87

Keller threw the Lincoln into park and left the front door open as he ran toward the motel room. He shoved the key card in, got the green light, and pushed. It opened an inch—and caught. Amy had done as he had told her. The swing bar lock was thrown across the top of the jamb.

Under normal circumstances, his was the worst approach one could use to breach a door with an armed felon potentially inside. But these were anything but normal circumstances: a young woman and her daughter were likely in the company of a psychopathic killer.

Keller pulled his Beretta, leaned back, and smashed his right shoulder into the wood door. It splintered and flew open.

He landed off balance at the side of the bed and saw Sinbad, all six-foot-eight of him, huddled over Amy on the mattress nearest the bathroom.

Melissa was cowering against the headboard inches away from Keller. Duct tape was wrapped across her mouth and around her neck, arms strapped behind her back.

Keller shifted the Beretta to his left hand and gathered Melissa against his body with his right. He pulled her off the bed and shoved her out of the room—all while keeping his gaze, and gun, on Sinbad. “Wait outside, Melissa.” Keller leveled his pistol at Sinbad’s head. “Get off her.”

Sinbad rolled backward, off the bed, Amy tucked tightly against his body—much as Keller had done with the girl. Sinbad was holding her up, her head against his, her feet dangling a foot off the ground, a rag doll at the whim of its owner. Like Melissa, her mouth was taped shut, her wrists fastened together.

“Fuck off, Mickey. If you’d done your job, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve got this,” Keller said, trying to avoid an escalation.

He kept his handgun trained on his target—but who was he kidding? There was no way he could shoot. Sinbad was holding Amy’s head against his.

“I’ll take care of her,” Keller said. “That’s my job. What I’m being paid for.”

“I’m getting paid, too. And my job is to clean up your mess, do what you don’t have the balls to do.”

Amy’s eyes widened and she cried out—a weak moan against the tape.

Keller had only one option—other than backing off, which was not going to happen—and that was to confront Sinbad physically so that he had no choice but to drop Amy. She might then be able to run out of the room and get somewhere safe with Melissa.

Keller did not know if Sinbad was armed, but Sinbad was a guy who liked killing with his hands, not guns or knives. He would likely not draw his weapon even if he was carrying.

Yet despite Keller’s martial arts training, a physical confrontation played to Sinbad’s strengths, literally: the giant had several inches and a hundred pounds on him.

Keller made eye contact with Amy, then lowered his Beretta and fired off two rapid shots, striking Sinbad in both ankles.

The killer let out a guttural yell and dropped Amy as he fell to his knees. Amy scrabbled away, clambering awkwardly across the beds.

Keller pulled out a knife and sliced through her bindings. “Get Melissa and get in the car.”

He holstered his pistol and stepped closer to Sinbad. “I told you I was gonna handle this.”

“Fuck you, Mickey. You’ve lost your mind. Not to mention your job.”

Keller brought his boot back and swung it squarely into Sinbad’s jaw, like a placekicker sending a football fifty yards downfield toward the uprights.

Sinbad’s head snapped backward and his eyes rolled up into his head. His torso slumped into the doorjamb.

As he stepped into the cold night air, Keller heard sirens. A couple of people were in the dark parking lot, keeping their distance.

He got into the car, where Amy and Melissa were huddled together in the back. “We’re gonna be driving for a bit while I find somewhere safe for us to stay.”

“Who was that?” Amy asked as she got Melissa situated.

“That,” Keller said with a chuckle, “was my ex-colleague.”

He pulled out of the lot and entered the freeway, then looked at Amy in the mirror. “You two okay back there?”

Amy held Melissa against her body as she stroked the child’s hair. “You okay, Missy?”

Melissa nodded but kept her chin down. Keller had a feeling the girl was going to need some time to process all she had been through the past few days … perhaps even some counseling. But for now, they were both safe.

Keller turned on the satellite handset and dialed Tait. “Bill, have Martinez get a fix on Sinbad’s cell. He’s back at the motel and needs medical care.”

“Mickey. This is not—”

“I don’t have time to debate this. I’ve gotta catch a flight.” He turned off the device, then powered down his personal iPhone. As soon as they found a place to stay, he would destroy the SIM card and replace it with one of the new ones he kept with him for situations such as this.

As he accelerated to the speed limit, he felt good about what he had done but was fairly certain that Sinbad was right: he’d probably be looking for a new job.