Ramsingh reached for his bag.
“ Leave it.”
“ I can’t, it’s got government papers in it.”
“ Your life’s worth more,” Broxton said on his way to the door.
“ I’m leaving it.” Ramsingh stepped into the hall behind Broxton. The doors to every occupied room on the floor were open and the hallway was teaming with people in various stages of dress and undress.
“ What happened?” a female voice said.
“ Sounds like the boiler blew,” a man said.
“ They don’t have boilers anymore, at least not on the fifteenth floor,” another voice said.
“ We’ll take the stairs,” Broxton said, leading Ramsingh toward the stairway at the end of the hall.”
“ Billy.” Broxton recognized Dani’s voice and stopped.
“ Are you all right?” he called toward her.
“ What happened?” she said, pushing her way through the throng toward them.
“ I don’t know, but we’re leaving.”
“ The elevator’s the other way.”
“ We’re going down the stairs.”
“ Let’s go.” She followed them through the excited crowd toward the end of the hall and the staircase.
The stairway was lighted and empty. Broxton took the steps two at a time, the prime minister and Dani doing the same as they passed floor after floor. They were four floors down with ten to go when the fire alarm went off and Broxton quickened his pace. They were five more floors down with five to go when they met the first panicked person entering the stairway.
“ Is the hotel on fire?” she asked. She was a young mother, with a baby in her arms.
“ I don’t know,” Broxton said, stopping and gathering his breath. He was panting heavily, but both Ramsingh and Dani looked like they’d just been out for a short walk. “We have to go.”
“ I can’t go down with the baby.”
“ Give it to me,” Broxton said. The woman handed over her child and Broxton again started downward. Three more floors and the stairway started filling up. Broxton pushed into the panicked people, yelling out, “Please make way, my baby’s not breathing, please make way,” and the frightened people moved aside as Broxton, the baby’s mother, Ramsingh and Dani hurried down the stairs.
Broxton burst through the door at the bottom and jogged through the lobby with his troop still following behind. The fire alarm was still wailing, short, steady blasts, but the people in the lobby appeared more curious than panicked. A few were headed for the doorway, but most were standing around like they were at a garden party, talking, laughing, wondering what the fuss was about.
Outside, Broxton saw a couple getting out of a late model Mercedes. A man in an evening jacket was holding the door for a woman dressed like she was going to the Academy Awards. The parking valet was standing solicitously to the side, waiting for the keys.
“ You’re safe now,” Broxton said, handing the baby over to the young mother.
“ Thank you,” she said.
“ Dani, see that she’s all right,” Broxton said. Then he stepped over toward the Mercedes as the overdressed gentleman was dropping the keys into the valet’s hand and he snatched them out of the air.
“ I’m going to borrow the car for a bit. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt it.”
“ See here,” the man said. Two words and Broxton knew he was British.
“ Life and death, forgive me,” Broxton said. Then he turned away from the man and held the door as Ramsingh slid into the passenger seat.
“ Life and death?” the man said. Broxton nodded and noticed a big man leaning on a palm tree, watching him. He was speaking into a handheld radio and Broxton had the impression that he and the prime minister were the subject of the conversation. They locked eyes for an instant, then Broxton hustled around to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.
“ Yes, sir.” Broxton opened the door. “I don’t know where I’ll leave it, but I’ll try and leave it safe.”
“ Don’t worry about the car, just keep the prime minister safe, son.”
Broxton hesitated and met the man’s wolf gray eyes. “You know?”
“ I can guess, now go.”
Broxton slipped into the car, started it and spun the wheels.
Chapter Thirteen
“ He just split with the baggage in a black Mercedes and he’s headed out.” Earl was talking into an miniature handheld VHF radio. He was broadcasting on 01, a channel seldom used by boaters in Venezuela, and the radio was fitted with a scrambler. No one was going to eavesdrop on his conversation.
“ This is Undertaker, I have the Mercedes. I’ll take it from here.” Earl didn’t know who his backup was and he didn’t care. He’d done his part. It wasn’t his fault if the woman couldn’t get it right.
“ This is Lawman. Am I out of it now?” Earl said into the radio.
“ You are not. Get your car and follow. Undertaker will give you directions. Black Widow out.”
“ Copy,” Earl said. He respected the authority in her voice and he sprinted toward the parking lot and the small Ford Escort. Usually he liked bigger, faster cars, but the Escort was in the lot with its windows down. Easy to get in. Easy to get the hood up. Easy to hotwire. Better than a rental.
“ He’s turned left out of the parking lot. I’m right behind him,” his backup said over the radio.
“ Undertaker, drop back, give him some room, and remember, nothing happens to Broxton.” She called herself Black Widow and just by hearing her voice, Earl knew she was capable of eating her mate, her young, too.
“ I see them, up ahead, they’re turning again. Left, toward the marina,” Undertaker’s voice came over the radio. Earl wondered if the British accent was real.
“ Copy,” he said into his radio.
“ Copy,” Black Widow said. He wondered where she was. Probably still back in the hotel. What a looker, he thought. What a straight on good looking piece of deadly work.
“ I think he’s spotted me,” Undertaker said.
Broxton saw the headlights behind and stepped on the gas. He couldn’t be sure the car in back was part of the assassination attempt, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t either. Trust no one, suspect everyone, get away. He was racing along the beach and the full moon lit up the phosphorus in the breaking waves. The car behind accelerated too, and then Broxton was sure.
The Mercedes gobbled up the road, blurring the broken center line. Broxton checked the rearview mirror. The headlights behind were fading. They were moving away from their pursuers.
“ The road ends,” Ramsingh said. Broxton snapped his eyes back to the road, and slapped his foot onto the brakes.
“ Shit,” he said, as the car slid out of control, leaving the road and heading toward the water. Frantically he spun the wheel away from the beach sand and back toward the center of the pavement. Instinctively he knew it was the wrong thing to do. He should be turning into the slide. But that was book learning, this was real and he’d just fucked up.
The right wheels left the ground and Broxton yelled out, “We’re going over!”
Then he stiffened his hands on the wheel, bracing himself as the big car continued its two wheeled spin onto the sand. Ramsingh’s side of the car was up in the air and the prime minister wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He struggled to stay in place but the force and surprise of the slide sent him sliding down into Broxton as the two right wheels slammed back onto the ground, cushioned by the beach sand.
They’d spun around a hundred and eighty degrees and were off the road, facing the headlights racing toward them out of the night. The engine was still running and Ramsingh scooted back over toward his side of the car. “We should go,” he said. “Now,” he added.
“ Yeah,” Broxton said, adding gas. Then he was back on the road, charging toward an enemy car again. After so long, now twice in the same week.
“ What are you doing?” Ramsingh said, voice cool, like he was sitting in a bar ordering a gin and tonic.