Chris F Holm
The Approach
Book 1.5 in the Michael Hendricks series, 2016
The Starlite Motor Lodge was a tired mid-century throwback on a dusty stretch of highway five miles outside of Las Vegas. Unlit neon. Pink stucco caked with grime. A rusty handrail bordering its second-story walkway. The kind of place that advertised clean rooms and color TVs, and made you wonder whether either claim was true.
I pulled my rental into the Starlite’s lot as sunset painted the horizon red. The place was pretty empty, so I had my choice of parking spots. A twentysomething in an undershirt and a faded pair of Levi’s sat reading Hunter Thompson in a lawn chair outside his room, a crumpled takeout bag from the taqueria next door at his feet. As I climbed out of the car, he whistled.
“Uh, Mikey-did you just get catcalled?” Even through the cheap Bluetooth earpiece, Lester’s amused tone was hard to miss.
“I’m pretty sure he was whistling at the car, jackass. I told you it was too flashy.” Lester was my tech guy. My right-hand man. A master forger and a genius with computers, he always set up my aliases and handled my travel arrangements. But the fucker had a sense of humor. This trip, my IDs all read Zack Carey-after Kyle MacLachlan’s character in Showgirls-and the rental car he’d booked for me was a ’67 Mustang GT convertible in Acapulco Blue.
“Aw, come on. Loosen up a little, would you? You’re in Vegas, baby! As far as I’m concerned, that car’s barely flashy enough. Besides, I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re a very handsome man, Michael. Everyone thinks so.”
“Yeah? Everyone who? You aside, the whole world thinks I’m dead.”
“Oh. Right. Guess it’s just me, then.”
The desert heat was nigh unbearable. This time of year, even nightfall offered little relief. My throat was parched. My clothes clung to my skin. Sweat gathered beneath the concealment holster on my hip. A hand-painted sign on the roadhouse across the street promised live music and ice-cold beer. Right now, that sounded like a better way to spend my evening than what I had planned.
“What room did you say she was in again?” I asked.
“201.”
“Thanks.” I eyed the dingy old motel. The office was bottom right. 201 was the room farthest from. Light showed in two ground-floor windows, and-my rented Mustang aside-there were three cars in the parking lot, all clustered around the office. There weren’t any bus stops nearby, so my guess was she took a cab here and asked for a little privacy when she checked in.
“Listen, Mikey, are you sure you wanna do this? Because it’s not too late to walk away.” Lester had been trying to talk me out of this job since it popped up on our radar. He thought the potential payout was too small, and the odds of getting paid at all were lousy. For what it was worth, I didn’t disagree.
I sighed. “We’ve been over this already, Les. I’m not going to change my mind now.”
“All right, all right-I’ve said my piece.”
“I’m going dark for the duration of the approach. I’ll call you back shortly.”
“Good luck,” he said. “Destiny awaits.”
The stairs clanged beneath my boot treads. A warm breeze kicked grit into my eyes. Blackout curtains blocked my view of the rooms I passed. Their windows were closed; their AC units, idle.
Room 201’s air conditioner was on, though. It rattled and wheezed like an asthmatic in the grip of an attack, and dripped discolored water onto the walkway. The curtains were open. The lights and TV were off. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered inside. Saw a queen-size bed with a busy floral comforter. A Formica table and two chairs. A torchiere lamp. A low, wide dresser with a television atop it-color, maybe, but not a flat screen. A suitcase on a luggage rack, unzipped and hemorrhaging clothes. Near as I could tell, the room was currently unoccupied.
I knocked. When no one answered, I tried the door. It was locked, but I could see through a gap in the doorjamb that the deadbolt wasn’t set. I opened the wallet Lester had put together for me, thumbed past photos of a woman and two children I’d never met, and removed a rewards card from a grocery store local to the address on my fake ID. Thinner and more flexible than my alias’s credit cards, it slipped easily between door and jamb, and popped the latch as effortlessly as if I’d used the key.
I opened the door a crack and listened. The clamor of the AC unit aside, I heard nothing, so I entered the room. The cold, processed air was a shock after the desert heat. So was the gun barrel that pressed against the nape of my neck.
I turned my head slightly and caught a glimpse of a woman in my periphery, half hidden by the open door. She must have been standing in the corner nearest the hinges when I peeked through the window. As I moved, she jabbed me with the gun barrel, so I stopped.
“Easy,” she said. “And keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
“Are you Destiny?”
“Depends who’s asking.” She shut the door behind me and took a step back. “Now turn around.”
I complied a little more enthusiastically than she would’ve liked-pivoting on one heel and quickly closing the gap between us. I wrapped my hand around the wrist of her gun arm and wrenched it toward the ceiling, squeezing as hard as I could to keep her from pulling the trigger. Even in a dump like this, a gunshot was liable to attract attention.
With my free hand, I grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her head toward me. She bent at the waist and fell to her knees-her arm still pointed skyward thanks to my grip on her wrist. As the strain on her shoulder built, she let out a cry and dropped the gun. I released her with a shove and retrieved it. She wound up sprawled across the threadbare carpet.
“Relax,” I told her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
She sat up. Tested her arm’s range of motion gingerly. Winced. “Yeah? You coulda fooled me.”
“I’m not here to get shot, either.”
Outside, the motel’s neon lights blinked on and cast long shadows onto the far wall. Now that the sun had fully set, the room was dark save for the neon’s glow. I considered turning on the lamp beside the table, but decided against it. The illumination would only serve to make a target of us both.
“What are you here for?”
“To offer you my services.”
“What kind of services? Breaking and entering? Assault?”
“If need be,” I replied. I engaged the safety on her gun and set it on the table. Then I helped her to her feet. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”
I sat down on one side of the table, in the chair facing the door. She dropped into the chair opposite. I never sit with my back to an entrance if I can avoid it.
Her gaze flitted from me to the gun on the table between us and back again. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” I said. She frowned and looked away.
The next part’s always the hardest. Some folks need a little hand-holding. Others want to hear it straight. She seemed like the latter to me, so I dove right in. “Are you aware that there’s a bounty on your head?”
“Would I be holed up in this piece of shit motel if I wasn’t?”
“Fair point,” I said. “And you knowing makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier?”
“My sales pitch.”
“What, exactly, are you selling?”
“A second chance at life.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning-for a price-I’ll put the guy they send to kill you in the ground.”
“That sounds less like a second chance than a head start on the next guy who comes gunning for me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. In my experience, once one hitter winds up dead, others are disinclined to pick up the contract. And the mess a failed hit leaves behind usually leads the cops right back to the guy who put the hit out in the first place.”
“What do you know about the guy who put the hit out in the first place?”