No Tomorrow (23 page)

T
he night had always been Victor's friend. He guessed he had spent more of his waking life during the night than the day. He had learned to know the night and to use it, but now it was an enemy because he was not alone. Gisele was finally still beneath the duvet after tossing and turning for a while. She complained about the lights being left on but Victor was insistent. She lay on her side at the very edge of the bed—as far away from him as possible. He didn't blame her.

Victor stood by the window, gazing outward. He was relaxed yet vigilant. He was used to waiting. Waiting was half his work: waiting for people to show; waiting for them to leave; waiting for it to get dark. The most undervalued skill of the assassin was patience. Those who didn't have it didn't survive for long. Now that patience might keep Gisele—and him—alive.

He'd said he would take the chair but he stood. The chair was wedged against the door handle. He was positioned by the window, looking out between the curtains
but from an acute angle. Across the street on the other side of the concrete posts supporting the elevated railway line he saw his other room and the mirror set on the windowsill. He could see nothing in the reflection. If he could, it would mean someone was in the room.

Gisele woke with a start, bolting upright in the bed, gasping when she saw him but then relaxing slowly once she had processed the situation.

“I fell asleep,” she said.

“That's good,” Victor replied. “Try to go back to sleep. Get as much sleep as you can.”

“First rule of soldiering?”

“Something like that.”

“What are you doing by the window?”

He shrugged, as though it was nothing. “Just passing the time.”

“You can't sleep?”

He shook his head.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost three thirty.”

“Have you had any sleep?”

“Yes,” he lied.

He looked at her. She was massaging her left triceps. That was the third time he'd seen her rubbing her arm. As far as he knew, she wasn't injured.

“Are you okay?”

She huffed. “Never better.”

“What's wrong with your arm?”

She looked back at him, at first confused, then understanding. “I get somatic pain when I'm stressed. Nice how my body turns against me at the very worst possible times, isn't it?”

If she had been injured, he could have used his
medical knowledge to help, but she had no physical ailment he could treat. He was powerless.

“You almost look concerned about me,” she said. “Don't worry, I'm used to it.”

“Tomorrow,” Victor said, “you're going to have to cut your hair.”

She stopped rubbing her arm. “Seriously?”

“It's a precaution. Your hair stands out as it is.”

“It's not exactly long. If I cut it shorter then I'll be more memorable and noticeable, surely.”

“True, but they already know who you are and what you look like. If it takes them an extra second to realize that the young woman with short hair is actually you, that might save your life.”

She frowned. “What can happen in a second?”

“Let's hope you don't find out.”

“Fine, you win. It's the middle of the night. I don't have the energy to argue with you anymore. In the morning I'll cut my hair off and go all nineties lesbian.”

“A few inches off the length will do fine.”

“You want me to color it too?”

“Ideally, yes. We'll pick up some dye tomorrow.”

“Sounds great. Can't wait. Why don't we go the whole way and I'll get dreadlocks? Perhaps a few facial piercings? Maybe bleach my eyebrows white?”

“I'm glad you're able to keep your sense of humor in all this.”

“One of us has to.” She smirked and pushed her fingers through her hair. “I'll give myself a pageboy cut. Will that do? I think I can pull it off.”

He nodded. “That sounds perfect.”

She looked away, fingers still in her hair. “I'm going to miss you.”

“You are?” Victor said, surprised that anyone would miss him, least of all someone he'd known for such a short time.

Gisele's gaze met his. A line of confusion separated her eyebrows for the moment it took her to process what he'd said. “I . . . I was talking to my hair.”

“Of course,” Victor said, feeling foolish. “But it'll grow back.”

She nodded as if she hadn't already known that, as if the misunderstanding had gone unnoticed, to spare him any embarrassment. Then she said, “There's no way I'm going to fall asleep now. Why don't we play a game or something? Otherwise I'll spend the rest of the night awake, staring at the ceiling, panicking at every sound.”

“You don't need to do that. I'll stay on stag until first light.”

“Stag?”

“British Army term,” he explained. “Means ‘on duty.' In this case, on guard duty.”

She sat forward. “You were in the British Army?”

“That's not what I said.”

“So you weren't?”

“That's not what I said either.”

“Are you going to tell me anything about yourself?”

“Not if I can help it.”

She raised her eyebrows—annoyed but not enough to pursue the issue.

He could feel her working up to saying something. He didn't prompt her. He let her say it in her own time.

“I haven't thanked you for what you did for me earlier tonight. I thought I was going to die back there.”

He said, “You don't have to thank me.”

“You've saved my life.”

Not yet,
he thought.

T
he two big Range Rovers raced through the dark streets, rain pelting the bodywork, tires throwing up rainwater. In the first vehicle were five of Marcus's mercenaries. In the second, Anderton sat in the passenger's seat while Wade drove. Sinclair sat in the backseat, chewing gum as he adjusted the straps of his Dragon Skin vest to get the most comfortable fit. The windshield wipers swung back and forth, flicking away rain, each time presenting Anderton with a glimpse of her reflection on the glass. A pretty sight once, but not now, with the creases of dishonor cutting through her flesh.

She finished her phone call with a curt, “Keep yourself available,” and directed Wade to take the next turn. He drove fast, pushing the limit of what they could get away with without drawing the attention of the police. Her credentials would get them out of any bother, but better not to get into it in the first place.

She updated the two men with what she had learned.

Rogan's voice came over the radio: “This is Unit One. We're nearly there. ETA six minutes. Over.”

She thumbed the send button: “Confirm, Unit One. When we arrive I want you to split up and secure the perimeter while we enter and establish location. Make sure you have eyes on
all
exits. I don't want them slipping away.” She released
SEND
.

“Copy that.”

The Range Rover exited the bridge, following the road as it meandered to the right. Wade decelerated as they came to a traffic island.

From the backseat, Sinclair said, “I can handle it. Alone.”

She didn't bother to reply.

“I said I can handle it.”

Anderton met Sinclair's gaze in the rearview mirror. “Like you handled it at the warehouse?”

He frowned. “That was different. No one told me about the assassin.”

“So he would not have bested you had you known he was there?”

The South African's voice was clipped and sharp. “Correct.”

“For your own sake, I hope you're right,” Anderton said. “I don't want any more mistakes.”

“There won't be,” Sinclair assured.

She nodded. “I know. Because this time I'm leading.”

He looked away and continued chewing his gum.

Next to her, Wade's gaze was locked on the road ahead, but Anderton saw the fear the man was trying to
hide. She could smell it on him. He was thinking of his two dead teammates.

Anderton felt nothing. The death of the two mercenaries had no effect on her except to elevate the stakes of the game. She had a worthy enemy. One who would soon be dead.

A
s she had predicted, Gisele couldn't get back to sleep. She tried. She really tried. Bedclothes rustled as she attempted to get comfortable, and there were sighs of frustration when she failed to drift off. But no matter what she did to relax and clear her mind, images and sounds assailed her consciousness: flashes of grenades, gunshots, and cries. Then the fear would rush back into her and her heartbeat would thump in her ears and she found herself panting and more awake than ever. Eventually she gave up and pushed herself into a sitting position against the headboard, pulling the bedclothes high up over chest even though she was fully dressed.

He stood near the window, as before. He didn't acknowledge her. He was so still and focused he didn't seem alive. She couldn't decide whether this was a good or bad thing. She did know that it was freaky.

When she couldn't stand it any longer she climbed out of bed and padded over to where the room's phone sat
on a desk. She lifted up the receiver. That broke whatever spell he was under. He faced her and she said:

“What's Yigor's number?”

“Put the phone down, Gisele.”

“Give me Yigor's number.”

“No,” he said. “Put the phone down and go back to bed.”

“I really don't like your tone. I never knew my real dad, but you're not him. You're not even my stepfather. So don't talk to me like that. I want to speak to Yigor. Now.”

“That's a risk I'm not prepared to take.”

“What do you mean by that? Yigor's on our side.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But at this present time I don't know how those men found us at the warehouse. There's a good chance one of your stepfather's men sold you out. Only one of the men he sent here is still alive. And that man conveniently happened to have been absent from the warehouse when it was attacked.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed in disbelief. “No way. You can't possibly be serious. Yigor would
never
do that.”

“Then the team must have been shadowing you this whole time and for some reason opted to wait until you had armed guards before moving in.”

Her mouth hung open for a moment. “What was that—sarcasm? Great time to find your sense of humor. Don't mock me, okay? And you don't need to be dismissive of my opinion either.”

“Okay,” Victor said.

“It's ridiculous to think Yigor had anything to do with that. He used to drive me to school, for fuck's sake. Trust me, he wouldn't.”

•   •   •

“Drive nice and slow,” Anderton told Wade. “Don't pull up directly outside. Park like we're guests. He might be watching.”

The mercenary nodded and steered the Range Rover through the hotel's large parking lot at the building's east side. He drove as instructed: slowly.

“There,” Anderton said, pointing to a free space some twenty meters from the hotel.

Wade guided the vehicle to a stop.

She radioed Unit One: “Okay, we're here. Wait ninety seconds and join us. Park farther away and secure the perimeter. Don't break cover unless I explicitly say so.” She released the
SEND
button and looked at Sinclair. “Ready?”

Inside the lobby, Anderton led the two men straight to the front desk. They all wore civilian attire, jackets done up to hide weapons.

“Let me do the talking.”

A pretty blonde with too much makeup smiled at them. Before she had a chance to say a word, Anderton said, “Get your manager. Now.”

He was a short man in his fifties with a pronounced gut. Anderton showed him her credentials and he read them with eyebrows raised.

He said, “You'd better come with me.”

In a small office behind the lobby, he asked, “What is it that I can do for you?”

“I'm here because of a potential threat to national security.”

“My God, do you mean terrorists?”

“I can't divulge that information at this stage,” Anderton said. “I need the room number of one of your
guests. A single man, Caucasian, early to mid-thirties, short dark hair. Tall. Well dressed. He'll have a young woman with him.”

The manager swallowed. Nervous. “What . . . what's his name?”

“We don't have a name, but we do know he checked in yesterday morning.”

“Madam, we have hundreds of guests at any one time. I'm sure there are dozens who match that description. Most of whom are accompanied by a lady friend. Some don't even stay the night, if you know what I mean. So I'm not sure I can help you without more information. Would you like me to print you off a list of guests?”

Anderton smiled to put him at ease. “Show me the footage from your security cameras.”

•   •   •

In a small, claustrophobic room, Sinclair and Anderton stood behind a big hotel security guard who sat in front of a bank of video monitors and equipment. The manager had shown them to the room, then hurriedly left.

“So,” the guard began as he manipulated the controls, “what's this guy done?”

“That's classified,” Anderton said.

“What camera did you want to take a look at? We've got twenty-two to choose from. I can give you Car Park A, Car Park B, Car Park C, Lobby A, Lobby B—”

“Lobby. Whichever one covers people passing through the main entrance.”

“Gotcha.” He pressed a few keys on the keyboard before him. “And what time code did you want me to look at?”

“Go back five hours,” Sinclair said. “And cycle through from there. It's not complicated.”

The guard sighed and shook his head as he rewound
the footage from the hotel lobby. “Hey, chill out, man. You don't have to take that tone with me. I'm only doing my job here.”

“Then shut up and do it.”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Shit, you can't talk to me like that.” He took his hands from the controls in a show of defiance. “You're not my boss, you”—he put on a bad imitation of Sinclair's accent—“you South African prick.”

In a second the guard was off the chair, face forced into the floor, his right arm twisted behind his back, Sinclair holding his wrist and elbow, ready to break the arm with an ounce more pressure. The guard yelled in pain.

“Easy,” Anderton said. “Easy, we don't have to do it that way. He's sorry.” She looked at the guard. “Aren't you?”

“Yes.”

Sinclair released him. “Then work faster and keep your lips shut or I'll chew them off your face.”

The guard pulled himself off the floor and slid back on to his chair. Grimacing, he returned to the controls. He rewound the footage to the requested time code and then played it forward.

“Take it to eight times speed,” Anderton said.

He did so and they watched the rapid, jerky movements of guests and staff entering the hotel and passing through the lobby. Anderton noticed Sinclair's teeth were grinding together.

“Stop.”
Anderton snapped her fingers. “That's him. Play it.”

On the screen a man entered the lobby, only his back visible. He was dressed in a suit and had short dark hair,
but no other features were obvious. Trailing a few meters behind him was a young woman.

Anderton left the room. She gestured for the blond receptionist to follow her. Back inside the viewing room, she pointed at the screen.

“Who's that man?”

The receptionist leaned forward and looked closely, her brow furrowed. The monitor showed two figures walking past the reception desk and heading for the stairs.

“He walked past you three and a half hours ago,” Sinclair prompted.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I remember him. He was a nice guy. Thompson, I think his name is.”

“What room is he in?” Anderton asked.

“Three ten. Why? What did he do?”

The guard said, “Don't ask, Layla.”

Anderton frowned as she left the room with Sinclair in tow. “This is too easy. Something's not right.”

Sinclair said, “I like easy.”