Lee Vance - The Garden of Betrayal

“Whoa,” Reggie said, holding up a hand. “Hang on there. First things first. This is way too small a room to risk any crossfire. Mark, you come around over here and stand between me and Joe.”

I edged wide around the man with the scar, eyes locked on his face. He looked bored, like a guy waiting for a bus. I wondered how much more interested he’d seem if I pistol-whipped him in the side of the head.

“Better,” Reggie said, when I’d positioned myself as he’d suggested. “Basic rule of any shoot-out is to have all your weapons pointed in the same direction.”

Mohler staggered sideways, as if convinced the shooting was imminent.

“Now,” Reggie continued, addressing himself to Mohler and Smith, “I want you guys on your knees, backs toward me and hands behind your heads.”

Both complied, Mohler starting to cry, Smith still wearing his mask of indifference.

“Good,” Reggie said. He holstered his gun under his shoulder and reached for my weapon. I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head firmly. He checked the safety and then dropped it into his coat pocket. Bending forward, he began frisking Mohler. “Either of you guys give us any trouble and my partner there will put a bullet through your knee. Nobody’s even going to notice a single shot in a place like this.”

The tears were running down Mohler’s face freely.

“Clean,” Reggie concluded, moving from Mohler to Smith. “But what have we got here?” He pulled a gun from beneath Smith’s coat and held it up to examine it. “Ruger 40 S and W.” He removed the clip and then ejected a bullet from the chamber. “Hollow points. Nice.” He thumbed the loose bullet back into the clip, passed both pieces of the gun to Joe, and resumed his search. His hand came out of the coat again a moment later, this time holding a walkie-talkie.

“Joe,” he said, frowning. “Do me a favor and go to the window and tell me if you see anything.”

Joe took a step backward and lifted the edge of the curtain an inch with the barrel of his weapon.

“Red Explorer,” he reported tersely. “Wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Backed into a spot on the far side of the lot. No plate visible. Two guys in the front seat. I can’t get a good look at them.”

“My associates,” Smith said, speaking for the first time. His English was unaccented, but his clipped diction made me think he was foreign. “Both carrying HK53s. It’s a military weapon. Fully automatic assault rifle. Gets through an extraordinary amount of ammunition. They’ve both got extra clips in tactical bags.”

My heart began racing again. We’d worked up contingency plans in case things went bad, but none that anticipated going up against guys with machine guns. The only exit from the room led to the exterior gallery, and the gallery was lined by a simple rail-and-post balustrade. There wasn’t any way out of the room without the guys in the parking lot seeing us, and once they’d seen us, we were completely exposed. Reggie and Joe had suggested the motor court in part because of good sight lines. But sight lines worked both ways.

“You want me to call 911?” I asked hoarsely. Secrecy was less important than not getting killed.

“No time to roll the right firepower,” Reggie said tersely. “And I don’t want a couple of sleepy patrol cops to get shot to hell. Don’t worry. We’ve still got options.” He took a half step forward, pivoted delicately on the ball of his left foot, and kicked Smith hard in the side of the chest. Smith tumbled sideways, smashing his head on the corner of the bed frame. Blood gushed from a gouge in his forehead as he lay stunned on his back. Reggie dropped the walkie-talkie onto Smith’s chest, unholstered the gun from beneath his arm, and then pointed it at Smith’s face.

“You tell your buddies to stand down, or you’re dead.”

Smith lifted himself on one elbow, wheezing. Blood ran diagonally down his cheek and was channeled to his mouth by the scar. He licked his lips and smiled, a sheen of blood on his teeth.

“I thought you were the good cop,” he sneered. “The one who didn’t hurt people.”

Smith must have heard my conversation with Reggie in the car after our trip to Queens. He’d been the one eavesdropping on me, the guy who’d been in my apartment. If the circumstances had been different, I would have kicked him, too. I didn’t want to interfere, though-I was praying Reggie could get us out of the mess we were in without any shooting.

“Unless they threaten me,” Reggie barked. “And right now I’m feeling very threatened. You need another demonstration of my willingness to hurt you?”

“Not going to make any difference. I walk out of here with Mohler or we’re all dead. My ‘buddies’ have explicit instructions. I don’t come out within five minutes, they blow everything and everyone in this room straight to hell, including me. Nothing I say now can change that.”

“Bullshit,” Reggie said. He cocked his revolver with his thumb, the cylinder rotating to put a loaded chamber under the hammer. “I’m going to count to three.”

“Count to any number you want. But you might want to take a moment to say your prayers first. You’ll be killing yourself as well.” His gaze shifted from Reggie to me. “Could be a good time for you to put in a last call to that wife and daughter of yours. They’re at the Meridien, aren’t they? I was looking forward to seeing them again. Your daughter’s gotten very attractive. Too bad for me. My associates will have to send along my regards.”

I started toward him, but Joe grabbed my collar from behind and dragged me back. Reggie took a two-handed grip on his gun and spread his feet slightly.

“One,” he said.

I shook myself loose and peered cautiously out the window. The two men were still in the front seat of the red Explorer.

“We got any hope against these guys?” I muttered to Joe.

He rapped a knuckle against the exterior wall, eliciting a hollow thud.

“Depends. If Smith’s telling the truth, we’re fish in a barrel. Bullets will go through this wall like cardboard. One guy stays in the parking lot and hoses the room high. The other guy runs up the stairs while we’re all hugging the carpet and hoses the room low. Game over. Different story if they want Smith back. They try to come through the door, we might give them a few surprises.”

“What if we open up on them now, when they’re not expecting it?”

“Fire a handgun through a car windshield at thirty yards and you got deflection and penetration problems. Maybe one chance in ten of hitting your target, even for a top marksman. More likely to just make them mad.”

“Two,” Reggie continued, eyes locked on Smith’s.

“Listen,” Joe whispered, leaning toward me. “There’s a window in the bathroom. You should be able to get out that way. You got Claire and Kate to take care of. No reason for you to hang around and take chances.”

“What about you and Reggie?”

“I’m too old to be climbing through windows, and Reggie’s too big. We’ll make our play here.”

A low groan made me glance toward Mohler. Urine was spreading from the crotch of his pants. Dying in a crappy motel room was bad, but not as bad as abandoning my friends.

“I’m staying,” I said. “Give me a gun.”

Joe reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, pulling out Smith’s Ruger and the loose clip. I rammed the clip home and flipped the safety off with my thumb, just like Reggie had shown me.

“You got to pull back on the slide to load the first shot,” Joe instructed, pointing to the top of the gun. “Shooting starts and you hit the floor and wait for a target. Aim low and count your shots. You got a ten-round magazine. Try not to let go of your last round until you absolutely have to.”