Chapter 42
Hawker slammed the phone down.
“Get the kid and the stone,” he shouted as he threw open a closet and pulled out a shotgun.
McCarter grabbed Yuri, while Danielle pulled a backpack from a cabinet in the suite’s kitchen.
Hawker stepped to the door and opened it a crack. There were men coming down the hall, dressed like tourists but definitely not on vacation. Caucasians with grim, pale faces, not even sunburned. They certainly hadn’t been out enjoying the sights. Two stood near the far stairs while three others had stopped just one door down, at the suite Hawker had originally rented.
God bless that kid at the front desk, Hawker thought. He wanted his bonus. If they survived this somehow, the kid would have damned well earned it.
The first of the two men pushed into the neighboring room. And then the third one looked down the hall. Right at Hawker.
Hawker slammed the door.
“Get down!” he shouted, diving away from the door as a flight of lethal bullets ripped it to shreds.
Hawker came up firing, blowing a hole in the wall to the left of the door and then turning to the dividing wall between the two rooms. The concussions from the shotgun echoed as he blasted four gaping holes in the thin plaster. A howl of anguish followed one blast and the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor. He guessed he’d hit at least one of the thugs.
Crouching behind the counter, Danielle shouted to him. “Which way?!”
A shoulder slamming into the door and busting it open gave them the answer. Hawker fired at the shape in the doorway as Danielle led McCarter and Yuri to the balcony. That was their only hope: a twenty-foot drop to the sand below.
Before he could move to a new position a hail of bullets came tearing through the same wall through which he had fired, shattering the plates and glasses and the sliding glass door to the balcony. Hawker fired back blindly and scrambled to a new position. In the moment of calm he turned to see Danielle hurdle the railing, carrying Yuri with her. But several steps behind her McCarter froze.
Hawker could see him looking around for another way.
“Jump!” he shouted, just as heavy automatic fire began shredding the room again. Plaster and bits of wood flew through the air like confetti and Hawker dropped to the ground and crawled on his belly toward the balcony.
“Jump!” he shouted again.
McCarter looked back at him, one leg over the railing, frozen like a deer in the headlights. If one of the gunmen made it to the adjoining balcony from the suite next door, McCarter would be dead.
Distracted by McCarter, Hawker missed as one of the attackers kicked the remains of the wall in and fired.
Bullets hit around him, one scraping his forearm, as he spun and fired back.
His own shot was wild but the burly, dark-haired man who’d come through the wall dove to avoid it. With the shotgun empty, Hawker swung it like a club, knocking the assault rifle out of the man’s hand. As it clattered across the floor, Hawker lunged for it. But the assassin grabbed him and pinned him to the ground.
Hawker rolled and tried to throw the man off but was unable to free himself. The man was reaching for a shoulder-holstered pistol.
Hawker threw his hand out, desperately grabbing for an object to use as a weapon. His hand landed on a long shard of glass from the door. He gripped it, swung it forward, and plunged it into the man’s neck.
The man fell backward, clutching at his throat. Hawker scrambled away and ran for the balcony, launching himself through the air and tackling the wavering professor right off the edge of the railing.
They crashed into the sand, with Hawker on top of McCarter.
“Are you all right?” Hawker said.
“I will be,” McCarter grunted. “If you get the hell off me.”
“Look out!” Danielle shouted.
Hawker rolled defensively as she fired a handgun at a figure above them, hitting him just before he was able to fire down on them.
Hawker helped McCarter up and noticed McCarter’s clothes covered in blood.
“Your hand,” McCarter said.
Hawker looked at his hand as the four of them raced along the beach. Blood was flowing from a straight line cut by the shard of glass. He made a fist and tried to hold it against his side as they moved.
Fifty yards down they found a breezeway that cut underneath the structure, from the beach side of the hotel out to the street side. It was a maintenance access route. They ducked into it and raced through, breaking into a storage room while they were there.
By the time they came out the front, Hawker had wrapped his hand in a towel and the three of them were in worker’s overalls. They walked along the front of the grounds, Yuri holding on to Danielle.
Police sirens wailed as guests began pouring out of their rooms.
Sneaking past the valet, Hawker grabbed a set of keys and in a minute the four of them were driving off in a stolen rental car.
“Everyone okay?” Hawker asked.
“Except for you,” McCarter said.
“How’s Yuri?”
In the mirror, Hawker saw Danielle run a soothing hand over the boy’s shoulder. She looked up. “He seems fine.”
He did seem fine. The look in his eyes was flat, as if the madness had not even happened.
“Those guys weren’t Kang’s,” Danielle said.
“Russians,” Hawker said. “I figured we’d have to deal with them sooner or later. But I was definitely hoping for later.”
“How the hell did they find us?” she asked.
It was the same question he’d asked about Kang’s men on the water. He had no answer. They were an odd grouping, a white man and woman with an injured black man and a Russian child. That kind of diversity made them easy to spot but it wasn’t like they’d stayed in one place.
Hawker looked over at McCarter in the passenger seat. “When the hell did you get afraid of heights?”
“Two years ago, in that rattletrap helicopter of yours,” he said. “I pinpoint my phobia to that exact moment.”
Hawker laughed. He hoped McCarter was joking, because their next move would take them back into the air.
Ivan Saravich walked through the decimated hotel suite, heading toward the balcony through which his quarry had just escaped. Glass crunched under his feet and he could hear the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance.
To the left, one of his men lay dead, a long wedge of glass sticking out of his neck; two others were badly injured and a trickle of blood ran down his own side where several pellets of buckshot had caught him.
As his two remaining men helped their wounded comrades, Saravich stepped out onto the balcony.
“Get them to the van,” he said without looking back.
“What about Gregor?” one man asked.
Saravich shook his head. “Leave him,” he said. “He cannot be traced to us.”
The men shuffled out and Ivan looked around. A glass of rum lay undisturbed on the balcony table. He picked it up, sniffed the aroma, and then raised it to his missing adversary.
That’s twice the luck was with you. The third time it will be mine.
He downed it in one gulp and stepped back inside. As he was heading for the door, something caught his eye. Lying on the floor beside the overturned table was a large, unfolded map. He crouched down to grab it. To his surprise, he saw several places circled and a black line drawn across it.
Saravich smiled. Perhaps the luck was with him already.