Ferguson had to be gone. Only tactical play for him. So get the woman at least.

Beep on his smartphone. He checked the text. Paravola. The landline had just gone active in her room. She was there. Called the guys in the stairwell.

“Her landline just lit up. She’s in the room. You up the stairs?”

“Holding at the fourth-floor door.”

“Three doors down, right hand side. 410. Go, go, go.”

Ferguson watched from his hide as three of the Israelis entered the lobby. One took a covering position, the guy leaning on one of the ornate pillars, straight line of sight to the elevators. The other two went straight to the stairs. Ferguson scanned for the fourth guy, Krav Maga guy, couldn’t see him. Wall to Ferguson’s right blocked his view that way. Guy was probably back there, in front of the stairs and the escalators, covering the exit to the ground level.

Ferguson slipped out the hush puppy. Long way across the lobby with a .22. Had to be thirty yards, lots of crossing traffic. Ferguson braced his hands on the top edge of the planter, sighted, squeezed off one shot, taking pillar-guy right at the base of the skull, pillar-guy crumpling straight down. Then Ferguson heard a muffled explosion. Chen.

Chen watched the hallway through the peephole. The two Israelis edged open the stairway door, eyed the hallway, then stepped out. They stayed to the right against the wall, not wanting to show through the peep hole in 410, just in case. That kept them clearly in Chen’s view. The first one ducked down, below peephole level, went to the far side of the door.

They nodded to each other. The first pulled out an electronic pick, slipped it into the lock, waited for the click, then spun and hit the door, driving the door handle down, the other guy pivoting to follow.

The door opened into the room, crossing the beam between the flashbangs Chen had stuck to the doorframe. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. Lots of noise and light, some smoke, no real damage, but enough to disorient anyone close. Chen stepped into the hall, the .25 already level. The second guy hadn’t been all the way in, hadn’t caught as much of the blast, had enough operational training to be spinning, looking for a target, but his eyesight was shot, his hearing shot. He was just bringing his gun up when Chen shot him twice in the forehead. The first guy was further into the room, still staggering. Chen gave him one to the back of the head, walked across the hall, gave each of them a double tap to be sure. She swapped to a full magazine, then headed for the stairs.

Uri saw his guy drop by the pillar just as he heard the explosion. Son of a bitch. Tried the upstairs team, no answer. Had to assume they were off the board, too. He turned, walked fast down the escalator, headed for the car. Nothing else to do.

Weaver was right. These two were good.

Turning out of the hotel, he saw the bike messenger still holding his ribs, walking his bike up the street, looking down at the ground. Fucker’d screwed this whole thing, cost Uri three men. As the guy passed, Uri said, “Asshole.”

The guy looked up. Uri drove the straightened fingers of his left hand into the man’s neck, felt the trachea go. Quick, close, nothing anybody would see. The bike messenger fell to the ground, grunting out that “ach, ach, ach” noise people make when they can’t breathe.

CHAPTER 46 – CHICAGO

Lynch and Liz Johnson walked into the Connemara Ball shortly after 8pm, the party in full swing, Johnson in a strapless floor-length jade-green silk number, tight to mid-thigh then flaring out, Lynch in a black tux and green tie.

“Any idea how hard it is for a girl to find a green formal on twelve hours’ notice, Lynch?” Johnson said under her breath.

“You found the right one. Every guy in the room is staring at you.”

Johnson smiled. “They are, aren’t they?”

At least one of them was. Rodney “Ramjet” Williams, one of the Chicago Bears still making a living off being a Super Bowl champ more than twenty years earlier, walked up as soon as he saw Lynch.

“Hey, if it ain’t John Lynch, Mr too slow for the show,” Williams said, talking to Lynch but leering at Johnson. “Almost didn’t recognize you with this new haircut of yours. Love the eyepatch. Is it talk like a pirate day again already?”

Williams had been a wideout at Miami when Lynch was at BC. Faster than shit, lots of talk about him being a top-five pick. Middle of Lynch’s senior year, BC played Miami. Word on BC was they were a step slow in the secondary, so, first series, Williams went deep, blew past the corner. Lynch had deep help on that side, cut toward Williams. Decent throw and it would have been an easy six, but the Miami QB put too much air under the ball, and Williams had to slow down to make the catch. Lynch timed his hit perfectly, launching himself from two yards out like a helmet-tipped missile, hitting Williams high just as he tried to bring in the ball. Williams went down like he’d been shot, the ball popped into the air, Lynch rolling to his back, making the grab for the pick.

Williams got back up but, for the rest of the game, he was too busy looking for Lynch to look for the ball, his arms getting a little short every time a ball came downfield. Teams got the message. Rest of the year, first time Williams ran a route, somebody’d put the wood to him, even if it meant picking up a flag. Ramjet’s numbers dropped way off, some of the scouts giving him a new nickname – AA, short for Alligator Arms because he wouldn’t reach for the ball anymore, too afraid of what might be coming, and also because Williams had picked up a couple of DUIs down in Miami. Come draft day, Williams fell down the board into second round, where the Bears finally grabbed him. Still fast as hell, and he grew his balls back eventually, at least outside the hashmarks, turned back into a deep threat. Never could count on him over the middle.

“Rodney,” said Lynch.

“Damn, boy, you finally a player? Look at you, ol’ gumshoe Lynch at the Connemara Ball. And with this fine specimen here.” Williams draping his arm around Johnson’s shoulder. “Ramjet’s just one nickname, my lovely. You get tired of your little-league date, you want to learn some of my private talents, you just look me up.”

Johnson shrugged off Williams’ arm. “I already know your other nickname, AA.”

A little crowd had gathered, watching the show. Williams throwing his hands up, pretending good humor.

“Whoa, baby, you want to get personal, let’s do that in private.”

Lynch took Johnson’s hand, walked past Williams. “Always good to see you again, Rodney.” Then he leaned in, quieter voice in Williams’ ear. “Don’t make me hit you again.”

The Emerald Pagoda was the same visual feast that Lynch remembered from his childhood, only more so because of the crowd and the ball.

“This place is amazing,” said Johnson.

“Thank you, Ms Johnson.” Paddy Wang sneaking up from the right, Mayor Hurley with him. “Detective Lynch, Elizabeth Johnson, the mayor asked that I introduce you personally.”

Hurley was thick through the shoulders and chest, too much booze in the face, looking a decade older than his thirty-eight years. Green tux jacket, green tie over black pants.

“Detective, I can’t tell you how pleased I am finally to meet you. Your family, your father, they are real heroes to me. Every year, Paddy tells me he’s gonna get you to show up, and every year I’m disappointed.”

Lynch shook Hurley’s hand. “Mayor, nice to meet you. My father was a hero. I’m just a cop. Glad to finally get to the party, though. Quite a show. This is Elizabeth Johnson. She’s a reporter with the Trib.”

Wang interjected, “Don’t worry, your honor. Ms Johnson understands that the ball is off the record, start to finish.”

“Ms Johnson.” Hurley shaking her hand now. “All reporters looked like you, I’d change my opinion of the press.”