Jason Pinter - The Stolen

Dmitri Petrovsky.

Robert and Elaine Reed.

Raymond Benjamin.

Three groups of people that would never have any sort of interaction in a normal world, yet for some reason they'd become intimately involved in one another's lives and businesses. I hoped Curt's boys had done their homework at the precinct, and I hoped that, if this was the place, that the Reeds hadn't already packed up ship.

My eyes were weary. A three-and-a-half-hour trip doesn't sound like much, but after a full day's work in addition to the other stresses involving Jack and this story, it was all I could do to keep focus. I had to keep telling myself what the opportunity was here, both the truth to be revealed and the benefits for the Gazette. Things would be tough with Jack out. I liked Wallace, and the man had been almost endlessly supportive, but he was hardly a mentor.

I was on my own at work. Thankfully the two people in the car were my backup.

The Harrisburg Sheraton was a fairly quaint hotel, the low-slung roof lined with hanging plants out front. Lamps in the grass lit up a trail that went from the parking lot to the entryway, and the guest rooms, about eight floors of them, were just a few yards beyond.

I parked the car, turned off the ignition.

"How you all feeling?" I said as we exited the car. Curt stretched, his long limbs raised into the sky. I noticed the gun by his hip. He'd come in plainclothes. There wouldn't be much love for an NYPD cop in PA. Amanda had on a nice purple blouse. She wrapped her arms around her chest, looked slightly worried.

"I'm good," she said. "Could use a bathroom break."

We walked into the hotel. The floors were covered in beige tiles, and half a dozen overstuffed chairs surrounded tables. A few hotel guests were seated, reading books and newspapers, sipping coffee.

Curt said, "They're not just going to give us the room number. I thought about this. We need a way to find out what room the Reeds are in without alerting them to the fact that we're here."

"Oh, man," Amanda said, sighing. "You guys are seriously like troglodytes. Does everything have to depend on me?"

She walked up to the reception desk as Curt and I watched, curious, scared and feeling a little emasculated.

We trailed behind Amanda just enough that we could hear, but far enough behind in case her ruse specifically did not include us.

"Hi," Amanda said, sprawling her arms across the desk.

"Lissen, I need to see my boh-friend. He's staying in your ho-tel. I think he might be with his wife, so I guess this really is a ho-tel."

The receptionist, a guy with acne scars and a badge that read "Clark," who looked like his first day on the job was tomorrow, said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, what can I help you with?"

"My boh-friend," she slurred. "Robert Reed. He's in this ho-tel. I need to know what room he's staying in."

"Ma'am, we're not supposed to give out guests' information. If you'll just…"

Amanda dug into her purse, then slapped something down on the desk. Clark's eyes bugged open. Curt and I leaned in closer. When I saw what it was, I had the exact same reaction as Clark.

"M-Ma'am," Clark said, stammering now. "That's a condom."

"You're damn right. Robert promised me a good time tonight, so if you don't tell me where I can find him, I'm jus' gonna have to find someone else at this ho-tel to do what he can't." She looked around, a lascivious grin on her face. "Do you have a bar in this hotel?"

Clark gulped, then ran some digits into his computer.

He looked at Amanda as though to make sure she hadn't started propositioning guests. She hadn't, though she was licking her lips. I had to close my mouth, look away.

"Mr. Reed is staying in room 602. Now, if you'll please, just go find him. We don't need anyone causing a scene."

"Much obliged," she said, leaning over. "Clark."

Amanda headed for the elevators. We waited a moment before following her. When the doors closed, I said, "You sure you weren't trained at Juilliard?"

"God, you guys could use a set of balls sometimes.

Come on."

The door dinged open. We followed the signs toward room 602. The halls were lined with seashell-shaped lights, and the carpet was a zigzagging pattern of red-andblack squares. A few pieces of standard hotel art hung on the walls. Men fishing off piers. A windmill across a bay.

I had no eye for art. For all I knew these pieces could have secretly been worth millions.

When we came to 602, we stopped in front of it. Curt and Amanda stood to either side of me.

"I'll do the talking," I said. "Curt, if we need you…"

"I have my badge on me, Henry."

As I got ready to knock, I heard the ding of another elevator opening onto the sixth floor.

"Hold on a second," I said. "Just make sure they're going in another direction. Nobody needs to see three people hanging around the hallway."

They didn't respond. The footsteps appeared to be heading our way. No big deal, I thought. Hotel guests going back to their hotel room. Even if they were heading this way, they'd enter their room and be done with it. We'd be talking to the Reeds before anyone had a chance to get suspicious.

I leaned back against the wall, pretended to fiddle with my cell phone. When I saw a shadow appear at the other end of the hall, I turned to look at the guests that were coming.

I nearly dropped the phone when they came into view.

I recognized the first man immediately, and I dove for

Amanda just as Raymond Benjamin pulled a gun from his coat and opened fire.

I heard Amanda scream as bullets smashed into the wall above us. I thought we were safe, but then I heard another, deeper yell, turned to look, and saw Curt Sheffield on the ground, blood pouring from his leg.

"Curt!" I screamed.

I pushed Amanda toward the other end of the hall where an exit door was visible, and by that time Curt had taken the gun from his hip holster. Benjamin was reloading when Sheffield emptied three bullets into the hallway. Ray Benjamin managed to dive for cover, but two of the bullets struck his sidekick square in the chest.

The younger man went toppling backward, his back smacking against the wall, where he slid down, leaving a bloody smear.

Benjamin was gone. I heard footsteps running toward the elevators. He was getting away.

I knelt down by Curt. His hand was pressing down on the wound, hard, but blood was still seeping through his fingers.

"Benjamin," Curt said, the pain evident in his voice.

"Don't let the fucker get away."

Amanda appeared beside us. She'd taken off her fleece, then rolled it up and tied it around Curt's leg. He howled in pain as she pulled the loop together, trying to stem the flow of blood.

I looked at them both. Amanda had taken her cell phone out. She said, "I called 911. Make sure he doesn't hurt anybody else."

I nodded, then sprinted for the exit door. My pulse raced as I looked for the stairwell. A diagram of the floor plan was on the wall; the stairs were just to my left. I ran for them, banged the door open and hurtled down the stairs as fast as I could.

By the time I got to the first floor I was out of breath.

When I shoved open the stairwell door, I could hear panic in the lobby. Several people were screaming, a rolling cart was overturned and an elderly man looked to be unconscious. I ran toward the lobby exit, but then another thunderous gunshot exploded in the night, and I dove behind a marble wall for protection. I waited a minute, unsure of what to do, then took a few quick breaths and ran for the exit.

As I ran into the warm evening air, I heard a car's ignition turn on and a pair of brake lights come on at the other end of the parking lot. I ran for it, saw a dark BMW peeling backward. It backed up into a pool of light cast by a lamp, and I read the license plate numbers, punched them into my cell phone.