Nor was there time to call for help.
Crocker assumed that the shots fired in the bathroom had been heard and that Sheik Rastani, Cyrus, and others were scrambling to stop him and/or escape.
He wasn’t going to let that happen, not when he was so close he could smell victory in the air ahead of him.
His heart pounded. His mouth, ribs, and neck hurt. His teeth ached; so did his face and jaw.
The adrenaline shoved all physical pain aside and pushed him forward, around the corner, where he saw the double mahogany doors to Suite 6C.
Bingo!
He knew this was his destination because of the bloody keycard and cardboard sleeve he clutched in his right hand. In his left he held the Makarov the pockmarked thug had dropped on the floor of the bathroom. Still warm.
He put his ear against the door and listened. An announcer’s voice in English reporting on a flood in the Philippines. A rescue was under way.
I’m glad.
Then tried the keycard. The lock flashed green and beeped. One deep breath later, he swung the door open and waited.
Come out, you motherfuckers.
The newscast segued into a Madonna song on the radio, her voice soaring and pleading at the same time.
His mind made thousands of lightning-quick calculations—the depth of the space, the darkness of the shadows, the quality of the light, the smell in the air.
It was a big, luxurious open space divided into functional areas. His eyes scanned right to left. A big flat-screen TV on a paneled wall. Tan leather sofas, a vase full of orchids, a view of the ocean, a prayer rug on the floor near the window. A half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs, a cup of tea, steam rising from a metal and glass table, and a hallway at an angle to his far left. Someone had been here seconds before.
Every second marked with a beat of his heart.
The song climbed to a crescendo.
He sensed that there was at least one other door into the suite, and somewhere people were escaping.
Gritting his teeth, he held the pistol in the ready position—like an extension of his arm—and stepped inside. Crossed past the sunken sitting area, swung around the table with the orchids, and entered the hall.
Like entering a bubble that was about to explode.
His back against the wall, he waited as the seconds ticked from a clock in a room to his right. Thought he heard a low voice like a moan. Maybe the wind? Or a big cat?
How likely is that?
Then something moved behind him and he spun, half expecting a panther or a cougar to lunge at him.
Phugt! Phugt! Phugt! Like someone spitting.
Bullets from a silenced pistol whizzed by his chin and tore into the wall. Throwing himself back, he crouched behind the corner. Residue of wallboard pelted his face and stuck in his eyes.
Tearing. Wiping the dust away. Trying to focus.
Aware of footsteps hurrying across the floor in the opposite direction, he stole a quick look only to see the blurry backs of two men running to the door. One wearing a long white shirt and pulling a large black suitcase, the other in a white dishdasha and ghutra.
The one pulling the suitcase turned and squeezed off a succession of shots. Crocker aimed and fired back.
A bullet tore into the man’s arm, causing him to let go of the suitcase and scramble out the door.
Crocker had a split second to decide whether to pursue them or keep going.
The person he was really looking for was Malie, so he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and continued down the hallway, inch by inch. Rooms to his left, two doors to his right.
Trying to calculate how much time the men had to get away. Confident that Davis, Akil, and Jakob would do what they could to stop them. Then considering the problems they might encounter.
There was absolutely nothing he could do about that now.
The first opening left led to a kitchen. Lots of cherry wood and stainless steel. A shiny double-doored refrigerator purring. Toblerone chocolate bar, a bottle of Evian water, two Orangina bottles, a roll of paper towels, and a money belt on the counter, but no people inside.
Four steps farther down the hallway, he pushed down on the polished chrome handle and kicked the first door open. The mirrored closet door reflected back his image. Not recognizing himself, he almost fired.
The ferocity in his own eyes surprised him.
Shit, do I really look like that?
He took a deep breath from his diaphragm and counted to four before exhaling, then repeated the process a half-dozen times, the way Holly had taught him. Boxed breathing, she called it. Something she’d learned from yoga class at the gym.
He felt more centered in his body, clearheaded.
The room appeared empty. Opened suitcases. Clothes scattered across the double bed and floor. A travel guide to Oman open on the nightstand, next to a stack of CDs. A copy of the French edition of GQ.
A pair of women’s white high-heeled shoes by the drape-covered window. The shoes new. Barely worn, if ever. He stepped over them and opened a door to the right of the nightstand.