By now the sun had almost fully risen. It shone over the horizon, blinding him, making his head ache more than it already was. In a terrible mood, he slammed the car door, drawing the attention of a pair of women jogging past. Early morning exercise. They took one look at him and gasped in shock. As they continued running, King swore that their pace quickened.
He wondered why.
It didn’t take long to find out. As he approached reception, one of the tinted windows displayed his reflection. He studied the image, and even he felt like gasping. His nose had run rivulets of blood down the lower half of his face, caking his lips. A large gash at the top of his head had opened up, and that too was bleeding. One cheek was in the process of swelling. Judging by its rapid development, most of his face would be completely purple by tomorrow.
The absolute chaos of the morning had numbed his injuries. It had acted as a masking agent, hiding just how battered he truly was. He knew he had come close to unconsciousness in the fight with Cole. Now he realised just how dangerous of a position he’d been in. He looked down at his hands. One looked like it had been covered with red paint. The stab wound had bled heavily all up his forearm.
He was a mess.
But it was too late to turn around now. He pushed the reception door open and stepped inside.
The receptionist looked up from a stack of papers and visibly paled. He was a balding man with a rotund belly and wire bespectacled glasses. Probably in his mid-fifties. His face was full of warmth and kindness, but that began to dissipate when he saw a bloodied, beaten stranger heading for the desk.
‘Uh, can I help you?’ he said, stumbling on his words.
‘I know how I look,’ King said. ‘And I’m sorry. I don’t want to scare you. I just need your help.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I can’t really explain much.’
‘You’d better, or I’m not going to help you at all.’
‘A couple of guys stayed here last night,’ he said. ‘They probably seemed a bit off. A bit different to everyone else that comes through. Do you know who I’m talking about?’
The man nodded.
‘Well, I need access to their room.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘Please.’
‘I can’t just go around handing out room keys to strangers. Especially those that look like you.’
‘That’s flattering.’
‘Sorry. Nothing I can do.’
‘Okay—’ King glanced at the man’s name badge, ‘—Ronald. Here’s the thing. I have had a very, very bad morning. Those two men have done a lot of terrible shit that I unfortunately can’t go into detail about. I’m not a cop, but you need to treat me like one. I need access to that room. It’s for the right reasons, I promise you. And if you don’t give me a key, I’m just going to kick the door of Room 32 off its hinges and find what I’m looking for anyway. And I don’t want to do that, because you seem like a nice guy. Now you might call the police if I do that, but by the time they get here I’ll be gone and you’ll have a broken door that will probably cost you a hell of a lot of money to replace. And you won’t sue me for it, because you’ll never see me again. So either give me the key or pay for repairs.’
A pause. ‘You’re not giving me much of a choice.’
‘No, I’m really not.’
‘I’m calling the police the second I hand this over.’
‘Go right ahead. I’m beyond caring.’
‘I hope you’re doing the right thing.’
‘I am.’
‘Is there anything I can do to avoid either one of those two situations you listed?’
‘Not really.’
Ronald handed over a key. ‘Fucking asshole.’
King nodded his thanks, then turned on his heel and left reception. He walked down a narrow corridor which opened out into a spacious courtyard with a small water fountain at its centre, surrounded on all sides by motel rooms.
He tried to ignore how much pain he was in and located Room 32 after a minute of searching. It was a small single room, the brick exterior painted white to match the other fifty rooms in the Discount Inn. All bland, monotonous, cheap, nondescript; the qualities of a standard motel room. King unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It was immaculate. By the look of the rest of the Discount Inn, he guessed it had not been cleaned by staff. They would not give each room this much attention. Which meant the killers were men of habit, who kept everything neat and orderly at all times. They were hitmen, after all. A field where organisation and routine were of the utmost importance.
A pair of black duffel bags lay side-by-side on the kitchen table. Their belongings. King crossed to them and spent the next five minutes scrutinising their contents for anything suspicious, anything that could possibly lead to the people at the top, to answers. By the time he’d rifled through each possession twice he had to conclude that the bags were clean. Nothing but clothes, toiletries and a pair of passports that were almost certainly not their real identities. Seasoned professionals. They didn’t leave anything to track them to their employer.
King stopped.
Unless they didn’t know who their employer was.
Suddenly everything clicked. If they’d known who was paying them, then the post office activities were entirely unnecessary. They would have simply been supplied with the information in some clearing in the middle of nowhere, away from prying eyes. Kate had served as the bridge between the two parties, to ensure the people in charge remained anonymous. She was the fall girl. On all the cameras. Vulnerable. She would have taken the blame after this was all over.
Whatever this was.
Then King had approached her at her home. A mysterious stranger, full of questions, right after their two contract killers had vanished off the face of the earth. They’d decided to eliminate both of them. Clear up loose ends. Hence the sniper at the landfill site, and the imposter at the police station.
It still didn’t explain the package. There was something more to it than just a phone. On the security footage, Buzzcut had extracted the phone from the top of the box, but it contained something else. King was sure of it. Therefore, it was here somewhere.
He looked up at the ceiling. It was made of gypsum boards, all square and white and identical. He wondered if they were fixed into place. He climbed onto the bed and reached up, prodding at one. It gave way. He slid it to the side, revealing a dark space above the motel room. Empty space. A decent storage area for a package.
He glanced around the room. There was no better vantage point to reach the boards than from on the bed. Hopefully, the package would be where he thought it was. He stuck a hand into the space and patted the other side of the gypsum all around the hole. Nothing but dust. Then, at the very edge of his reach, his fingers brushed something. He clawed at the object until it rolled over and he was able to tug it down from the space.
A brown paper package, torn open at one end.
With a smile of relief he dropped it onto the kitchen table, alongside the hitmen’s bags, and tore the remaining paper off. It was a briefcase, not locked, simply secured by a pair of clasps. King unlocked it and swung it open, revealing a customised foam interior. There were three outlines carved into the material. Two were in the shape of handguns, now empty. Weapons, supplied by the employer. Probably necessary after a quick flight to Australia. The final outline was small and square and still held its contents. A note. Folded immaculately. Old school. It read:
Targets are David Lee and Miles Price, from Rafael Constructions.