James Grippando - The Abduction

“Are you telling me not to go?”

“I’m telling you it’s dangerous. More dangerous than I’d hoped.”

“I have two words for you, Harley.”

“What?”

“I’m going,” she said as she stepped into the elevator.

The freight elevator opened to the second floor of the St. George Hotel. Tony Delgado wheeled out his dolly and carpet cleaning machine. Five buckets-twenty-five gallons-were stacked on the dolly. It was his third trip, and his “cleaning” job was nearly finished.

He pulled the dolly into the storage room at the end of the hall. He opened the tank to the carpet cleaning machine and poured from the bucket. It was supposed to hold five gallons of nonflammable cleaning solvent. Tonight it held wood alcohol.

Delgado wheeled the cleaning machine back into the hall, plugged it in, and switched on the power. The cleaning brushes turned quietly in a circular motion, working the alcohol deep into the carpet. He looked down the hall, then checked the room number on the nearest door. He couldn’t remember exactly where he had left off before going down to the van for more alcohol. He shrugged. Didn’t matter, he figured, so long as he laid a flammable path connecting each of the rooms on his uncle’s list.

He pushed the machine forward a few more feet, then stopped. Someone was coming out of Room 235. A silver-haired man wearing an expensive pinstripe suit. Looked like a distinguished congressman. The disguise fooled him at first, but he soon recognized his uncle.

“Evening, Senator,” he said with a smirk as they passed in the hall.

“Evening,” Gambrelli replied.

Overstated elegance described the decor at the historical St. George Hotel. Fluted columns of green Brazilian marble rose three stories in a lobby as spacious as a Broadway theater. Leather couches, oriental rugs, and plenty of brass and mahogany accents gave sitting areas the look of old English men’s clubs. Glittering chandeliers hung like clouds from the mirrored ceiling.

Still, the hotel was past its prime, in a state of decline. Paint was peeling from some of the crown moldings. The silk wall coverings were beginning to yellow. Allison was reminded of Venice as she crossed the lobby-beautiful from a distance, but don’t scrutinize the canals.

Allison didn’t feel all that out of place in her casual clothing. Some guests were sharply dressed, many of them addressed by name by the courteous staff. Others were obviously here to take advantage of the discount rooms that hadn’t been refurbished since Truman was president. The mix covered the spectrum, and it made for a lively and bustling lobby.

Allison headed straight for the grand staircase. She climbed to the mezzanine level, where the Independence Bar overlooked the main lobby. The bar wasn’t a room per se. It was more like a terrace area that had been separated from the traffic lanes by a row of potted plants and velvet rope hanging from brass poles. A long mahogany bar stretched across the far end. Small cocktail tables dotted the seating area. Two Japanese businessmen were smoking cigars and sipping wine. An old couple was staring into space and munching on mixed nuts, nothing left to talk about. Allison spotted the small round table closest to the brass railing-the one the caller had mentioned. It had a reserved sign on it.

Allison approached the bartender. “Excuse me, can I have that reserved table over there?”

“Are you Emily Smith?”

She caught herself, remembering her alias. “Yes.”

“It’s reserved for you.”

“Who reserved it?”

He gave her a funny look, as if she should have known. “White-haired guy in a suit. Gave me twenty bucks to hold the table for Emily Smith. Didn’t catch his name.”

She wanted to press for details, but Harley’s voice was in her earpiece. “Don’t push it, Allison. You’ll raise suspicions. Just take the table.”

The bartender asked, “Can I bring you a drink?”

“No, I’ll wait,” she said, then saw herself to the table.

It was a choice table, as far as bar tables went. It was right against the polished brass railing, like sitting on a balcony. She could see the entire main-floor lobby below, the staircase, the elevators. At the mezzanine level, she could see down the hall to the restaurant and to the double doors that led to the second-floor guest rooms. The table was more secluded than most, surrounded on three sides by leafy green plants in huge floor pots. Allison sat in the leather chair with her back to the bar. Her eyes shifted from the lobby to the staircase, back and forth.

The bartender brought a telephone to her table. “For you, miss,” he said.

She waited for him to get back behind the bar, then answered. “Yes?”

“Check the potted plant closest to the rail. There’s a thirty-six-inch cable bicycle lock.”

She turned around discreetly and checked. “Yes, I see it.”

“Take it out. Wrap it around the briefcase and, through the handle. But don’t lock it.”

She did it. The cable fit neatly around the briefcase. “Okay, done.”

“Now put the briefcase at your feet under the table and lock it to the railing.”

“I’m not leaving a million dollars here in the bar.”

“Lock it. No one can open or remove it but me.”

“How do I know you won’t take it away before I get the girls?”

“Because you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sit right there and watch it. Now stop stalling. Lock it to the rail.”

Chills went down her spine. What was his plan-to sit down across the table from her?

She lowered the briefcase below the table, slipped the loose end of the cable around the rail and snapped the lock shut. “Okay. It’s secure. Now when do I get the girls?”

“One at a time. Kristen first.”

“What about Emily?” she asked, her voice hardening.

“Kristen will tell you how to find Emily.”

“Where is she?”

“Sit tight,” he said, “And watch the staircase.”

Tony Delgado clutched the silent beeper in his hand. Really clutched it. Timing was crucial. He had to react the instant the beeper started to vibrate-the moment his uncle gave the signal.

He stood at an intersection in the second-floor hallway near the elevators and stairway. The cleaning machine rested at his side. One eye was on the door to the stairwell. The other peered down the hallway. The silent beeper suddenly pulsated in his hand-the signal.

He struck a match and dropped it.

Blue and yellow flames raced across the alcohol-soaked carpeting like wind over a wheat field, scorching a path down the hall to the detonation rooms. It hit Room 205 first, then 217, then 235-each one quietly erupting in flames like a fiery game of dominoes. Delgado watched with an arsonist’s curiosity, impressed by his own work. In seconds, the heat was unbearable. More fire than he’d anticipated, moving faster than he’d expected. Too much alcohol.

The hallways were laid out like a square doughnut, all interconnecting, with rooms on the outside facing the streets and an open courtyard in the center. The flame zipped down one hall, turned left, down another, turned left, down the third leg, turned left.

Delgado suddenly felt heat at his back. He turned. The wall of flame had come full circle. He hadn’t been that careless. In a split second, he knew: His own uncle had toasted him.

“Oh, shit!”

His eyes widened as the flames overtook him. His machine exploded, propelling him down the hall in a massive fireball.

Allison leaped from her seat. The explosion shook the entire building. The lights flickered, then went out. Emergency lighting switched on as the fire alarm sounded. Panicked guests screamed and ran in every direction. Thick smoke poured from the second-floor hallways and was filling the lobby.