As soon as things slowed down, she’d have to call her mother and sister to let them know she was deploying. Thanksgiving was in four days, and Peyton had a feeling she was going to miss it.
She hated to admit it, but in a way Peyton was relieved. Her sister, Madison, was Peyton’s only remaining sibling. The death of their brother had brought them closer, but recently every conversation with Madison had ended with her sister asking Peyton why she wasn’t dating and insisting that her chance for a family was rapidly slipping away. At thirty-eight, Peyton had to concede the point, but she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted a family. In fact, she wasn’t at all sure what she wanted from her life outside of work. Her work had become her life, and she believed what she was doing was important. She liked getting the calls in the middle of the night. The mystery every outbreak brought, knowing her hard work saved lives, that every second mattered.
And as of right now, the clock was ticking.
On the street below, a man sitting in a car watched Peyton pull out of the underground parking deck.
He spoke into the open comm line as he cranked the car. “Subject is on the move. No visitors. No text messages. Only one phone call—from her contact at the WHO.”
Chapter 4
Desmond stared through the peephole, watching the hotel security guard bring the key card toward the door lock. Two uniformed Berlin police officers stood beside him, hands on their hips.
Desmond flipped the privacy latch, preventing the door from opening. “Just a minute, please,” he said in English, trying his best to sound annoyed. “I’m not dressed.”
“Please hurry, Mr. Hughes,” the security guard said.
Desmond studied the dead man lying on the floor.
His mind rifled through options.
Option one: go out the window. He walked to the tall glass and examined it. He was at least ten stories up, and there was no fire escape or any other means to get to the ground in one, non-splattered piece. Besides, it looked like the window didn’t open.
Option two: make a run for it. He gave that zero chance of success. He was in no shape to push past three men, much less beat them in a foot race.
That left option three: hiding the body and seeing it through.
But where?
The living room was furnished with a desk and office chair, a couch, a side chair, and an entertainment center. A heating unit sat under the tall windows and floor-to-ceiling drapes. A wide opening with double pocket doors led to the bedroom, which held a king size bed with two nightstands, another window with a heating unit under it, and a closet. The narrow bathroom opened only from the bedroom.
Quickly, Desmond made his decision.
Lifting the dead man sent pain through his body. His ribs radiated sharp spikes that overwhelmed him, nearly gagging him at one point. The man was tall, about Desmond’s height at nearly six feet, but lean. He was likely only 150 pounds, but he felt more like 300. Rigor mortis had set in. Gunter Thorne had been dead for hours.
As he dragged the body, Desmond wondered how he knew how long it took rigor mortis to set in. But what concerned him the most was that he had never really considered just opening the door, letting the police in, and explaining his situation. It was as if somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew he was someone who needed to avoid the police—that he had something to hide. That if all the facts came to light, it wouldn’t be good for him. He needed his freedom right now. He needed to find out what had happened to him.
He was sweaty and panting when they knocked again. He dried his face, raced to the door, and cracked it, peering out suspiciously.
“Yes?”
The security guard spoke. “May we come in, Mr. Hughes?”
Saying no would arouse suspicion, and Desmond couldn’t keep them out. Without a word, he swung the door wider.
The three men strode in, their eyes scanning the room, hands near their waists. One of the officers wandered into the bedroom, nearing the closet and the bathroom. The doors to both were closed.
“What’s this about?” Desmond asked.
“We had a call about a disturbance,” the police officer in the living room said, without making eye contact. He glanced behind the couch, then over at the entertainment center. He seemed to be in charge.
Through the opening to the bedroom, Desmond saw the other officer eyeing the closed closet doors. He reached out, opened them, then froze. His eyes moved from the floor to the ceiling. He turned to look at Desmond.
“No luggage?”
“I sent it down already,” he said quickly, trying to seem as if they were wasting his time. He needed to turn the tide, go on the offensive to get them out of the room. “What sort of disturbance? Are you sure you have the right room?”
The officer in the living room seemed to have finished his search. He turned his attention to Desmond.
“Are you in town for business or pleasure, Mr. Hughes?”
“Bit of both.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“Technology,” he said dismissively. “Listen, am I in danger here? Should I call the American embassy?” He let his voice rise with each line, sounding more frantic. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”
The policeman pressed on. “How long are you in town for, Mr. Hughes?”
“A week. What does it matter?”
The police officer was unshaken. It wasn’t working.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other officer setting up just to the left of the bathroom door, one hand on his gun, the other reaching for the doorknob.
Desmond changed tacks. He focused on the security guard and spoke rapidly. “You know this is going in my online review.”
The guard’s eyes grew wide.
“Yeah, it is,” Desmond pressed on. “I think an apt title would be: Stay here for Gestapo-style police interrogation and crappy WiFi.”
The guard looked at the officer. “Are you finished?”