“Here it is,” she said.

The clerk turned an adjacent house phone to face Slaton and performed the connection, again using her computer. For the second time he watched her type, and happily she used the number pad on the keyboard as opposed to the upper numeric bar. By some quirk of memory, inputs to ten-digit keypads were easily recalled by pattern alone. Seven, three, two, four. The seven was almost certainly a prefix to denote an internal line, which meant that Christine was in room 324.

Or had been.

Slaton picked up the house phone and listened as it rang. A dim hope rose that Christine would answer, that he would wake her from a midafternoon nap and they’d be laughing about the grand misunderstanding over dinner. On the eighth ring he hung up, both the phone and the idea.

“I’m afraid she’s not in,” he said. “I’ll try again later. Thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure,” she beamed.

Slaton was about to turn when she added, “One moment, sir…” Another hesitation.

He went to full alert, and saw her eyes flick to the right—toward the other receptionist. The second woman stood stiffly, her gaze locked to a spot behind him in the lobby.

The pretty young clerk began to say something, but Slaton didn’t hear it. His attention was padlocked to a reflective strip of stainless-steel trim on the wall behind the counter. In the mirror-like surface he saw three men approaching.

Slaton did not turn, but he moved. Ever so slightly, his stance widened and his left foot edged back in preparation. His hands were already free, so there was no need to set down a briefcase or pocket a mobile phone. As he braced his body, his eyes searched for improvised weapons, but he was standing at the front desk of a noble hotel. There was nothing.

When the men were ten steps away they spread left and right. This told Slaton they were trained. He saw two possibilities. Unfortunately, two possibilities that demanded very different reactions. Slaton planned for the worst case and rehearsed a flow in his mind. With a half step back, he could pivot to his left and strike the man on the right, the biggest, with a heel to the head. Next, he would rotate a right elbow to the center target. He ended his blueprint there, knowing that was as far as it would realistically hold.

Seconds from launching into a melee, he took one more look at the older clerk. Slaton weighed her expression very carefully. She was concerned, but in a controlled way. Guarded, yet not preparing to dive behind the counter. That made his decision.

With the men positioned three steps behind him, Slaton slowly turned.