Later, in the year 303, George would be tortured and beheaded by the Romans. He would become patron saint of soldiers, scouts, and the syphilitic. Two thousand years later a hotel would be built in his name in Marfa, Texas, inside of which you can buy three-hundred-dollar art monographs and order a fifteen-dollar margarita.
Across the street, Story nudges Felix. Two black Suburbans are inbound from the town square. It’s a change from the usual one. Story slips lower in her seat, as both cars turn nose in to the curb in front of the hotel. Two men with earbuds emerge from the lead car and scan the street. The passenger speaks into his wrist, and the back doors of the follow car open. E. L. Mobley steps out. He’s wearing a North Face windbreaker over a blue V-neck sweater. His white hair is close cut in the current style, face shaved and moisturized. His sunglasses cost $1,800.
Liam Orci comes around the back of the SUV, eyes scanning for danger. He is a tall man with a crooked smile. Mobley says something to him and laughs. From the car, Felix and Story watch the four men enter the hotel. This is the first time since they arrived in town that Mobley has left the compound to come to town. Low in their seats they have a whispered exchange.
“Shit,” says Story. “Should we—I don’t know—should we grab him?”
“Four against one,” says Felix. “Not without some serious bloodshed.”
He checks his watch.
“Could we—it’s a thirty-minute drive—maybe we could get to the compound and get in. Three guys here. Three back at the house. Maybe if we—”
But he stops. They’re not ready to strike now. They don’t have their supplies. It’s the middle of the day.
“What if we confront him?” says Story. “Tell him we know he has her. Say let her go.”
Felix shakes his head. Sometimes he can’t believe her naivete. The rich don’t do anything unless it makes them richer. He checks his watch again. Three minutes. They’ve lost three minutes with Mobley inside. Felix makes a decision.
“Come on,” he tells Story, already halfway out the door. She slips on her shoes, follows him wincing. Her legs are cramped from sitting for so long. Though she doesn’t know it yet, her own face is all over the news—the internet flooded with side-by-side photo comparisons of her college ID photo with the Ghost of the Senate, that girl with oversize sunglasses seen sitting behind Judge Nadir one moment and gone the next, replaced by a bearded man.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, Felix puts his arm around Story, pulls her to him, kisses her cheek. He is playing the role of the good boyfriend, aware that eyes may be on them. They push through the double doors. Ahead of them is the front desk. To their right is a sitting area and bookstore. To their left is the restaurant. Felix glances left, sees Mobley sitting at a round table with Orci and another man. The two body men are at the next table, eyes moving. It’s a quick look, enough to place Mobley, and then Felix is eyes front again. He steers Story toward the bookstore.
“Let’s see if they have that de Kooning,” he tells her.
She nods, mute. Now that they’re inside, now that Mobley is near, everything feels too real. The insanity of what they’re doing—rescuing a girl from a billionaire—hits her. How alone they are. How underfunded and unprepared.
The lobby is mostly empty. A family waiting for the elevators. A woman with a dog talking to the desk clerk. The bookstore is part of the lobby, a series of oversize wooden tables covered with books. Two walls of shelves circle back toward the front window. There are four customers browsing. All appear to be teenagers. The nearest boy has long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wears wire-rimmed glasses. An older teen in a leather duster stands next to him chewing gum.
Story glances behind her. She sees Mobley seated at his table. For a moment, their eyes meet. At that moment it becomes clear that he noticed her the moment she entered the hotel. That he’s been following her with his eyes. Checking her out. Story looks away, feeling burned. The smell of restaurant food—burgers on the grill, a lamb Bolognese on the stove—so appealing when they entered, fuels a sudden wave of nausea.
“I have to—” she says—“the bathroom.”
She hurries off, right hand to her mouth. Felix watches her go, recognizing the green in her skin. He shrugs theatrically. Women. Behind him he can feel Mobley’s eyes burning a hole in his back. Slowly he circles the nearest table, glancing at the books. He picks up a Ron Mueck monogram, studies the back. To his right, the long-haired kid and the older kid in the duster are having a whispered conversation.
“Now or later,” says Duster. “It’s your call. All I’m saying is when opportunity knocks…”
The kid takes a toothpick from behind his ear, puts it between his lips. By the window Felix notices a willowy kid, smaller than the others, maybe fifteen. The kid’s wearing a down vest, even though it’s ninety degrees out. He’s looking out at the street, a paperback open in his hand, forgotten. Felix continues circling the table. He lowers the Ron Mueck, picks up a yellow book of poems. Trustworthy. He can see the ladies’ room door from where he’s standing. Around him, the sound system plays Korean trance pop at a whisper. The woman with the dog leaves the front desk, on her way to the elevators. Over the edge of the book, Felix sees Liam Orci wave over the waitress.
“It’s not time for that,” says Ponytail. “We’re here for something else.”
“What?” says Duster.
“Answers,” says Ponytail.
The bathroom door opens. Story comes out. She’s splashed water on her face, brushed her hair with her fingers. Felix raises his hand.
“Story,” he calls, not full voiced, but loud enough for her to hear, then thinks, Shit, why did I use her real name? She sees him, comes over.
“Sorry,” she says. “This is all—a bit—overwhelming.”