Another glance at each other, a confirmatory nod, and their features softened. “No,” said the SWAT agent. “The shooter’s down. But we think he may have had an accomplice. We’re just covering our bases,” he added, in what he seemed to think was an encouraging tone.
“Was anyone hurt?” Hendricks asked.
No reply. Instead, the two men fanned out inside the room. They checked inside the shower. Under the bed. Behind the heavy curtains.
“Oh, God,” Hendricks said, allowing a note of hysteria to creep into his voice, “was anyone killed?”
“Clear,” said Security.
“Here, too,” SWAT replied. Both acted as though Hendricks wasn’t even there.
“Please, you have to tell me-my Patricia is down there! Patricia Gunderson? She-we…” Hendricks made a show of marshaling his wits, and started over. “I had a little too much to drink with dinner last night-my stomach can’t handle whiskey like it used to-so Patty thought she’d let me sleep it off awhile while she tried her hand at craps. I prefer cards to dice, myself, and she’s got this thing about this being our vacation, like she can’t leave my side for more than a trip to the can, you know? I kept telling her, you want to play, go play, but she never listens to me…”
“Uh, sir?” SWAT said, trying to nudge Hendricks back on track.
“Yes. Right. Anyway, I was feeling lousy, so she let me sleep in and headed downstairs herself. Six hours ago, this must’ve been. You don’t think she’s hurt, do you? You don’t think she’s…”
At that, Hendricks began to cry.
“Sir,” said Security, “I’m sure your wife is fine. We’re going to need you to lock your door and sit tight awhile, okay?”
“Sit tight? Sit tight? How do you expect me to sit tight while Patty could be bleeding to death God knows where?” Then, with no small measure of steeclass="underline" “You have to take me to her. You have to take me downstairs.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir.” This from SWAT. “We’ve got a job to do. You wanna help, you’re gonna have to stay put until we complete our search.”
“No.”
A pause. “No?” said SWAT, incredulous. “Are you aware you’re defying an officer of the law?”
“So arrest me,” Hendricks said. “Shoot me if you want. But please, for the love of God, take me downstairs to find Patty.” Though SWAT was resolute, Hendricks saw doubt in Security’s eyes and redoubled his efforts. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll follow you the whole way. You’ll be putting me in danger, and Lord knows, I’ll slow you down.”
That did the trick. Security piped up. “Ah, hell, Cy, what’s the harm? Let me take this guy downstairs to find his wife.”
SWAT was unconvinced. “You can’t abandon me up here-I need you to open the doors. My team’s spread thin enough as it is.”
“It’s a fucking card key, for God’s sake. I think you can manage.”
The SWAT agent stepped into the hall and radioed down to his commander. They conversed a second-muttering punctuated by bursts of static. When he returned to Hendricks’s borrowed room, he looked irritated. “Fine,” he said to the security guard. “Straight down. Straight back.” And then, to Hendricks: “Report directly to the holding area-they’ve set up triage for the victims there, and they’re taking a head count of all evacuees. If your wife’s been injured or”-he swallowed, searching for the proper euphemism-“otherwise accounted for, they’ll know it.”
Hendricks’s features showed relief. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t hard to muster. “Thank you-thank you both so much! I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He made for the door, all puppy-dog enthusiasm. The security guard stopped him with a hand to the chest.
“Uh, sir?”
“Yes?”
The guard and agent shared a look, both grinning at the kind if ineffectual man standing before them in nothing but a bathrobe. “Don’t you think you ought to put on some clothes first?”
In that moment, Hendricks knew his cover was cemented. These men would pose no problem for him now.
“Clothes! Right!” he said, flashing them a wan smile. He grabbed a pair of underwear, a blue polo with red and white stripes, and a pair of jeans from the Gundersons’ suitcase. He hooked the boat shoes with a finger in each shoe back and tossed them and his clothes onto the bed. Then turned his attention to the two armed men. “Uh, fellas? You mind giving me a little privacy?”
The two men turned around, their gazes trailing toward the ceiling. Hendricks dropped his robe and dressed quickly, mindful of the many bruises that blossomed across his taut, scarred warrior’s frame. If they’d glanced back, or caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall beside them, all his subterfuge would be for naught.
But they didn’t look back. And clothes on-pinching shoes and all-he was Norm Gunderson once more. Loving husband. Hapless guest.
He snatched up his bankroll off the nightstand and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. Then, leaving the SWAT agent to canvass the seventh floor alone, Hendricks and his escort headed toward the elevators.
Toward freedom.
29
“Agent Garfield? You might wanna get over here. This guy’s got some information you’re gonna wanna hear.” The triage tent was bustling with activity, makeshift cots overflowing with the dying, injured, and just plain terrified-first responders flitting back and forth like flies among them. Garfield wended his way through it toward the woman who called to him-a cute twenty-something paramedic. A half an hour had passed since the SWAT team had declared the ballroom clear. Nearly an hour since Leon Leonwood was executed by Thompson’s so-called ghost- for she and Garfield were certain that’s who it was.
Thompson was rattled by her experience in the banquet hall, of course, as well she should’ve been, having faced down what she thought was certain death. Garfield didn’t need the phantom throb of his long-healed bullet wound- a parting present from the Mara chapter he’d worked so hard to infiltrate-to remind him what that was like. He saw it in the worry lines around his eyes every morning in the mirror. He felt it gnawing at his insides every time he went into the field.
The MS-13 Task Force he’d worked for had placed him with the LAPD, posing as a dirty cop with a taste for blow and Salvadoran women, since being useful and corruptible was the only way into Mara for those who weren’t full-blooded Salvadoran. Turns out he didn’t pose well enough. Even now, six months after the shooting- his wounds healed and the coke habit he’d developed in the line of duty kicked quietly on the Bureau’s dime-he felt empty, a hollowed-out version of the man he’d been before.
He had to hand it to his partner, Thompson-she might come across a ballbuster, but even facing down the barrel of a gun today, she kept her wits enough about her to render a full account of what was said, as well as a half-decent description of her ghost. Seemed he fancied himself a cowboy. Anyway, he wouldn’t be free to roam the prairie long-word was, SWAT had chased him into the ventilation system and had every access point covered. If he made a move, they’d nab him-and if he didn’t, they’d gas him unconscious and go in after him.
Problem was, he only half-believed it. It seemed too pat. Too easy. Not that he could put the feeling into words. But the way his guts were twisted up, it didn’t feel like anticipation of the collar. It felt like worry. Like watching the sky for a big-ass second shoe.
Garfield looked the paramedic up and down. Slight, small-boned, dark-skinned: Hispanic or Latina or whatever. Damn pretty, too-nice body, high cheekbones, doe eyes.
She coulda used a touch of makeup, maybe, but then again, she was on the job.
“Special,” he said, with as much charm as he could muster.