The Unsung Hero (54 page)
“Where are you? You sound so close.”
“I am so close. I’m in the hotel.”
“Locke’s watching room 104 from the Congregational church tower,” Mallory told Kelly. “Jazz and Sam are helping Tommy do a room-by-room search, looking for a bomb.”
Mallory made it sound easy. As if they could simply knock on every door, explain that there might be a bomb in the room, would it be too much trouble to ask if they could take a look? . . .
No, they had to do this covertly. With Starrett dressed in a billion-dollar suit, hair swept back in a leather ponytail holder, pinky ring on his finger, pretending to be the rather effeminate “Mr. Sam” of the hotel staff, and Jazz impressively dressed in his summer uniform—posing as preliminary security for tomorrow’s event. Lt. (jg) Jazz Jacquette had even introduced himself to the desk clerks on his way in.
Tom wore surfer shorts with a big overshirt to hide the small arsenal Jazz had scrounged up from God knows where. His job this morning was to search the rooms in which no one was home.
So far so good. They were on the third floor—two more to go. And the higher they got, the less likely they were to find a bomb. Someone with the Merchant’s experience and knowledge would know that a bomb on the fourth floor would do far less damage to a building than one on the first floor.
But Tom had realized last night that while they had a photo of the Merchant checking into the hotel with a cartful of luggage, room 104 contained only one small suitcase. Where was the rest of his stuff if not in one of these other rooms?
Tom signaled for Jazz and Starrett to go on up to the fourth floor as he let himself into the last room at the end of the hall.
“I thought the chances of there being a bomb in the hotel itself are slim.” Kelly’s voice sounded as if she were right there, whispering into his ear. “I thought this guy’s MO was a car bomb.”
The room looked as if it were being occupied by a family with a small child. Baby toys were everywhere. But that didn’t mean Tom didn’t search it thoroughly. If he were a terrorist planting a bomb, he’d scatter a Bite Me Elmo doll and bright-colored blocks on the floor, too.
“Today we search the hotel,” Tom told her as he moved efficiently through the room. “Tonight and tomorrow, we’ll be out in the parking lots.”
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Not a lot,” he said flatly. “If you want, you can hang with Mal and David—help them man the van. But like I told them, I don’t want you inside this hotel, not under any circumstances.”
“I was kind of hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you,” Kelly told him. “When are you going to take a break?”
“Wednesday.” She wanted to talk to him. Great. She wanted to tell him it was probably best if they kept their distance from each other until he left at the end of the month. She didn’t want to hurt him and . . .
“Are you serious?” she said. “You’re not going to take a single break between now and—”
“No.” He let himself out of the hotel room, making sure the door was locked behind him. Room 375 was clean. He made a little checkmark on his list, stuck it back into his pocket.
“You’re not even going to go to the bathroom?” she asked. “There’s not even a time when I can come in and talk to you while you pee?”
“Kelly, I’m a little busy now,” he said tightly. “Do you mind saving the humor for another time?”
“I don’t want to wait until Wednesday to tell you that I was wrong from the start.” She lowered her voice. “What we’ve got between us is more than just sex. But I was scared, Tom. I’m still scared, but after last night, when I looked for you and you weren’t there, now I’m more scared about losing you.”
“Um, Kelly—”
She lowered her voice even more. “I miss you. I miss the time we spent together. I miss talking to you. Believe it or not, I love talking to you as much as I love—”
Tom quickly cut her off. “Yeah, I know what you love. And now that the entire team—including your father—has heard it—”
“What?”
“Everyone’s listening,” he told her, unable to keep from laughing. Jesus. Of all the things she might’ve said to him, he hadn’t been expecting this. And despite the fact that she was going to be very embarrassed, he was glad. It wasn’t “I love you, too,” but it was good enough for now. “This is a very open channel.”
Kelly laughed, too. “Oh, my God. It is?”
“Please don’t stop,” Starrett’s voice drawled. “Personally, I’m finding this a million times better than The Young and the Restless.”
“Thanks,” Tom said dryly, “but I think she’s probably done.”
“I’m not,” Kelly said. “Because I still have to tell you that I love you.”
“See?” Starrett said. “She’s not done.”
“I didn’t want to have to wait till Wednesday to say that,” Kelly added.
“Although, on Wednesday, you wouldn’t’ve had to make it a public service announcement,” Tom pointed out. She loved him. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy or scared to death.
“I don’t care who hears,” she told him fiercely. “I love you, and it’s a good thing.”
She sounded as if she were still trying to convince herself of that fact. Tom knew exactly how she felt.
“I mean,” she faltered, “as long as you still love me, too . . .”
Silence. There was dead silence.
Kelly flashed hot and then cold and then hot again as she waited an eternity for Tom to reply.
“How about we plan to take a break in about an hour and a half?” he finally said. “When we’re through with the fourth floor?”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“I’m not embarrassed. I just want to continue this more privately, that’s all.”
“Okay,” she said. “So in about an hour and a half—”
“Tom, we’ve got a small commercial helo approaching the hotel roof,” Locke’s cool voice cut in. “Is there some kind of landing pad up there?”
“Anyone know?” Tom asked, his voice instantly that of a team commander.
“Yes,” David said. “The hotel has facilities for rooftop pickups and drop-offs of guests.”
“This one’s coming in with only a pilot,” Locke reported. “Probably a pickup.”
“Activity in hallway,” Starrett said quietly. “Tom, stay out of sight. Jazz’s in room 415, dark-haired man coming out of room 435, carrying a small overnight bag, looks like . . . Tango, tango—I’ve got visual, team, it’s our man.”
Tom took the stairs three at a time as he heard Starrett say, “Excuse me, Mr. Rakowski—”
“Shit, no, Sam,” he said. “You just gave yourself away.”
He didn’t see it, but he heard it. Three gunshots. It didn’t take much to picture what had happened. Starrett called the Merchant Mr. Rakowski, the name he’d used to check into that decoy room down on the first floor, and the man turned around with his weapon already out and firing.
“Jazz, report!”
“Starrett’s down,” the XO’s deep voice said. “We need medical assistance—he’s bleeding pretty badly. The Merchant’s in the far stairwell, and yes, sir, we’ve got a bomb in room 435. Holy Mother of God, it must’ve been rigged to the door opening because the timer’s just switched from oh-nine-thirty tomorrow to twenty minutes from now. It’s homemade, L.T., but it’s a big motherfucker. Our man definitely knew what he was doing. Someone better start evacuating this building. I’m not sure I can get past all these booby traps in time to keep this thing from blowing.”
“Medical assistance is on its way,” Mallory’s voice cut through. “Kelly told me to tell you she’s coming to help Sam.”
“No!” Tom shouted as he kept going past the fourth floor, toward the roof. “God damn it, you tell Kelly to stay in the van!”
“But she’s already on her way.”
“Shit! Jazz, call WildCard,” Tom ordered. “He’s standing by. Use him, however you can, to help you with that bomb. Mal, call the police, tell them we found something real. Locke, be ready for anything.”
“Always am, sir.”
He burst onto the roof, out into the brain-splitting brightness of the morning. Weapon drawn, he ran for the other access door.
And then there he was.
The Merchant.
He saw Tom, saw his weapon, and raised his own side arm.
He was just a little too late.
Tom kicked it, hard, from his hand, like a game-winning soccer kick. It went flying back through the open access door. Tom heard it rattling down the stairs. Goal!
But the Merchant was already swinging his briefcase, and it landed hard against the side of Tom’s head, then hard against his right wrist. His weapon dropped, too, and the Merchant dove for it.
Kelly took the stairs to the fourth floor. Starrett had been shot. Please, God, don’t let him have been shot in the chest or the face or . . .
He was slumped on the floor, bleeding heavily from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Two and a half inches lower, and that bullet would have hit his heart. Two and a half inches lower, and this man would be dead.
As it was, he was unconscious, and Kelly saw there was blood on his head as well. A second bullet had grazed his temple. She took off his headset and put it on. She had far more use for it than Sam did right now.
The door to 435 was open and as she went inside to get some towels to use to stop his bleeding, she stopped short at the sight of the bomb.
Dear God, Tom had been right all along. Tom, who was no doubt chasing the man with the gun. Please, God, keep him safe!
“Seventeen minutes and counting down,” Jazz was saying grimly to someone on the hotel telephone. “I’ll try to describe it completely, but I sure as hell wish you could see it for yourself.”
David sat up. Lieutenant Jacquette wanted WildCard, out in California, to see the bomb that was in room 435.
He could do it. He could help. With his Internet camera. His laptop.
He opened the van door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said to Mallory. “Stay right here, all right?”
“But—”
“I’ve got to get something,” he told her, and ran for home.
Mallory couldn’t get through. She’d used the cell phone to dial 911, but she kept getting freaking disconnected.
Don’t go anywhere.
Don’t leave the van.
That rule was supposed to apply to David and Kelly as well as herself.
So why was she the only one left sitting here like a big idiot?
Her job was to warn the police about the bomb. Start the evacuation of the hotel. Fifteen minutes now before the bomb went off.
Screw this. How could she warn anyone with a cell phone that didn’t effing work? She switched off her lip microphone, left the van, and ran for the hotel.
It was amazing. There were people playing Frisbee on the lawn, workmen building a stage. And in the hotel lobby, it was as poshly, snobbishly too-elegant-for-the-likes-of-you as it always had been.
That was going to change, and fast.
There was a line at the front desk, a line at the concierge’s counter. But there was a security guard, gun strapped to his side, chatting up the woman working at the gift shop.
Mallory skidded to a stop in front of him.
“No running in the hotel,” he said sternly.
“Yeah? How about when there’s a bomb set to go off in fifteen minutes?”
The guard got even more stern. “Bomb threats are a felony, young lady. Even when said in jest.”
“This isn’t a threat or a joke, Jack. It’s in room 435. We need to start evacuating this building now.”
“Paoletti, right?” he said, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, I know you. You’re Angie Paoletti’s kid. You know, we got a call from the police department, warning us that Tom Paoletti was hallucinating some kind of terrorist threat. Do me a favor, kid. Go home, and take your nutball uncle with you.”
“I’m serious. Sir. Officer.” Mallory gave respectful a try. “Please, will you at least go up to room 435 and—”
“You got ten seconds to get the hell out of here,” the security guard told her. “And the only reason I’m being nice and letting you leave without calling the police is because I’m friends with your mother.”
“Friends. Right,” Mallory said. “Does your wife know?”
He reached for her, but she was already gone.
Charles stood gripping the railing on the deck of the harbormaster’s house, Joe beside him. “What do you see?” he said. “Alyssa, please. Shoot the bastard.”
“Tom and the Merchant are fighting,” Alyssa Locke reported from her perch in the church tower. “Hand to hand. Believe me, sir, if I could get a clear shot . . .”
“Kelly,” Charles said. “Where are you?”
“She’s here,” David answered the old man. “With Sam. The mike on her radio headset broke. She can receive but she can’t send.”
He stepped over the fallen SEAL, trying not to look at the blood on the towel Kelly held pressed to the man’s shoulder. God, Sam Starrett had been shot. This all had seemed like pretend back in the van, but it wasn’t. It was real.
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