The woman backed up so fast she might have been jerked with a rope. Dox passed the pistol to Manus. “I think they were waiting for Hamilton to leave so they could snatch her nearer the exit,” he said, so softly he was practically just mouthing the words. “Meaning there’s likely to be more opposition nearby, here or right outside. You ready?”
Manus nodded once. Larison was right, the man was quiet. And even more, reliable.
They stood. A cluster of people had gathered, chattering in confused tones and watching. The staircase concealed some of what was happening, but it was clear there was a body on the floor. And a lot of blood.
“I wouldn’t get too close,” Dox said. “Thankfully I’m immune to Ebola from my time combatting the disease in Africa, and am no longer infectious myself. I’m pretty sure.”
“Ebola?” he heard someone say, and the cluster was suddenly gone. But the lobby was abuzz now with agitated voices.
He and Manus came from around the stairs and headed toward the restaurant. The people who had seen them with the body gave them a wide berth. Everyone else was looking around, confused and uncertain. A guy in a blue blazer, probably hotel security, rounded the front desk and rushed past them. Dox kept his head moving, looking for more opposition, but so far he didn’t see any.
No way to get Diaz in here now. Well, so much for their bona fides. They were going to have to improvise again.
chapter
thirty-three
LARISON
Larison was directly across from the hotel, standing inside the glass doors of a place that arranged brewery and roastery visits for tourists. He’d asked if they wouldn’t mind his waiting for a friend there, just to get in from the rain. It wasn’t raining anymore, but they told him no problem. He might not have had Dox’s ability to go unnoticed, but people didn’t like to argue with him, either.
He’d parked illegally just around the corner. He wasn’t worried about a ticket—they had rented the van using fake credentials. And he wasn’t expecting to be there long enough for anyone to get a tow truck.
He saw two people rush out of the hotel. They started talking urgently with the bellman while pointing back into the lobby. Several more people rushed out behind them. Something was going on. Maybe Hamilton had decided not to come quietly.
To the right of the hotel was a viewing deck looking out over the waterfront, and a long flight of stairs alongside it. Two big men came racing up the steps and toward the hotel entrance. Larison glanced left, to the street corner, and didn’t see any other problems.
He walked out of the tour shop and crossed the street, head swiveling. Still no one else who looked like trouble. He broke into a jog as the two men reached the hotel entrance. They got stuck there for a moment because more people were running out. One of the men eased a pistol from a waistband holster. Larison was already holding his, covered by the rain parka draped over his arm.
The men squeezed through the doors, Larison just behind them. Inside, he saw Dox and Manus, about to head into the restaurant. Amid the weirdly incongruous lobby music, the atmosphere was agitated. People looking around anxiously, a lot of confused chatter about Ebola. He smiled. Fucking Dox.
He scanned and saw a body to the left, a sizeable pool of blood around it. His smile broadened. Manus.
One of the men nudged the other and pointed to Dox and Manus. The second man eased out a pistol.
A woman with two kids crossed in front of Larison. He sidestepped and closed on the two men. They were less than twenty feet from Dox and Manus now.
Ahead, Larison saw a guy in a wheelchair take note of the two men. The guy’s gaze zeroed in on one of their pistols. He pointed and yelled, “He has a gun!”
There was more shouting. Dox started to turn. The two men brought up their pistols—