last night after you zonked out. Hit the store just before closing. I went out this morning and got breakfast. There’s coffee and a croissant for you,” she nodded at a brown paper bag on top of the small bedside table.
“Thanks for the grub,” he said gratefully, reaching for the coffee.
“No problem.” She looked at him closely. “I brought you something for the pain, too. How are you feeling?”
“Never better,” he lied. He didn’t know exactly how Tracie was planning to stop the assassination scheduled for today, but he knew she needed help, and the only way she might even consider letting him ride along was if she thought his headache had disappeared.
“Liar,” she said mildly.
“Listen,” he said, to change the subject quickly, “what’s the plan for today?”
“Well, let’s see,” Tracie answered, cupping her chin in her hand and pretending to think. “Dress up in my new outfit, have breakfast and, oh, I don’t know, maybe foil an assassination plot. You know, the usual.”
She was keeping things light but Shane could sense her tension. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You know where the shooter is going to be — on the roof of that insurance building — but how in the world are you going to access it? The building will be locked down tight as a drum, won’t it? And for that matter, how is the Russian going to get into position? Won’t he be spotted?”