Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

Jones watched with a smirk as Boyter and McKenzie herded the prisoner down the corridor towards the lift. He turned to Slater. The man looked a little less composed than he had a second ago.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ Jones said. ‘He’s history already.’

Slater paced while Jones smoked. Five minutes passed, then ten.

‘Relax,’ Jones said.

‘I never relax.’ Slater looked at his watch. ‘Those cigarettes reek. What’s keeping your guy McKenzie? I thought you told him to get back here a.s.a.p.’

‘He’ll be right back,’ Jones said. ‘Probably went to the bathroom.’

Slater shook his head. His jaw was tight. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Something’s wrong. I can feel it.’

‘You’re nuts. Hope’s locked up tighter than a fish’s asshole.’

‘If that’s so, I want to see for myself. I have a bad feeling.’

‘You and your feelings,’ Jones grunted. ‘OK, let’s go.’

‘I’m not going down there with just you alone. How many people have you got in the building?’

‘Including me, there are a dozen agents in the place. You’re not telling me -’

‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Leave two watching Bradbury. I want the rest with me.’

Jones protested loudly, but Slater insisted. Jones got on the radio. ‘Fiorante, join Jorgensen on the prisoner’s door. Everyone else, my office, right now.’

In two more minutes the seven agents were collected in the corridor outside. Slater cautiously stepped out into the corridor. Jones led the way, exasperation showing on his face.

‘Not the lift,’ Slater said. ‘We take the stairs.’

‘I think the guy got to you,’ Jones sneered. ‘You’re spooked.’

‘Cautious is what I am,’ Slater said. ‘And smart.’

They reached the bottom of the stairs, turned through the dingy lobby, trotted down another flight towards the basement kitchen.

‘Get your guns out,’ Slater whispered.

‘You’re nuts,’ Jones said again. ‘There’s no -’

He batted through the double doors leading to the kitchen. Then he stopped dead and his mouth hung open. ‘Oh shit.’

‘Told you,’ Slater muttered.

‘What the fuck happened here?’

Slater shot him a sideways look. ‘I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?’

The kitchen was littered with debris. In the middle of it, Boyter and McKenzie were lying dead, the neon striplights reflecting in the broad pool of blood inching slowly across the floor.

Slater peered down at Boyter and wondered for a moment what the strange circular object stuck to the side of his head was. Then it hit him. He had the snapped-off stem of a wine glass buried deep in his temple. McKenzie was lying at an angle to his colleague, his face blue, tongue hanging out, a livid weal around his throat where he’d been throttled to death with a steel chain. The handcuffs lay open on the floor, next to a small key. The men’s jackets lay open, holsters empty.

Slater and Jones stared at each other. ‘Hope’s loose in the building,’ Jones breathed.

‘No shit. And you’re going to find him.’

‘We’ll find him,’ Jones said.

‘You’d better. You lost him. He stays lost, you’re dead. Understand?’

‘We’ll find him,’ Jones said again. ‘You get back up to the office.’

‘No way. I’m getting out of here. This place isn’t safe for me.’

‘It’s not safe for anyone.’

‘You’re expendable. I’m not.’ Slater stabbed his finger at the agents. ‘You, you and you. Escort me the fuck out of here.’ He started walking away, then stopped and turned. ‘And Jones?’

‘What?’

‘You take him alive . Clear?’

‘We’ll get him,’ Jones said.

Slater almost sprinted to the lobby, three agents close behind with drawn guns. He tore open the front door, left the building with jittery haste, and ran towards the sleek Bell chopper that was sitting in the middle of the parking lot. The pilot saw him coming, put away his flask of coffee and fired up the motor. The prop slowly began to turn as Slater wrenched open the hatch and piled inside. Minutes later, he was a rapidly vanishing speck over the treetops.

With Slater out of the way, Jones gathered his agents around him. ‘OK, people, he’s only one man. With McKenzie and Boyter gone, that still leaves ten of us in the building.’ He picked up his radio. ‘Jorgensen, you still there?’

‘Right where you put me,’ said the voice in his ear.

‘Fiorante with you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Jones nodded. He jerked his pistol at the men. ‘Cash, Muntz, get up to the top floor and join them. That’s where Hope’ll be headed.’ He grinned. ‘He wants to get the girl.’ He glanced quickly around him, calculating tactics. No way Hope was going to get past four people on the door. Meanwhile, two teams of three men each could scour the place and head him off. ‘Bender, Simmons, you’re with me. Kimble, Davis, Austin, take the left side of the building. Stay in contact. You see him, take him down. He’s way too dangerous to keep alive.’

‘Slater said not to kill him,’ said Austin.

‘I don’t give a shit what Slater said.’ Jones touched his tongue against his teeth, felt the ragged edges that were such a constant reminder of the man. ‘I want this fucker bodybagged in the next ten minutes. Let’s go.’

Ben almost pitied the two dead men. Whoever they were used to dealing with, they’d been too slow. They just hadn’t seen it coming.

He’d left them where they dropped; found the key in the big one’s pocket and taken both of the silenced Berettas they were packing. Both fully loaded. He nodded to himself, tucked one pistol in his right hip pocket and the other in his back pocket. Glanced quickly around the kitchen. Yanked the knife out of the old chopping board. The stainless-steel blade was serrated and still sharp. He stuck it carefully in his belt.

He’d already figured out his escape route. He strode over to a square hatch on the kitchen wall and yanked up the sliding metal door to reveal the dumb waiter. Next to the three-foot-square hole was a dusty old wall panel with three plastic buttons, two arrow-shaped, one pointing up and the other down, the middle one marked ‘STOP’ in faded writing.

He hit the up button with his palm, hoping the thing still worked after all these years. There was a dull clunk, and the dumb waiter jerked up an inch before he hit the ‘STOP’ button.

Good enough , he thought. The space was just about large enough to cram himself in. It stank of old grease, damp and mouse shit. He reached out from inside, felt for the ‘UP’ arrow and hit it. Felt the dumb waiter jolt under him, and the sensation of rising upwards. He withdrew his arm quickly inside as the wall came down. A glimpse of brickwork and then blackness. The dumb waiter rose up, grinding and vibrating. In the darkness he took one of the pistols and checked it again. There was no telling what he was going to meet up there.

From somewhere over his head there was a screech as though the cables were about to snap. He braced himself but nothing happened. The dumb waiter gave a judder and then stopped. He reached out and pushed gently, opening a pair of double doors three feet square. His guess had been right. He was in the hotel bar, in a little serving area behind the bar itself. He lowered himself out of the hatch, thankful to be out of the claustrophobic space, and crouched down in the dust behind the old bar.

He figured he was on the ground floor. Where would they be keeping Zoë? Upstairs in one of the rooms? It was only a guess, and a vague one, but it was all he had. At least he was close now. Only about a dozen guns in his way. He could worry about that when he started meeting them.