Found Money - James Grippando [68]
The numbness took over as he drifted away.
32
Ryan slept in his hotel room until noon. He’d been awake all night, having last checked the alarm clock at 6:55 AM. Rest was something that no longer came easy, not since his father’s death. Each time his busy mind drifted toward sleep, the images came. He would think of his father. Dead, not alive. He could see him in the ground, sleeping peacefully beneath so many tons of earth. Beside him in the coffin was a noticeable void, a hole much deeper than the one in which they’d buried him. It was a vast underground cavern, like the ones he’d shown Ryan long ago in New Mexico, big enough for the secrets he should have taken to the grave.
The phone rang. He was standing at the bathroom sink, dressed only from the waist down, splashing away the soapy remains of his morning shave—though it was actually the afternoon. He dried his face with a towel as he crossed the room and answered on the half-ring.
“Hello.”
“They’re coming for you. Get out of the hotel.”
It was a woman’s voice. It sounded vaguely familiar—like the woman who’d scammed him in the hotel bar. “Who is this?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds, no more. Get out of the hotel. Now.”
The line clicked.
Ryan stood frozen. It was the same voice, he was sure of it. Which means this is probably another scam.
He pulled on a shirt and went to the door. He opened it quickly but carefully, just a crack, not even as far as the chain lock would allow. The door frame blocked his view to the left. To the right, however, he could see all the way down the long corridor, clear to the elevators. About thirty other rooms separated his from the exit. The halls were quiet and empty, save for an unattended maid’s cart. A few doors were open for cleaning. The clang of the elevator bell signaled an arrival. Ryan watched from afar as the doors slid open.
Five men stepped out. Their pace was brisk, purposeful. All were dressed in the beige and brown uniforms of the Panamanian military police.
Ryan closed the door, nearly fell against it. Son of a bitch.
His mind raced with possibilities. It had to be a setup orchestrated by the very same woman who had teamed up to steal his bag. She’d called them herself. But why would she have called to warn him? Maybe the banker at Banco del Istmo had called them. This was his payback for the way Ryan had bullied him into violating Panamanian bank secrecy. Ryan just didn’t know. And he didn’t intend to hang around and find out.
He double-checked the lock on the door and raced across the room. His garment bag was already packed and on the bed, but baggage would slow him, and it wasn’t worth saving. He grabbed only his smaller bag and ran to the window. He was on the second floor, in one of the cheaper rooms that faced the alley. For once he was glad to have the room without a view. He paused to think twice. He could stay put and try to explain. But with no passport and three million dollars in a numbered bank account, he wasn’t looking forward to a police interrogation. The dictatorship was gone, but Panama was still the third world.
Boot steps rumbled in the hall, like a charging cavalry. No time to think. He opened the window and climbed out on the ledge.
It was a narrow alley, barely wide enough for compact cars. Ryan’s room faced a seafood restaurant. Garbage lined both sides, some of it in big overflowing bins, most just scattered in the gutter. The odor suggested that it had been there for some time. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could jump straight to the pavement and risk breaking an ankle. Or he could let the trash break the fall and risk smelling like week-old mahimahi.
A hard knock on the door announced their arrival. “La policía! Abre la puerta!”
Ryan paused. If he jumped, there was no turning back. If I stay…
The knock was suddenly a thud—then a crash. The door burst open just a crack, caught by the chain. They were breaking down the door.
Staying is not