Chapter 8 - THE SHADOW ON THE BRASS THRESHOLD
Through the narrow crack in the door, Clare watched the armed guard approach.
The man walked with heavy, tactical strides, his rubberized combat boots making soft squeaking sounds against the polished marble. He was less than ten feet away. Five feet. Three feet.
As the guard passed Suite 4227, the shadow of his heavy frame crossed the narrow sliver of light filtering through the door gap, momentarily plunging the interior foyer into pitch-black darkness.
Nicholas’s right hand moved with terrifying, silent fluidness.
He withdrew the semi-automatic pistol from his rear waistband. The metal made no sound against the cotton of his trousers. He brought the weapon up, resting the flat side of the slide against the interior wood of the door, his index finger hovering along the frame above the trigger guard, ready to drive two high-velocity rounds through the solid mahogany door the micro-second the guard reached for the exterior brass handle.
Clare closed her eyes, praying silently into the darkness. She felt the jagged keloid scars on Nicholas’s ribs shifting under his skin as his breathing remained completely suspended.
The guard stopped.
Right outside their door.
Through the crack, Clare could see the black fabric of his trench coat, less than twelve inches from the exterior wood. A heavy, static-laced radio chirp sounded from the guard’s lapel speaker.
CHRRRK. "Perimeter team two in position at the loading dock. The buyer’s convoy is three minutes out."
The guard tapped his radio twice to acknowledge, turned his back to Suite 4227, and continued walking down the hall toward the corner room where Clare’s cart was parked.
SKRRRR-CLACK.
The sound of the door to Suite 4217 being kicked open echoed down the corridor, followed by the muffled sound of closet doors being wrenched open and shower curtains being torn back as the guard searched the empty room.
In the hallway, Julian Duca remained standing under the central chandelier. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his vest pocket, snapped it open, and selected a thin clove cigarette, lighting it with an engraved gold lighter.
"Empty, Boss," the guard called out from down the hall. "Cart’s full, tablet is missing. Looks like the cleaner abandoned her post when she heard the elevators."
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Julian took a slow, deep drag of the clove smoke, exhaling a thin gray ribbon of fog toward the high ceiling.
"Careless," Julian muttered softly, his eyes drifting across the marble floor until they landed directly on the brass numbers of Suite 4227. "Find her before the convoy reaches the lobby. If she has an active tablet, the hotel’s internal Wi-Fi is logging her coordinates."
