the blood. Marco spit up at him.
“You set us up, man… .”
Selinas didn’t bother to nod. He had quickly determined days before that finding the Riveros would be impossible, so he elected to have them find him and they had cooperated brilliantly.
“What you waitin’ for, man?” Marco rasped. “Come on, do me and get it over with.”
“Tell me where the suitcases are.”
Marco grimaced in pain. “You get the powder and I get to live. Is that it, man?”
Selinas’s expression was noncommittal.
“You did my brother. I got to get you for that. What the fuck, man, I don’t need the powder anyway. I’ll give it to you just to get my chance. Upstairs. Second room down. Wall on the right side of the window is false. Smart man like you, you’ll spot it right away.” Marco looked up at the gun and squeezed his ruined shoulder with his other hand. “You’re gonna be dead, man,” he spat angrily. “You’re gonna be dead quick.”
“You already are.”
And Selinas pulled the trigger over Marco’s face.
Chapter 9
SUNDAY TURNED INTO THE longest day of Drew Jordan’s life. His useless phone call at the Esplanade left him with two choices. One was to throw himself on the mercy of the Palm Beach police, the other to get out fast for a safe port—DEA regional headquarters in Miami. The first option was appealing only in that he was guilty of, at worst, a self-defense killing. But explaining the circumstances of his presence at Too-Jay’s and his possession of a gun promised to lead to questions he couldn’t answer. Option number two, then, was his best bet. The DEA was involved in this through Masterson regardless of the agent’s fate. They would have to help him, learn who the assassin was, and who had sent him.
Drew had no idea if the police were looking for him, so he decided to play it safe. He was not crazy over the prospects of returning to the Hyatt under the circumstances, but he liked less the prospects of remaining in his waiter’s garb. He needed clothes and money. He could be at the Hyatt and gone before news of Trelana’s murder even reached television or radio.
But how to get to Miami? A rental car seemed the simplest and safest means. The key was to move fast and keep moving. He called a cab from the Esplanade pay phone, and it deposited him back at the Hyatt where he packed quickly, checked out, and took the hotel jitney bus to an airport car rental agency. With surprising ease he was heading down Route 95 for Miami not even ninety minutes after blood and brains had splattered all over Too-Jay’s.
Drew kept his speed in check throughout the drive to Miami, not wanting to attract the attention of any radar-equipped troopers. He arrived in the city limits a little past four o’clock and got off 95 at the Biscayne Boulevard exit. From there he drove to Collins Avenue, cruising it from one end to the other to maintain the security the car provided. Finally, he opted for a hotel toward the northern end billed as the Ocean Palm, which boasted an olympic-size swimming pool on its marquee. He paid for the night in advance and was relieved to learn that the hotel featured room service as well as the pool. He didn’t plan to spend any time outside of his room, especially in restaurants or coffee shops where he would have to linger for too long at a time.
Sunday night in the room wore on forever, Drew keeping one eye on the fuzzy television and the other on the door, expecting Miami Vice to come crashing through at any second. He tried to force himself to sleep but couldn’t even though his body felt exhausted. After a few hours of uneasy slumber in the rock-hard bed, he rose, figuring he might spend a few hours after dawn by the pool where the fresh air might recharge him. But the rain came before the sun had a chance to and Drew resigned himself to watching the patterns it swept on the windows.
By nine o’clock he had eaten breakfast and tried Masterson’s private number a dozen times
“You set us up, man… .”
Selinas didn’t bother to nod. He had quickly determined days before that finding the Riveros would be impossible, so he elected to have them find him and they had cooperated brilliantly.
“What you waitin’ for, man?” Marco rasped. “Come on, do me and get it over with.”
“Tell me where the suitcases are.”
Marco grimaced in pain. “You get the powder and I get to live. Is that it, man?”
Selinas’s expression was noncommittal.
“You did my brother. I got to get you for that. What the fuck, man, I don’t need the powder anyway. I’ll give it to you just to get my chance. Upstairs. Second room down. Wall on the right side of the window is false. Smart man like you, you’ll spot it right away.” Marco looked up at the gun and squeezed his ruined shoulder with his other hand. “You’re gonna be dead, man,” he spat angrily. “You’re gonna be dead quick.”
“You already are.”
And Selinas pulled the trigger over Marco’s face.
Chapter 9
SUNDAY TURNED INTO THE longest day of Drew Jordan’s life. His useless phone call at the Esplanade left him with two choices. One was to throw himself on the mercy of the Palm Beach police, the other to get out fast for a safe port—DEA regional headquarters in Miami. The first option was appealing only in that he was guilty of, at worst, a self-defense killing. But explaining the circumstances of his presence at Too-Jay’s and his possession of a gun promised to lead to questions he couldn’t answer. Option number two, then, was his best bet. The DEA was involved in this through Masterson regardless of the agent’s fate. They would have to help him, learn who the assassin was, and who had sent him.
Drew had no idea if the police were looking for him, so he decided to play it safe. He was not crazy over the prospects of returning to the Hyatt under the circumstances, but he liked less the prospects of remaining in his waiter’s garb. He needed clothes and money. He could be at the Hyatt and gone before news of Trelana’s murder even reached television or radio.
But how to get to Miami? A rental car seemed the simplest and safest means. The key was to move fast and keep moving. He called a cab from the Esplanade pay phone, and it deposited him back at the Hyatt where he packed quickly, checked out, and took the hotel jitney bus to an airport car rental agency. With surprising ease he was heading down Route 95 for Miami not even ninety minutes after blood and brains had splattered all over Too-Jay’s.
Drew kept his speed in check throughout the drive to Miami, not wanting to attract the attention of any radar-equipped troopers. He arrived in the city limits a little past four o’clock and got off 95 at the Biscayne Boulevard exit. From there he drove to Collins Avenue, cruising it from one end to the other to maintain the security the car provided. Finally, he opted for a hotel toward the northern end billed as the Ocean Palm, which boasted an olympic-size swimming pool on its marquee. He paid for the night in advance and was relieved to learn that the hotel featured room service as well as the pool. He didn’t plan to spend any time outside of his room, especially in restaurants or coffee shops where he would have to linger for too long at a time.
Sunday night in the room wore on forever, Drew keeping one eye on the fuzzy television and the other on the door, expecting Miami Vice to come crashing through at any second. He tried to force himself to sleep but couldn’t even though his body felt exhausted. After a few hours of uneasy slumber in the rock-hard bed, he rose, figuring he might spend a few hours after dawn by the pool where the fresh air might recharge him. But the rain came before the sun had a chance to and Drew resigned himself to watching the patterns it swept on the windows.
By nine o’clock he had eaten breakfast and tried Masterson’s private number a dozen times
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