no idea what that number might be. Sikes would probably keep one man in the lobby. Question was, did he have one watching the basement too? No way to know. But if he could make it to the basement it’d be an easy shot through the tunnel to the hospital to call the police. So the big question was, was this the stairwell to the basement? If not, he was screwed.
Seconds were ticking away. He had to do something.
Couldn’t go up and couldn’t stay here, so he started down again, checking each door on the way, hoping maybe a smoker had shimmed one open. Floor seven was locked.
Same with six.
He was flying past the fifth floor when a male voice came from below. “Roger that. I’ll check this one.”
He stopped, his gut knotting up. Trapped.
Then he remembered that the west side of the fourth floor differed from the other floors—it was nothing but a huge maintenance closet. A perfect place to hide.
Assuming his master key fit the lock.
He started down again, hand sliding along the tubular railing for balance, no longer trying to mask his sounds, and hit the landing while sorting through his keys.
He could hear footsteps racing up from below, closing in on him.
Come on, come on. Finally he found the right key and thrust it at the lock but missed. The footsteps were growing closer.
Another try, this time he got it. He darted into the room and threw his weight against the door to slam and lock it. Then checked to make sure the lock was secure. It was.
He blew out a long breath and slumped against the wall. Now what?
Someone started pounding on the door, yelling, “Open up. Security.”
Tom stepped away from the door, turning 360 degrees to inspect a room he’d only seen occasionally when walking past the open door. Thirty square feet of floor-to-ceiling cinder blocks lit by two bare fluorescent ceiling rods. The wall to his left contained two metal elevator doors and a smaller single door. Had no idea where the single door led but tried it. Locked.
On the opposite wall was another door, which he figured should open onto a section of roof. He tested the knob, found it wasn’t locked, and opened the door into blazing sunlight, shimmering heat waves, and the scent of hot tar.
A thundering crash came from the hall door.
Squinting from the bright light, he stepped onto blacktop and into a maze of crisscrossing ventilation ducts and fan housings.
Another crash thundered from behind. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the hall door fly open.
He started running, cutting around a wall of ductwork. Dead ahead the roof ended in a foot-high parapet.
A loud bang came from the air duct just to his right. He glanced back, saw a man in a two-handed firing crouch aiming a silenced pistol at him.
Shit!
McCarthy dashed straight toward the parapet as another bullet ripped through the ductwork, closer this time. Running flat out, he jumped, clearing the parapet by only inches.
13
S IKES WASN’T ANY more impressed with Frank Hansen, head of security at Doctors Hospital, than he had been with Doolittle. Hansen made a more professional first impression, but he lacked confidence and by inference, ability. Tall and angular, freckled, with that innocent boy-next-door appearance of a jock watching his high school glory days disappearing in life’s rearview mirror. Like Doolittle, he’d probably become a rent-a-cop after washing out of a police academy somewhere. Physically he was big enough, maybe even tough enough, at one time. But now it looked like he had a bad case of gelatin brain.
Sikes offered Hansen his ID. “Officer Hansen, Warren Sikes, Department of Defense.” Sure, it was a waste of time playing diplomacy to these walk-ons. And if Hansen had any smarts at all, he’d get on the horn jackrabbit fast, call SPD, stand back, and let the big boys play. But the longer this little charade dragged on, the more time Sikes had to personally deal with the traitor, McCarthy. The downside, of course, was the
Seconds were ticking away. He had to do something.
Couldn’t go up and couldn’t stay here, so he started down again, checking each door on the way, hoping maybe a smoker had shimmed one open. Floor seven was locked.
Same with six.
He was flying past the fifth floor when a male voice came from below. “Roger that. I’ll check this one.”
He stopped, his gut knotting up. Trapped.
Then he remembered that the west side of the fourth floor differed from the other floors—it was nothing but a huge maintenance closet. A perfect place to hide.
Assuming his master key fit the lock.
He started down again, hand sliding along the tubular railing for balance, no longer trying to mask his sounds, and hit the landing while sorting through his keys.
He could hear footsteps racing up from below, closing in on him.
Come on, come on. Finally he found the right key and thrust it at the lock but missed. The footsteps were growing closer.
Another try, this time he got it. He darted into the room and threw his weight against the door to slam and lock it. Then checked to make sure the lock was secure. It was.
He blew out a long breath and slumped against the wall. Now what?
Someone started pounding on the door, yelling, “Open up. Security.”
Tom stepped away from the door, turning 360 degrees to inspect a room he’d only seen occasionally when walking past the open door. Thirty square feet of floor-to-ceiling cinder blocks lit by two bare fluorescent ceiling rods. The wall to his left contained two metal elevator doors and a smaller single door. Had no idea where the single door led but tried it. Locked.
On the opposite wall was another door, which he figured should open onto a section of roof. He tested the knob, found it wasn’t locked, and opened the door into blazing sunlight, shimmering heat waves, and the scent of hot tar.
A thundering crash came from the hall door.
Squinting from the bright light, he stepped onto blacktop and into a maze of crisscrossing ventilation ducts and fan housings.
Another crash thundered from behind. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the hall door fly open.
He started running, cutting around a wall of ductwork. Dead ahead the roof ended in a foot-high parapet.
A loud bang came from the air duct just to his right. He glanced back, saw a man in a two-handed firing crouch aiming a silenced pistol at him.
Shit!
McCarthy dashed straight toward the parapet as another bullet ripped through the ductwork, closer this time. Running flat out, he jumped, clearing the parapet by only inches.
13
S IKES WASN’T ANY more impressed with Frank Hansen, head of security at Doctors Hospital, than he had been with Doolittle. Hansen made a more professional first impression, but he lacked confidence and by inference, ability. Tall and angular, freckled, with that innocent boy-next-door appearance of a jock watching his high school glory days disappearing in life’s rearview mirror. Like Doolittle, he’d probably become a rent-a-cop after washing out of a police academy somewhere. Physically he was big enough, maybe even tough enough, at one time. But now it looked like he had a bad case of gelatin brain.
Sikes offered Hansen his ID. “Officer Hansen, Warren Sikes, Department of Defense.” Sure, it was a waste of time playing diplomacy to these walk-ons. And if Hansen had any smarts at all, he’d get on the horn jackrabbit fast, call SPD, stand back, and let the big boys play. But the longer this little charade dragged on, the more time Sikes had to personally deal with the traitor, McCarthy. The downside, of course, was the
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