“Fuck. Oh, no you fucking don’t.” I go after him, crashing into the wall as I try and make the corner; there’s a staircase in front of me, and Ramirez’s guy is almost at the top of it. I aim and fire at him but the bullet misses, impacting with the wall at the top of the steps. The guy swerves out of sight on the landing. I charge up the stairs, taking them three at a time. I reach the top step just in time to see him racing down a long, narrow corridor and then turning to the right, vanishing again. A bone jarring shot rings out, echoing down the corridor, coming from the direction Hector’s guy just ran toward, and my stomach backflips.
He’s killed Sophia’s father. He’s fucking shot Alan, and now’s he’s dead. It can’t be. It just can’t be. I storm down the corridor, ready to put at least five or six bullets in the back of this motherfucker, but when I skid around the corner Hector’s man is lying on his back on the polished floorboards, and another guy is standing over him, looking down at his gun.
He looks concerned, stricken, like the fact that he just shot the man on the ground was a complete accident. His expression transforms to one of anger. “You’re too late,” he says. “I already killed him. As soon as the car blew up outside, I slit the old man’s throat.”
The thing about slitting someone’s throat is that it’s a messy job, though. Perhaps this guy has slit Sophia’s father’s throat. Perhaps he did it from behind and that’s why he’s not covered in blood, but I know people. I know when they’re bluffing. The guy in front of me doesn’t look like he’s telling the truth. I aim on finding out if I’m right or not. He holds up his gun and fires it at me.
I drop to the ground just in time, laying flat on the hard wood. Almost at the exact same time, I pull the trigger on my own weapon, shooting him in the knee. He falls sideways into the wall, screaming out in pain, and I take the opportunity to take his other knee. No more running for this guy. Probably no more walking, either. I get up and walk over, standing over him. He’s dropped his gun, which I collect from the floor and slide it into the back of my waistband. “Any more weapons?” I ask.
He shakes his head. He really is a terrible fucking liar. Placing the heel of my sneaker on top of the ruin of flesh and bone that used to be his right knee, I begin to apply pressure.
“I’m not bending down there to check you, only to get shot in the face,” I advise him. He screams, his bloodcurdling cry bouncing off the narrow walls.
“All right, all right. Here.” He draws back his suit jacket and there’s his back up, strapped to his chest. I pull the engraved, ostentatious firearm out of the holster and tuck that down the back of my pants, too.
“Which room?” I growl.
“I told you. He’s dead.” I place more of my body weight on his mangled knee. “Fuck, man. Fuck! Stop, stop, stop!”
“Which room?”
“That one. The one on the end. On the left. Fuck!”
I remove my sneaker, shaking my head. “Don’t get any ideas,” I advise him. But it’s too risky. I can’t just leave him here, bleeding on the floor. Too easy to get shot or stabbed in the back. “Sorry, man.” I shrug as I take a final shot after all, shooting him in the head.
No time to feel bad now. Downstairs, it sounds as if all hell is breaking loose. Hopefully, for my sake along with everyone else’s, Sophia is safe. I run to the end of the hallway, booting open the door on the left, and it takes me a second to find what I’m looking for. On the other side of the room, hunkered down in the corner between the bed and the wall, is Alan Romera. His throat is in tact, and he seems otherwise unharmed, which is a minor fucking miracle. “Alan? Dr. Alan Romera?”
The old man blinks at me, eyes cold and contemptuous. “If you’re going to shoot me,” he says, “get it over with. I’m not afraid to die. My Lord and Creator is waiting for me at the gates of heaven, ready to receive me.”
Well, damn. I’m not prepared for that. I smirk as I cross the room, wondering how the hell a guy like he ever fathered a child like Sophia. “Don’t worry,” I say. “The big guy upstairs is gonna have to wait a little while yet to receive you, buddy. If I don’t get you out of here safe and sound, I don’t get to marry your daughter. And I fully intend on doing that really fucking soon.”
Alan’s eyes almost pop out of his head. I don’t know if this is because I mentioned Sophia, because of what I said about marrying her, or because of my language. Frankly I don’t care. I just need to get the fool out of here before he cops a stray bullet to the back of the head or something. Holding out my hand, I offer to help him up.
Alan stares at me like I’m either the second coming of Christ or the son of the devil himself. Cautiously, he places his hand in mine, allowing me to pull him to his feet. At least five days’ worth of stubble marks his face, making him look disheveled and grizzly. From the stains and the rumpled nature of his shirt and pants, I’d say he’s still in the same clothes he was wearing when Ramirez had him snatched from the side of the street, but other than that he looks fairly healthy.
“You know my daughter?” he asks.