Read Sins of the Father for Free Online Page B
Authors: Christa Faust
managed to grab the handle. It took all the strength left in his shaking arms to pull the door open wide enough that he could squeeze into the stairwell.
The wind slammed it behind him.
* * *
Peter went down the steps two at a time, hitting the next door with his shoulder to shove it open. Once he was in the public stairwell, he took a moment to compose himself before opening the door to the hallway. The last thing he needed was to go tearing through the hotel like a maniac. Let the guys on the roof have all the attention. He had to look like just another unremarkable guest—preoccupied, maybe, but not in any rush.
He put on what he hoped was a nonchalant, slightly bored expression and pushed down the handle.
There was no one in the hushed hallway as he walked with a measured pace to his suite. Using the key card, he let himself in, and quickly shut the door behind him.
The racket on the roof echoed through the suite, and the smell of cordite wafted in through the missing pane. Shouting, and then more gunshots, but Peter did his best to ignore them, instead zeroing in on the two briefcases. One had fallen on the bed, and the other had bounced off to the left and landed on the carpet. He grabbed the one on the bed first and cracked it open. It was filled with stacks of greenbacks, exactly as promised.
He lifted a few of the banded stacks, to make certain the case was filled with money, through and through. It was legit.
The second one was similarly filled. Peter did an internal victory dance, but maintained an outward calm while he closed the two cases and put them into the empty suitcase. He zipped it up, set it on its end, and pulled out its telescoping handle. He was just about to leave the room when one of the intact panes in the skylight suddenly shattered, dumping a bloody rag doll onto the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton comforter cover.
Peter flinched away from the rain of glass, one arm thrown up over his face, the other hand locked in a death grip around the handle of the suitcase. Then he braced himself. He’d worked hard for this, and he was ready to fight for it.
But whoever had fallen though the skylight was in no shape to fight for anything. He was still alive, groaning softly, but so bloodied that Peter couldn’t tell if he was Chechen or Korean. The figure reached out a shaking, broken hand, but there was nothing to do for him.
Nothing to do but get the hell out of there before anybody decided to look down through the ruined skylight to see what had happened to their buddy. He pulled the suitcase toward the door, its cheap plastic wheels crunching on broken shards. He didn’t look back as he let himself out of the suite.
Out in the hallway, away from the skylights, the sounds of the gunfight seemed much more distant—they might be mistaken for construction, or even a large piece of machinery on the roof. As he pulled the door shut, he heard a scrabbling nearby.
What the hell…?
There was another guest, trying with some difficulty to enter a neighboring suite. The man was just a scant inch shorter than Peter, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a coarse ponytail, and a sharp, aquiline profile. He wore heavy, horn-rim glasses and an appalling Hawaiian shirt with pineapples and parrots. It gave him the look of a college professor on vacation.
He had a large carry-on bag slung over one shoulder, a laptop case, and a roller suitcase as innocuous as the one Peter was pulling. He seemed extremely nervous, fumbling with the lock on the door and trying the key card forward, then backward. He glanced up and eyed Peter with a furtive, almost embarrassed glance.
Peter gave him a casual nod and headed for the elevator. He was less than halfway there when the door to the stairwell burst open.
“Freeze!”
A group of Thai cops in SWAT armor came swarming out of the stairwell. The lead man yelled in flawless English as the men behind him drew down with an eclectic mix of handguns
The wind slammed it behind him.
* * *
Peter went down the steps two at a time, hitting the next door with his shoulder to shove it open. Once he was in the public stairwell, he took a moment to compose himself before opening the door to the hallway. The last thing he needed was to go tearing through the hotel like a maniac. Let the guys on the roof have all the attention. He had to look like just another unremarkable guest—preoccupied, maybe, but not in any rush.
He put on what he hoped was a nonchalant, slightly bored expression and pushed down the handle.
There was no one in the hushed hallway as he walked with a measured pace to his suite. Using the key card, he let himself in, and quickly shut the door behind him.
The racket on the roof echoed through the suite, and the smell of cordite wafted in through the missing pane. Shouting, and then more gunshots, but Peter did his best to ignore them, instead zeroing in on the two briefcases. One had fallen on the bed, and the other had bounced off to the left and landed on the carpet. He grabbed the one on the bed first and cracked it open. It was filled with stacks of greenbacks, exactly as promised.
He lifted a few of the banded stacks, to make certain the case was filled with money, through and through. It was legit.
The second one was similarly filled. Peter did an internal victory dance, but maintained an outward calm while he closed the two cases and put them into the empty suitcase. He zipped it up, set it on its end, and pulled out its telescoping handle. He was just about to leave the room when one of the intact panes in the skylight suddenly shattered, dumping a bloody rag doll onto the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton comforter cover.
Peter flinched away from the rain of glass, one arm thrown up over his face, the other hand locked in a death grip around the handle of the suitcase. Then he braced himself. He’d worked hard for this, and he was ready to fight for it.
But whoever had fallen though the skylight was in no shape to fight for anything. He was still alive, groaning softly, but so bloodied that Peter couldn’t tell if he was Chechen or Korean. The figure reached out a shaking, broken hand, but there was nothing to do for him.
Nothing to do but get the hell out of there before anybody decided to look down through the ruined skylight to see what had happened to their buddy. He pulled the suitcase toward the door, its cheap plastic wheels crunching on broken shards. He didn’t look back as he let himself out of the suite.
Out in the hallway, away from the skylights, the sounds of the gunfight seemed much more distant—they might be mistaken for construction, or even a large piece of machinery on the roof. As he pulled the door shut, he heard a scrabbling nearby.
What the hell…?
There was another guest, trying with some difficulty to enter a neighboring suite. The man was just a scant inch shorter than Peter, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a coarse ponytail, and a sharp, aquiline profile. He wore heavy, horn-rim glasses and an appalling Hawaiian shirt with pineapples and parrots. It gave him the look of a college professor on vacation.
He had a large carry-on bag slung over one shoulder, a laptop case, and a roller suitcase as innocuous as the one Peter was pulling. He seemed extremely nervous, fumbling with the lock on the door and trying the key card forward, then backward. He glanced up and eyed Peter with a furtive, almost embarrassed glance.
Peter gave him a casual nod and headed for the elevator. He was less than halfway there when the door to the stairwell burst open.
“Freeze!”
A group of Thai cops in SWAT armor came swarming out of the stairwell. The lead man yelled in flawless English as the men behind him drew down with an eclectic mix of handguns