“You okay?” Reeder asked her, still holding onto her arm.
She nodded.
“Go out the front,” he said, “in case our shooter heads for his car. I’ll go out the back.”
“He may not be alone,” she reminded him.
“Be careful,” they said to each other in perfect sync.
Reeder trotted down to the end of the hall, pushed through the door in a crouch with his SIG Sauer gripped in both hands, fanning it around as he quickly scanned the empty parking lot on this side of the building.
Nothing out here but cold.
Rogers jogged around, her Glock in hand, barrel up. “He ditched the car.”
Still scanning, Reeder said, “With the parking lots of these other motels and restaurants butted up against each other, he had plenty of escape-route options.” He lowered the nine millimeter, which he’d only today started carrying again.
“I’ll call it in,” she said, “and say our perp’s on foot.”
Before she did, however, they compared notes on what she’d say: BOLO issued for male Caucasian, six feet, two hundred pounds, slender athletic build, black combat fatigues, duster-type coat, armed and very dangerous.
“And blond,” Reeder said.
“All I saw was a ski mask.”
“Blond hair on the back of his neck. The Nissan out front. It’s our guy.”
“Okay. But did he have help?”
“If so, they booked it even faster than he did. But I’d say no. He’s good enough to pull this off himself, and the way he approached this meant other team members might just get in the way.”
“Agreed.”
“I don’t think there were any survivors here, but you better check the fallen. Then wait for the cavalry to make their late appearance.” No sirens yet. “I’ll check on Benjamin.”
They went inside, and Reeder stopped at Benjamin’s door while Rogers returned to the bloodbath in the lobby.
Finding a bullet hole punched through the peephole, Reeder stood to one side, back to the wall next to the door, and called, “Mr. Benjamin!”
No answer.
“Adam! It’s Joe Reeder! Are you all right, sir?”
Not anywhere near the door, voice muffled and distant, Benjamin called back: “My man Asher’s been shot. He’s right inside the door — dead. I’ve called the police.”
“So have we, sir. But you best stay put till the building’s been cleared.”
Somewhat closer now: “What about my... man?”
Now came sirens.
“He’s not going anywhere, and for right now, neither should you. I’ll let you know when things are secure.”
Reeder joined Rogers in the ghastly crime scene the lobby had become and then met the uniformed cops outside, three two-man units, and greeted them with displayed ID.
A passkey was quickly found in a drawer behind the desk, where a painfully pretty young clerk lay staring up at nothing. Rogers knew how to use the key card scanner and made three more passkeys, handing one to Reeder. One uniformed man stood watch in the lobby, the other five began to search and clear the building.
Returning to Benjamin’s room, Reeder said, “Adam, it’s Reeder. Open the door.”
Behind it came: “I can’t. Brian’s body is... blocking the way.”
“I’ll handle it. Go back and sit down. You’re inside a crime scene and it needs preserving.”
Had the CSIs been there, they would likely have stopped Reeder from using the key card and carefully pushing the door open, moving the DB somewhat, so that he could edge in and step carefully over it. But they weren’t and he did.
Reeder emerged from the short entry hallway to find the billionaire seated on the edge of a made bed. His silver hair slightly mussed, dark eyes glazed behind the black-framed glasses, Benjamin was suddenly just a senior citizen in off-white pajamas with brown trim and slippers — somebody’s uncle or grandpa on a very bad night. A small automatic pistol was next to him. His face was blister pale and his expression blankly traumatized. After a moment, he looked up at Reeder, standing nearby.
“Joe. What the hell’s going on here?” The words were strong but their delivery weak.
“Appears there was a second attempt on your life.”
He looked up sharply, already coming out of it. “Have my men secured the building?”
“Your men are dead, Adam. A man in a black ski mask and fatigues came in and shot everybody. There’s no sign that anyone had time to even defend themselves. The killer was outside your room when Agent Rogers and I got to the scene. We chased him away from your door, but lost him outside.”
“I heard sirens. The police are here?”
“Yes. Clearing the building now.” Reeder nodded to the little weapon next to Benjamin. “Is that your gun?”
“A.25 I’ve carried in my briefcase for years. I have a permit.”
Reeder smiled. “I’m sure you do. I know it’s not terribly pleasant here...” — the stench of cordite and the bodyguard’s vacated bowels, laced with the coppery smell of blood, wafted nastily — “... but until the crime lab unit allows us to clear this room, you’ll need to sit tight. In the meantime, I’ll open the windows.”
“They don’t open. They’re sealed. Nobody trusts anybody anymore in this country. I’m... I’m afraid I tried to run.”
Reeder sat next to him. “Adam, I would have tried to run, too. Don’t apologize, and nobody doubts the necessity of someone like you carrying a gun for protection. You’re the victim here.”
The former professor gave Reeder a sideways look, the thin lips forming a rueful smile. “I’m supposed to be a leader. Not a victim.”
“Leaders can be victims. Ask the Kennedys.”
Benjamin sat slumped and silent for several long seconds, then he looked up abruptly. “Have you checked on my staff?”
“Where are they?”
“There’s an empty room on either side of me, then Frank, Lynn, and Lawrence in the next three rooms, down the corridor.”
Reeder called Rogers and told her what rooms to check. Several minutes passed, then his cell vibrated; he answered, and she gave him a report. He clicked off.
“Frank Elmore is dead,” Reeder said.
“My God. My dear God.” Benjamin’s marble-eyed stare saw nothing. Like that poor desk clerk. “Frank’s been with me for so many years. My right hand. My friend...”
He began to weep.
Reeder got him a tissue from a box in the bathroom, skirting the corpse again. Adding to the crap he’d get from the CSIs.
He brought several tissues to Benjamin, who dried his eyes and got control of himself. “What about Lynn and Lawrence?”
“Also dead. These are execution-style shootings.”
He clenched a fist around a tissue. “It’s a goddamn massacre. What in hell did any of us do to deserve this?”
“Adam... Barr and Schafer were on the floor, on either side of the bed, naked, where they fell after being shot, apparently. Were you aware they were in a relationship?”
He frowned. “I... I suppose I suspected, but I never gave it much thought. They were good at their jobs. Whatever their ‘relationship’ might be... it certainly didn’t compromise their work.”
Reeder’s cell vibrated: Rogers.
“The CSIs and detectives are here,” she said. “This is about to get very local and not our business, at least not yet. Just warning you that we’re about to become temporary bystanders.”
Reeder thanked her and told Benjamin to go ahead and get dressed. “Adam, you’ve got a long evening ahead. And prepare yourself for a circus.”
Soon the Holiday Inn Express, despite its many empty rooms, was at capacity: more uniformed police, a quartet of plainclothes detectives, fire department personnel, paramedics, and, before long, media vans. The CSIs came in a now-unsealed window of Benjamin’s room, took time only to scold Reeder and try to get him to turn over his shoes (he refused — the shooter had been outside the room, after all), and then America’s favorite hero and its richest man had to crawl out the window, escorted around front by uniformed officers.