‘Maybe they’re makin’ out in the corridor,’ said the front passenger.
‘They could be startin’ on the living-room floor in the dark. Ain’t you guys got any imagination? They’ll get to the bedroom soon enough,’ suggested the driver.
The older guy in the back sighed and laid his head back. ‘I hope he don’t take all night. I got reservations at the Tropicana.’
Stratton stepped down off the chair and considered his options. His most urgent need was to get away from the apartment building and find somewhere to hide for a couple more days. But he could not decide if he should do anything about the would-be assailants first. There was a certain logic in going on the offensive since he might destroy some of those who were after him, thus reducing the extent of any future threat. And if Cano was in the car and Stratton got rid of him the impetus of the vendetta might lessen when the driving force behind it was dead. The next question was what did he have to lose by trying. The answer to that was clearly nothing and it was therefore a risk worth taking. Still, the clock was ticking and he had to make a decision quickly. The pros: Cano had tried to kill him and Vicky and would try again. Offing the bastard was a matter of survival, plain and simple. The cons: there weren’t any – he’d killed two Albanians already and a couple more wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference.
Stratton kept low as he moved around the bed with the bomb, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and, half-crawling through the living room, returned to the front door and stepped back into the corridor, silently closing the door behind him.
As he walked towards the elevators he wrapped the box in the towel. Vicky was waiting where he had left her. Before she could utter a word he took her by the arm and led her back along the corridor, past his apartment and towards the fire exit at the end.
‘Are you going to tell me what all this is about?’ she asked, sounding a little annoyed.
‘No. I can’t Vicky. It’s better you don’t know,’ Stratton said as he took her hand. Together they raced down the stairs.
Stratton paused at the bottom, opened the door slightly and looked out. If someone was still watching the lighted entrance the chances were that they would not see the darkened emergency-exit door open further down the street. It was a chance that he had to take.
‘Go left and keep walking. I’ll catch you up in a few seconds. Go.’
Stratton practically pushed Vicky out through the door and she immediately started to walk away. He found an empty beer can by the stairs and placed it carefully against the bottom of the door frame. Then he stepped outside, letting the door shut against the can, and hurried down the street.
He caught Vicky up before she reached the corner and walked around it with her before stopping her with a gentle pressure on her arm. ‘You keep walking up this street and catch the first taxi you see. Please don’t ask me anything now. I’ll call you at the centre tomorrow, okay?’
She studied him for a moment, not afraid any more but deeply concerned. She glanced at the bundle under his arm, then looked into his eyes again. ‘Okay,’ she finally said. ‘You’ll call me tomorrow?’
‘First thing,’ he said.
Vicky looked very disappointed as she lowered her gaze and walked away from him up the street.
Stratton watched her get twenty yards ahead before following. As she crossed the road she hailed a taxi and he turned the corner towards Santa Monica Boulevard. He looked back to see her climb in and as it pulled away he broke into a jog.
Less than a minute later Stratton was standing on the corner at the end of the alleyway, looking at the back of the sedan parked twenty yards away. Pedestrians walked past him on the busy boulevard, no one taking any notice of him. He uncovered the box and attached the wire he had disconnected. He looked up to check that the man on the roof was not visible, then moved quickly at the crouch into the darkened alley along the wall, dropping to his knees as he reached the car. He quickly pushed the bundle underneath it, scurried back to the busy boulevard and broke into a run, back around the block the way he had come. He slowed to a fast walk as he approached the emergency exit of the apartment building. He stepped inside, kicked away the beer can and ran up the stairs, not stopping until he reached his door.
Stratton stepped inside, paused to take a few deep breaths and turned on the light.
He removed his jacket, dropped it onto the back of a chair and went into his bedroom. He turned on the light and drew the curtains.
The cellphone on the seat beside the man in the back of the saloon rang and he picked it up, listened a moment then lowered it as he cut off the caller. He dialled a number. ‘About time,’ he said. ‘Hope he’s gettin’ laid. Nothin’ like going out with a bang is what I always say.’ He punched in the last number then hit the call button.
The explosion rattled Stratton’s windows. He looked round the side of the bedroom curtain to see the car in flames, its rear end practically destroyed by the detonating fuel tank.
Stratton dug his pack out of the wardrobe, crammed all his clothes into it, hurried into the bathroom to collect his washing stuff and went back into the living room. He pulled on his jacket, took the CIA explosives pack out of one of the kitchen cabinets and jammed it into his bag, which he now zipped up. Then he left the apartment. He hurried along the corridor back to the emergency stairwell, took the stairs several at a time and stepped out onto the street.
Stratton walked past the entrance to the alleyway where a crowd had gathered to stare at the burning car, and along Second Street where he searched for a taxi. His plan was to find a cheap hotel in another part of town, wait for Josh’s release and then get the hell out of the country. But one thing was worrying him. Whoever had tried to hit him might know about Josh and possibly about Vicky too. That was a major cause of concern and one for which he had no immediate solution. One possibility was to kidnap Josh from the centre but that option was a minefield. Another was to go to Vicky, except that he did not know where she lived and had no home or cellphone number for her.
A cab pulled over. As Stratton climbed in he had a terrible feeling that things might be falling apart for him.
22
Stratton awoke the following morning in a seedy hotel that had been recommended by the taxi driver. It was in Mar Vista, midway between west and central LA. The area appeared to have more Hispanics and blacks than whites in it, judging by the characters on the street. When Stratton had asked the driver about going further east the man had said that he wouldn’t like to speculate on Stratton’s survival prospects, seeing as he was way too white to be going any further east in that part of town.
The hotel room, which smelled of tobacco smoke, was basic to say the least. It had a TV, en-suite shower, a cigarette-burned carpet with matching sideboard and the added feature of a vibrating bed – five minutes per quarter, according to the slot machine bolted to the wall above the side table. Stratton slept fitfully and awoke early. After taking a shower he checked the local news station on the TV and heard a report of the exploding car in Santa Monica. It was described as possibly a gang-related fuel-tank sabo -tage but the report gave no other details.
Stratton had planned to be at the child-protection centre for eight-thirty a.m. but could not find a taxi until he had walked a mile towards the beach. As the cab approached the centre he leaned forward in the back seat to look through the windscreen at a street that was unusually busy. Several of the vehicles were police cars.