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“How many of them?”
“This will be the first team,” Brian said. “Raul’s best shooters. At least two of them, and maybe a driver.”
“I hope so,” I said. “The driver would be easiest to take alive.”
“If we really have to,” Brian said.
“We do,” I said firmly. “We need at least one of them to talk to us.”
Brian actually pouted. “It seems a shame,” he said.
“Yes, but, Brian,” I said, “we need somebody to tell us where the children are.”
“Oh, I know that,” he said. And then he brightened visibly. “But that means we’ll have to persuade him to talk! I hadn’t thought of that! Oh, what fun.” He began to hum softly, and somewhat off-key. And almost immediately I found his nonmusic irritating, almost beyond endurance.
It may be that I was just a little nervous—but who had better right? I finally had a way to hit back at all the pain, persecution, and perfidy that had taken over my life, but it was a risky move, and an exceedingly delicate one. If the timing was just a little off, or if one of my pawns did not react properly, the whole thing could collapse. There were far too many variables, and I couldn’t control any of them, and after three minutes of waiting and hearing Brian’s horrible humming I wanted to strangle him.
But only a few minutes later a Ford Taurus slid up to the front of the hotel and parked at a sloppy angle. The Taurus was the Miami-Dade motor-pool car, and the parking was vintage I’m-a-cop-whatcha-gonna-do, and sure enough, Anderson climbed out. “Bingo,” I said.
“Party of the first part?” Brian said.
“Yup.” We watched as he moved quickly up the short walk and into the hotel, a shoe box under one arm. Now it all came down to the timing. I wished for just a second that there really was a god, and that he would listen to a prayer from something like me. It would have been nice to say a little prayer and actually believe it would work. But as far as I could tell, there was no god, and I didn’t know any prayer except, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” which didn’t really fit the occasion.
But happily for me, no prayer was needed. Two minutes after Anderson disappeared into the hotel, a blue SUV cruised slowly past our hiding place and into a spot in front of the hotel. “Party of the second part,” I said. “Life is good.”
Brian nodded, already staring intently at the other car. Two men climbed out: stocky, swarthy, one of them carrying a small suitcase. “The one with the baggage is Cesar,” Brian said softly. “A very bad man. I don’t recognize the other one.”
The two men slammed the car’s doors and towed their suitcase into the hotel.
“No driver,” I said, feeling a stomach lurch of anxiety.
Brian shook his head. “I don’t see one,” he said.
“Damn.” This made things a bit harder—but there was nothing to do but let it play out and hope for the best.
We waited two more minute
s, and then Brian looked at me. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” I said.
We got out of the car and crossed the street at the corner to the far right of the hotel. And then, moving quickly, but with every sense on high alert, we went up the sidewalk to the front door. “Let me go first,” Brian said, and I nodded.
He strode in the door, and I waited for thirty seconds that seemed much longer, before he stuck his head out and said, “Clear,” and I followed him in.
It was a very nice lobby, if you like old terrazzo floors and golden wallpaper, peeling slightly at the edges. A bored clerk at the desk was tapping at an iPad. He didn’t even look up as we went past to the elevators, and I found to my delight that one of them was right there on the ground floor, waiting for us.
We rode up to the twelfth floor. Soft and flaccid music played, and Brian hummed along to a tune I didn’t recognize. I no longer felt like strangling him. I was too busy wondering what would go wrong next.
When the doors slid open on the twelfth floor, Brian held up a hand and once again went ahead of me, his pistol held at the ready. But this time he was back in mere seconds. “Quickly, brother,” he hissed, beckoning frantically.
I stepped out of the elevator and right away I saw what had alarmed him.
Room 1221 was the second room to the right from the elevators, and the door was wedged open about three inches. Even from fifteen feet away I could smell gunpowder, and I could see that the thing jamming the door open was a human hand. It wasn’t moving.
I looked down the hall in both directions; surely somebody had heard something? But there was no sign of life, and no cries of, “Police!” or, “Help!” or even, “What ho!” Every other door along the hall was securely closed. It seemed impossible that nobody had heard a thing—and in all likelihood, it was impossible. But this was Miami in the twenty-first century, and when one hears gunshots, piteous cries for help, and multiple bodies hitting the floor, one simply double-locks the door and turns up the sound on the TV. Once more I felt a quiet swelling of civic pride; this is Dexter’s city.
But even love of my hometown would not protect me if somebody in Room 1221 was still breathing. I drew my Ruger and followed Brian across the tatty carpet to the partially open door. Gently, carefully, gun raised in front of him, Brian pushed the door open with his foot. His body blocked my sight of the room; he was really being quite protective. I could only watch his back as he swept the pistol from left to right, and then abruptly dropped it to his side. “Your plan worked a little too well, brother,” he said, and he moved aside.
