The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [109]
The tears were running down Mohler’s face freely.
“Clean,” Reggie concluded, moving from Mohler to Smith. “But what have we got here?” He pulled a gun from beneath Smith’s coat and held it up to examine it. “Ruger 40 S and W.” He removed the clip and then ejected a bullet from the chamber. “Hollow points. Nice.” He thumbed the loose bullet back into the clip, passed both pieces of the gun to Joe, and resumed his search. His hand came out of the coat again a moment later, this time holding a walkie-talkie.
“Joe,” he said, frowning. “Do me a favor and go to the window and tell me if you see anything.”
Joe took a step backward and lifted the edge of the curtain an inch with the barrel of his weapon.
“Red Explorer,” he reported tersely. “Wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Backed into a spot on the far side of the lot. No plate visible. Two guys in the front seat. I can’t get a good look at them.”
“My associates,” Smith said, speaking for the first time. His English was unaccented, but his clipped diction made me think he was foreign. “Both carrying HK53s. It’s a military weapon. Fully automatic assault rifle. Gets through an extraordinary amount of ammunition. They’ve both got extra clips in tactical bags.”
My heart began racing again. We’d worked up contingency plans in case things went bad, but none that anticipated going up against guys with machine guns. The only exit from the room led to the exterior gallery, and the gallery was lined by a simple rail-and-post balustrade. There wasn’t any way out of the room without the guys in the parking lot seeing us, and once they’d seen us, we were completely exposed. Reggie and Joe had suggested the motor court in part because of good sight lines. But sight lines worked both ways.
“You want me to call 911?” I asked hoarsely. Secrecy was less important than not getting killed.
“No time to roll the right firepower,” Reggie said tersely. “And I don’t want a couple of sleepy patrol cops to get shot to hell. Don’t worry. We’ve still got options.” He took a half step forward, pivoted delicately on the ball of his left foot, and kicked Smith hard in the side of the chest. Smith tumbled sideways, smashing his head on the corner of the bed frame. Blood gushed from a gouge in his forehead as he lay stunned on his back. Reggie dropped the walkie-talkie onto Smith’s chest, unholstered the gun from beneath his arm, and then pointed it at Smith’s face.
“You tell your buddies to stand down, or you’re dead.”
Smith lifted himself on one elbow, wheezing. Blood ran diagonally down his cheek and was channeled to his mouth by the scar. He licked his lips and smiled, a sheen of blood on his teeth.
“I thought you were the good cop,” he sneered. “The one who didn’t hurt people.”
Smith must have heard my conversation with Reggie in the car after our trip to Queens. He’d been the one eavesdropping on me, the guy who’d been in my apartment. If the circumstances had been different, I would have kicked him, too. I didn’t want to interfere, though—I was praying Reggie could get us out of the mess we were in without any shooting.
“Unless they threaten me,” Reggie barked. “And right now I’m feeling very threatened. You need another demonstration of my willingness to hurt you?”
“Not going to make any difference. I walk out of here with Mohler or we’re all dead. My ‘buddies’ have explicit instructions. I don’t come out within five minutes, they blow everything and everyone in this room straight to hell, including me. Nothing I say now can change that.”
“Bullshit,” Reggie said. He cocked his revolver with his thumb, the cylinder rotating to put a loaded chamber under the hammer. “I’m going to count to three.”
“Count to any number you want. But you might want to take a moment to say your prayers first. You’ll be killing yourself