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Court kept his eyes on the cop holding his passport just outside the stairwell, watching as the man turned pages slowly, in no hurry whatsoever.
This was taking way too long, so Court decided he’d have to do this the hard way.
Court put his hand on the door latch, then opened it.
The cop looked up at him, the passport still in his hand. “What are you doing?”
Propping the door with his foot, Court faced the market and the officer. He scanned around, made sure no one was paying any attention to this activity in the corner of the massive space, and then he looked into the cop’s eyes.
“Lo siento,” he said. Sorry.
The cop sensed trouble, but Court moved too fast for him to react.
Court grabbed the smaller man, spun him around to a headlock with ease, cinched tight so he couldn’t make a sound, and then pulled him into the stairwell, letting the door close behind them both.
The cop dropped the passport and reached for his pistol, but Court tightened his hold even more, cutting off the young man’s arteries to his brain, knocking him out almost instantly.
He laid the cop on the ground and then rolled the man’s limp body onto his stomach. The cop would wake in an instant and recover enough to be dangerous in half a minute, so he knew he had to work quickly.
As he reached for the officer’s handcuffs, he thought he heard voices in the stairwell coming from far above him.
•••
Lancer had handed his passport over to the police officer; the two Cubans seemed to be arguing over something openly but he couldn’t understand it, and in Lancer’s left ear he heard the drone pilot asking him for an update because he hadn’t yet appeared on the back covered third-floor exterior walkway.
This bullshit was taking entirely too long, the American told himself, and a glance to his partner, the man he now knew as Sanchez, showed him Sanchez was worried.
The Cuban said, “He wants money. Thinks we are doing something illegal.”
“Fuck,” Kincaid said aloud, and then he looked to Fidel.
The officer said, “One hundred U.S., amigo.”
Lancer had one hundred times that amount in his money belt, but he didn’t want to start flashing cash, so he came up with an alternative plan.
The American gave a little laugh. “Illegal?” He reached around behind his back. “You wanna see illegal?”
The officer holding his papers looked up just as Lancer’s hand fired back out away from his body, out in the direction of the cop’s chest.
The blade of the stiletto sliced through the passport in his hand, then jabbed straight into the cop’s heart; the man started to scream out, but the American put his free hand over his mouth, shoved him against the now-closed door to the catwalk, and held him there while he kicked and flailed a moment.
Behind Kincaid, Sanchez drew his pistol, covered down the stairs, and in seconds Fidel went limp and slid down the wall to the floor.
•••
With a knee in the disoriented police officer’s back, Court Gentry looked up the stairs, hoping like hell neither Lancer nor Lancer’s henchmen were above him looking down.
They were not, so he pulled the cop’s handcuffs off his belt and cuffed the man’s hands behind his back.
The young man was already awake, so Court drew the officer’s pistol, rolled him onto his side, and then bashed him in the temple with the butt of the weapon.
Quickly he dragged the limp cop under the stairs, out of view of the door, then said, “Jim, listen up. I got delayed. Lancer is almost to you.”
“I can’t leave.”
Court began running up the stairs, pulling his weapon as he did so. “You leave or you die.”
“Just get up here, dude. If Lancer kills me, payback is up to you.”
