Finding his way to the small dark bar, Middleton crossed the threshold, then stopped. The bartender was wrestling with a man much bigger than he was, while another, taller man looked on. The two strangers were dressed almost identically: blue blazers and gray slacks, Oxford button-downs and forgettable ties, none of which matched their demeanor. The tall one looked on with a cold curiosity; sadism curdled his smile. He held Middleton’s briefcase in his hand while examining a cell phone that Middleton quickly recognized as his. Meanwhile, the other one, who looked much stronger, had the bartender in a headlock, punching him brutally with his free hand. The bartender’s arm was outstretched, the Chopin folio clutched tight in his fist.

As Middleton registered all this, the one with the briefcase turned toward him. You have no time, Middleton realized, as a scowl of recognition crossed the other man’s face. Tugging the Beretta from his pocket, Middleton charged forward as the man dropped the cell phone and plunged his hand inside his sport coat. Middleton aimed and placed two quick shots into the fleshy center of the tall man’s face, trusting the bullets would pierce the cartilage around the nose and lodge deep inside the brain.

The man tottered, his head jerking but his ugly expression strangely unchanged. Then he buckled and dropped.

Stunned by the gunshots, the thick man shoved the bartender aside and crouched, reaching for his own weapon. Middleton swung around, took a quick step forward, aimed and fired two more shots, close range, the soft center of the face again. The man wavered, visage threaded with blood, before dropping to one knee, grabbing at the edge of the bar, then sliding down in fitful spasms.

The bartender recoiled, horrified. Middleton heard steps coming from the lobby, the gasps of unseen onlookers, as he reached out his hand.

“Give that to me.” He gestured for the manuscript. When the bartender merely stared, Middleton turned the gun toward him. “I don’t have time.”

The bartender hesitated, then dropped the mangled folio onto the bar, his face half terror, half desolation. Middleton snatched his briefcase from the floor, stuffed his cell phone then the manuscript inside, then headed toward the scattering crowd in the lobby, the Beretta still in his hand.

The well-dressed woman who’d been near the elevators earlier slipped up behind, tucked her hand inside his arm and clutched his damp sleeve. She guided him across the lobby. “Don’t stop, Harry,” she whispered. “Not if you want to see Charlotte.”

8 - JOHN GILSTRAP

8

JOHN GILSTRAP