Now, with a little time to recover, Trevor was trying to get his head back in the game. Marbles still stuffed into his pockets, he struggled to get comfortable. The effect was intentional, but no less irritating. He resisted the urge to comfort eat, instead focusing on his plan of attack.
Melendez would arrive later today. His security team had the whole floor locked down, but they wouldn’t be expecting any movement from within. With all eyes on the entrances, it wouldn’t take much of a distraction to buy Trevor enough time to slip down to floor level and make his way to Melendez’s room. With at least one of the bodyguards sure to be outside the door, Trevor knew he had to choose his moment wisely; he was confident of his own combat prowess, but engaging an unknown was always a risk. He would need the element of surprise to tip the scales in his favor.
He played the scenario out in his head. First, he would wait until Melendez had retired for the night, allowing a couple of hours for him to enter REM sleep. Tonight was out of the question; there would be too many people watching. He would wait until after the conference was over to make his move. Unfastening the fake panels, he would open the hatchway a crack and wait for one of the security team, preferably the one who didn’t sound like a pro wrestler, to pass beneath. A quick drop to the soft carpet, and he would quickly neutralize the target with his KA-BAR tactical knife. Either a deep incision to the spine, or to the carotid arteries, whichever presented itself as the quickest method of dispatch. It would all be over in seconds.
Worse case scenario, the first target would make a noise and alert the other guard. With less than fifty feet between the hatchway and the farthest room, it would be an easy shot with the suppressed pistol once Trevor rounded the corner. Total time, less than ten seconds. Too fast for anyone to call for backup.
After that, Trevor would liberate Melendez’s room card from one of the bodyguards and pay the bastard a personal visit. He hadn’t yet decided how he would do it. He had considered a single bullet to the head, quick and clean, but ultimately decided it lacked poetry. Either the knife, or, if he was feeling pumped enough, his own two hands wrapped around Melendez’s throat. He figured he could always scrub away the DNA traces afterward.
The deed itself was the easy part. Trevor knew his own limits, and was confident he could pull it off. He’d handled far worse in the past, his own time with the Secret Service proving he was more than a match for most. His military days before that, he had built quite a reputation for efficiency, if not imagination.
The trouble lay with egress, getting the hell out of Dodge when it was all over. He could pack up his kit in the rucksack, for sure, but he would waste valuable time collecting it. That had to be factored in. Cameras, too; there were CCTV units mounted throughout the hotel, although none installed on the VIP floor. He would have to slip back into his coveralls to avoid drawing suspicion, assuming a man dressed in a ski mask and black jumpsuit wasn’t a regular sight at the First Hill Suites. Trevor figured not.
Thankfully, Gustafson’s elevator key card would grant him access to the parking lot without requiring passage through the public areas. That would allow him a direct route outside, where his pickup would be waiting. The fake card he had slipped onto Rick’s desk the day before should hold up long enough. By the time anyone figured out something had happened, Trevor would be long gone.
The Feds might discover he was involved, but no matter. Trevor had passage booked out of the country, registered under one of many aliases, which should buy him a few months. By the time the Secret Service or the CIA got their asses in gear, Trevor would have already moved on. He figured six to eight months of lying low, swapping identities, and Interpol would lose him for good. It meant never stepping foot on US soil again, but, as far as Trevor was concerned, that was just a bonus.
All he had to do was get through the next thirty-six hours.
Chapter 17
MARIEL WAS HUDDLED in an alleyway a couple of blocks from the hotel when Jonny arrived. She was taking shelter under a fire escape, sucking down on a Marlboro. She looked up as he approached and tossed the remnants of the cigarette onto the rain-soaked asphalt, grinding it out with the heel of her shoe.
“What the hell you call about?” Jonny said, drawing up close. The rain hadn’t let up and droplets of cold water trickled down his face. The frigid temperature numbed the pain in his jaw a little. “I told you not to use your cell phone.”
“Shit, what happened to you?” Mariel said, eying his swollen features. “You get into a fight with a lamppost?”
“Mind your own business.”