and slid the magazine home into the Sig’s grip. The weapon felt comfortable in his hand, but without his having fired it, nothing really mattered. Borrowing a handgun is like borrowing a parachute. And the first rule of jump school is, always pack your own kit.
Royce said there shouldn’t be any shooting. “Not if we do this thing right. You think you can do this thing right?”
Maven racked one round into the firing chamber, then decocked, releasing the magazine again, now one short of a full load, and thumbed an extra round from one of the two backup mags in the nylon pouch on his belt, then inserted it into the current mag and thrust it back inside the grip. Now he had nine, a full wad. He holstered the weapon and zipped up his blue jacket to cover it.
The Latino’s left cheek egged out from a fat dip of chewing tobacco, another thing Maven hadn’t seen much of since Eden, where everyone dipped. Royce and the others looped ZipCuffs onto their chest straps, but Maven wasn’t issued any restraints. They pulled black balaclavas down over their faces, fixing the stitched holes so they sat over their eyes, then rolled the masks up to sit on the tops of their heads like knit caps. Maven did the same.
He appreciated the seriousness in the room. These were men dressing for work.
Royce’s phone buzzed. The blond guy had left the room a while ago. Maven realized that he had gone down to the lobby, to eyeball the Venezuelan as he entered the hotel.
Royce listened and reported, “He’s in. With muscle. One man, rolling an oversized suitcase. Tan jacket, bulge underneath. Waved off a bellboy at the door.”
Maven yawned deep. From tiredness, from nerves, from the hormones released by his battle-alert brain, already relaxing his bronchial tubes for deeper breathing. His chest, tight inside the shell of the protective vest, felt like a jar of fireflies. He tore open a foil packet of Nescafé instant coffee crystals—nicked from City Oasis—as he hadn’t got any sleep that morning, emptying it into his mouth and dry-crunching it like candy, ramping up on undiluted caffeine.
“Second elevator,” reported Royce, hanging up. “Remember the security camera in the elevator panel. First man in body-blocks it.”
“That’ll be me,” said the green-jacketed Latino, spitting his plug and a string of brown drool into the plastic-lined trash can.
The black guy passed Maven on his way to the door, smelling of hotel soap and pistol cleaner, his yellow eyes looking like stones in need of polishing. “Don’t don’t fuck it up, newbie,” he said with a smile.
The Latino followed him into the hallway, quietly singing, “We’re gonna have a party …,” until the door closed and they were gone.
Then it was just Maven and Royce, alone in the narrow entryway. Royce checked him face-to-face like a man examining a thermostat before leaving the house for the day, making sure it was right. He looked satisfied.
He pointed to the door, and Maven went out first.
T HE L-SHAPED HALLWAY ON THE TWENTY-SEVENTH FLOOR WAS EMPTY . At three in the afternoon, all the USA Today s had been claimed, the maid service had come and gone. A couple of room-service trays, set out after lunch, lay next to doors.
The Latino and the black guy waited at the near elevator. The UP button had been pressed, a glowing white eye. The Latino’s voice came back faintly—“gonna have a party”—all nervous energy and nicotine.
Maven swished around the last of his soldier’s Starbucks. He looked down at a silver-handled room-service tray containing two small jars of marmalade and honey, the congealed remains of an egg-and-pepper omelet and a bowl of hash, a linen napkin, and a side plate of wheat toast. As Royce peered around the corner again, Maven bent down and stuffed a slice of cold, buttered bread into his mouth.
Royce leaned back, checking behind them. “These guys,” he said, tugging up his jacket to expose his Beretta, “are fucking scum.
Royce said there shouldn’t be any shooting. “Not if we do this thing right. You think you can do this thing right?”
Maven racked one round into the firing chamber, then decocked, releasing the magazine again, now one short of a full load, and thumbed an extra round from one of the two backup mags in the nylon pouch on his belt, then inserted it into the current mag and thrust it back inside the grip. Now he had nine, a full wad. He holstered the weapon and zipped up his blue jacket to cover it.
The Latino’s left cheek egged out from a fat dip of chewing tobacco, another thing Maven hadn’t seen much of since Eden, where everyone dipped. Royce and the others looped ZipCuffs onto their chest straps, but Maven wasn’t issued any restraints. They pulled black balaclavas down over their faces, fixing the stitched holes so they sat over their eyes, then rolled the masks up to sit on the tops of their heads like knit caps. Maven did the same.
He appreciated the seriousness in the room. These were men dressing for work.
Royce’s phone buzzed. The blond guy had left the room a while ago. Maven realized that he had gone down to the lobby, to eyeball the Venezuelan as he entered the hotel.
Royce listened and reported, “He’s in. With muscle. One man, rolling an oversized suitcase. Tan jacket, bulge underneath. Waved off a bellboy at the door.”
Maven yawned deep. From tiredness, from nerves, from the hormones released by his battle-alert brain, already relaxing his bronchial tubes for deeper breathing. His chest, tight inside the shell of the protective vest, felt like a jar of fireflies. He tore open a foil packet of Nescafé instant coffee crystals—nicked from City Oasis—as he hadn’t got any sleep that morning, emptying it into his mouth and dry-crunching it like candy, ramping up on undiluted caffeine.
“Second elevator,” reported Royce, hanging up. “Remember the security camera in the elevator panel. First man in body-blocks it.”
“That’ll be me,” said the green-jacketed Latino, spitting his plug and a string of brown drool into the plastic-lined trash can.
The black guy passed Maven on his way to the door, smelling of hotel soap and pistol cleaner, his yellow eyes looking like stones in need of polishing. “Don’t don’t fuck it up, newbie,” he said with a smile.
The Latino followed him into the hallway, quietly singing, “We’re gonna have a party …,” until the door closed and they were gone.
Then it was just Maven and Royce, alone in the narrow entryway. Royce checked him face-to-face like a man examining a thermostat before leaving the house for the day, making sure it was right. He looked satisfied.
He pointed to the door, and Maven went out first.
T HE L-SHAPED HALLWAY ON THE TWENTY-SEVENTH FLOOR WAS EMPTY . At three in the afternoon, all the USA Today s had been claimed, the maid service had come and gone. A couple of room-service trays, set out after lunch, lay next to doors.
The Latino and the black guy waited at the near elevator. The UP button had been pressed, a glowing white eye. The Latino’s voice came back faintly—“gonna have a party”—all nervous energy and nicotine.
Maven swished around the last of his soldier’s Starbucks. He looked down at a silver-handled room-service tray containing two small jars of marmalade and honey, the congealed remains of an egg-and-pepper omelet and a bowl of hash, a linen napkin, and a side plate of wheat toast. As Royce peered around the corner again, Maven bent down and stuffed a slice of cold, buttered bread into his mouth.
Royce leaned back, checking behind them. “These guys,” he said, tugging up his jacket to expose his Beretta, “are fucking scum.
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