“Funny time to check out,” she commented. She took the cash and looked at the bills with open suspicion.
“Turns out I’m not tired.”
As I pushed the exit door open, the chill in the air caught me by surprise after a day confined in a slightly overheated hotel room. I breathed cold air in through my nostrils, letting it wake me up a little, bring me back to the present. I’d left the car back in Chicago, so the first order of business was to find a replacement.
Banner had listened. I gave her that. But in the end, I hadn’t been able to convince her. Her final words came back to me as I stepped out into the night:
I can’t just toss everything else out of the window to focus on a hunch.
But I can, I’d said after a beat. It’s what I’m here for.
The motel parking lot was an unevenly patched square of asphalt, about fifty yards on a side. It was half full, evidently oversized for the hotel’s occupancy, and lit by the yellow glare of sodium lights. I was halfway across before I noticed the guy in the black coat with the beanie hat shading his eyes.
He was at the far side of the lot, leaning against the short wall that marked the hotel’s property off from the highway, right beside the entrance.
A number of warning signs lit up for me: his demeanor, the attempt to hide his face, the fact I could see he was concealing something inside his jacket. But it was his position that really made me alert. Because, unless I wanted to turn around and walk back into the hotel, the only way I could leave this lot was to pass within a couple of feet of this guy. And before I got to him, I’d have to pass between two high-sided vehicles: a minivan and a chunky SUV.
The guy in the beanie stayed put as I paused midstride. He didn’t look up. I kept watching him — stared at him for twenty seconds. I caught the slightest hint of a head movement, as though he’d glanced to his left. That meant someone was behind the parked van. Possibly more than one someone.
I understood the scenario. It was something I ought to have expected: a sudden, violent event that had disturbed the small-town ennui and gotten everyone excited, quickening the pulses of the local tough guys. Put that together with an influx of journalists with expensive phones and iPads and minds on other things, and you have the perfect opportunity to mix business with pleasure.
I considered my options. I knew one thing for sure: If I carried on between the two parked vehicles toward the exit, two, maybe three people would attempt to mug me. The smart thing to do would be to walk back inside the hotel and either find another way out or call the police.
I didn’t have time to do the smart thing.
I glanced around to check there was no one else lurking around, then started walking, quickening my pace and aiming directly for the guy in the beanie. He stiffened slightly but didn’t look up. I rolled my shoulders as I walked, limbering up. As I reached the spot between the minivan and the SUV, the guy finally looked up at me, jutting his chin in my direction defiantly.
“Give me the bag and your wallet.”
I didn’t break stride. I could feel the weight of the Beretta where it was strapped across my chest. I resisted the temptation — I knew taking it out would mean having to use it. I tightened my grip on the handle of the leather laptop bag.
The guy blinked as I closed the gap between us, obviously unsure as to why I hadn’t stopped. “Give me the fucking bag,” he repeated, angry now. I kept coming and he opened his coat, pulling out a baseball bat. The minivan was parked six inches farther from the wall than the SUV, giving me a good idea of the direction from which the first attack would come. As I drew level with its rear fender, I brought the laptop case up to shield the right side of my head. Another bat swung from behind the van, slammed into the padded leather. The case stopped it easily; whoever it was hadn’t overcommitted to the swing. It didn’t help them. The point of impact allowed me to triangulate the position of the assailant, so that the sole of my right foot was planted square in his solar plexus before the bat had stopped moving on the deflection. The connection was solid. I felt the kick go deep into a fleshy midsection. I didn’t bother looking at the guy I’d just incapacitated. I was too busy with the next guy. Not the guy in the beanie, front-row-center, but the third guy, coming at me from left field.
This was a wiry younger man with a blond buzz cut. He was almost albino-blond, a blade in his left hand. That was annoying: I hate fighting southpaws. He looked a little surprised: The three of them had obviously worked out a game plan that was predicated on me being hit in the face by the bat first. I’d messed that up, and now I was going to take full advantage of the two seconds of confusion I’d caused.
I gripped the handle of the laptop bag with both hands and slammed it against the albino’s head so hard that the handle snapped and the zipper broke open. Albino lurched backward, stunned but not down. The padding on the case had worked against me this time, cushioning the blow.
Beanie was coming for me now, a little hesitantly after seeing what I’d just done to his buddies, but I gave him credit for trying anyway. I reached between the zippers, gripped the hard edge of the laptop itself, and let the busted case slide off it, like some rectangular reptile shedding its skin. I stole a glance at the first one I’d hit. He was a balding fat guy, on his knees, trying to force some air into oxygen-starved lungs, the bat by his side. Beanie tried a couple of jabs with his own bat, using it like a spear, trying to keep some distance. I dodged the jabs easily and got in closer. Too late, he swung at me one-handed. I leaned in to the swing, caught his forearm under my left arm, and jerked my whole body back. He let out a high-pitched scream as his radius and ulna snapped like firewood.
I knew I’d left the albino unattended for too long. I released the beanie guy and spun, holding the laptop up to cover my midsection. I was just in time: The point of his blade caught the laptop and scored a trench in the plastic casing, nearly amputating two of my fingers as it slid off the side.
I heard a scuff behind me as the beanie guy made a halfhearted follow-up. I turned my body sideways and kicked him hard in the groin. Not exactly subtle, but put together with the broken arm, it would be more than sufficient to discourage him from another try.
The albino was coming for me again, jabbing with the knife. He knew how to use it — wasn’t extending too far, using his right hand to feint effectively.
I stepped back from two fast swipes of the blade and used the laptop to block a quick stab. The point of the blade caught it straight-on this time and penetrated, the tip of the blade going through and coming out the other side. I wasted a moment being glad I always worked off a flash drive, then punched the albino hard in the face while he was still in range.
He shook it off and came at me again, aiming at my fingers, around the edge of the laptop. I faked as if to fall back and then went on the offensive, slamming the hard corner of the laptop into the nerve cluster in his left shoulder. It worked: He dropped the knife and his arm hung limp. I blocked a wild right hook and jabbed the laptop into his face, catching him right across the bridge of the nose. His working arm came up to cover his face, and I swung the laptop as hard as I could from the opposite side. The casing shattered across the left side of his head, the screen ripped free of its hinges, and the albino went down like a rag doll.
I turned my attention to the other two men and saw that they were already across the road and running. I looked down at myself, examining my arms and center mass for injuries I might not have felt in the heat of combat, but found nothing. My computer, alas, was another story.
I dropped the remains of it next to the unconscious albino and walked away quickly. I didn’t have the time to waste on this situation, but something was niggling at me, and it wasn’t just the loss of my computer. I’d beaten off an attack by three armed thugs in less than a minute, but that was the problem: It shouldn’t have taken me that long. The albino had displayed skills, discipline. Either he was made of sterner stuff than your usual street tough, or I was getting rusty.