Stuart Woods - Orchid Blues

"I won't disappoint you, John. By the way, Peck told me about the bank job in Orchid Beach." This was a lie, but it was worth trying. "Wasn't that a little close to home?"

"You're damn right it was," John said, angrily. "One of Peck's people killed somebody, and for his trouble, he got a bullet in the brain."

"Why did Peck let that happen?"

"Peck wouldn't go on the job himself. That was one of the things that made me start suspecting him."

"Well, at least you raised some money."

"And another thing," John said. "We had this guy planted in the bank on an entirely separate operation, and after the robbery, he panicked and ran."

"I think I read about that in the paper. Was that the couple found in their car in the Indian River?"

"Right, and we never found the money they were stealing for us. Another job screwed up by Peck." John looked thoughtful. "You know, with Peck out of the picture, someone is going to have to run Winachobee. Would you like the job?"

"You think I'm right for it?"

"Oh, I think you're right for bigger things than Winachobee, but you've got to start somewhere."

"Sounds good to me, John."

"Starting today, you're going to be learning a lot more about the organization," John said. "And after today, you're going to be a hero in the group."

"Hold it right there," Ham said. "Who knows I'm pulling the trigger today?"

"Only the board. That's who I was referring to."

"Do they already know who I am?"

"Yes."

"Make sure nobody else knows."

"I understand your concern, Ham, and I'll do that."

"One more thing," Ham said.

"What's that?"

"Who am I killing today?"

"I don't believe it." Harry said. "Not a single Owen in any hotel in Miami Beach?"

"There was an Elizabeth Owen in one, but that didn't pan out. We've called them all," Doug said. "They all have a search engine on their computers, so it only takes them a few seconds to find out. What are we going to do?"

Harry looked at his watch; it was nearly noon. "We're going to hope to God we hear from Ham," he said.

Holly was stretched languidly on a chaise by the Delano's pool, watching the young go by, when her wrist suddenly vibrated.

She sat up and grabbed the phone. "Ham?"

"One and the same," he drawled. "Don't talk, listen: I'm in a hotel called the Savoy, room two-ten. I'm to start shooting in an hour or so, maybe sooner."

"Who's the target?" she asked.

"You're not going to-" Ham stopped talking.

"Ham?"

Silence.

"Ham, talk to me!"

Nothing.

Holly grabbed her stuff and started running. "Come on, Daisy," she yelled.

Holly hit the Delano lobby still running. People stared at her as she impatiently banged on the elevator button. She finally made it to her room, threw on a skirt and a T-shirt over her bikini, stuck her feet into her sneakers, grabbed her phone, purse, weapon, badge and Daisy and started running again, punching numbers into the cell phone. Harry's line was busy.

Ham set the tripod up at the bedroom window, which was perpendicular to the street, rather than parallel. John watched him in silence. Ham was still breathing hard from the fright John had given him when he came unexpectedly out of the bathroom while Ham was on the phone to Holly. He had told her what he could, but not the target's name, which he had not had time to speak.

John moved to the window. "There," he said, pointing. "The car will slow as it turns into the drive of the Berkeley Hotel, and that's your moment. The car will begin its turn, and the rear window will face you for that split second. That's when you fire. You agree?"

"I agree," Ham said. "It's perfect, like you said. And look at the palms: no wind; dead calm. We couldn't ask for more."

Ham pulled the curtains nearly shut, then fixed the Barrett's rifle to the tripod. Then he emptied all of the ammunition clips onto the bed.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

Ham got a pair of latex gloves from his bag and slipped them on. "I'm going to wipe every round, every shell casing clean of prints, then the rifle." He gave John another pair of the surgical gloves. "Put these on and start wiping down the whole room, everything from the phone to the flusher on the John, and I mean everything. I am not going to get caught doing this, now or later."

"Good man," John said, pulling on the gloves. "And I guarantee you, Ham, you won't get caught. Steps have been taken."

"I think it's time you started telling me about those steps," Ham said.

"Okay, here's how it goes: We're ready to move, so when you fire, we don't stay around to gloat. We go directly to the fire stairs, leaving the rifle here, but taking our personal stuff. You're wearing your disguise, of course. A van will be waiting for us where the fire stairs end in the rear parking lot, where the restaurant garbage is collected. The van takes us straight to Opa-Locka, and we fly out of here, back to Winachobee."

"Sounds good." He went to the window, and as he looked out, he saw a flash from a hotel room window across the street. John's binoculars were lying on the bed; he picked them up and trained them on the window. What he saw froze his blood.

Holly elbowed another woman out of the way and leapt into a cab. "Hotel Savoy," she said to the driver. "You know it?"

"Sure," said the driver laconically. "I can be there in fifteen minutes, but no dogs."

She showed him her badge. "It's a police dog. Stand on it; I want to be there in five."

"Look lady," he driver said, "I don't care if you show me a badge. I'm not losing my license for you, and I told you, no dogs."

"You want me to show you my gun?"

"Yeah, sure." He chuckled.

"Daisy, get in the front seat"

Daisy hopped lightly into the passenger seat.

"Guard."

Daisy made a low growling noise and showed her teeth.

The man froze. "You get that dog out of my car!"

Holly got out on the driver's side, opened his door, grabbed him by the belt and yanked him into the street. She got in, slammed the car into gear, went about ten feet and stopped. "Back seat, Daisy." She put the car in reverse and backed up swiftly to the stunned driver, who had gotten to his feet. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Where's the Savoy?" she demanded. "And be quick about it."

Ham suddenly realized that he was about to be awarded the Lee Harvey Oswald Memorial Prize. What he saw through the binoculars was another set of hotel room curtains, across the street, drawn to leave a gap of a foot like his and, like his, with the muzzle of a Barrett's rifle just visible. And it was pointed directly at his own window.

Harry's line was still busy. Holly had reached eighty miles an hour on the boulevard, her emergency lights flashing, one hand on the horn. Hotels were flashing by her window at an alarming rate, and in the distance, she saw a building of, perhaps, fifteen stories, and high atop it was a neon sign reading Savoy. "Yes!" she said. Then a car ahead of her stupidly swung into her lane. She heard the crunch of metal on metal.

Ham. looking down the boulevard, saw a taxi, moving fast, swing into oncoming traffic, leaving a fender attached to another car, then swing two lanes to the right to get around a UPS truck, then move back into the left lane, horn blaring, lights flashing. A block behind it, a police car had turned on its flashers and was giving chase. Still farther down the boulevard, the street was empty. Something had stopped traffic. As the taxi made a wide turn into the Savoy, Ham looked a quarter of a mile up the empty street and saw a dozen sets of flashing lights, led by a platoon of motorcycles. In the midst of them was a long, black limousine, with flags flying from its front fenders.