As Jake climbed the stairs from the basement to the second floor, he remembered Katie’s Bible verse from the book of Job. Maybe today was the limit he could not exceed.
As he was walking down the hallway toward room 212, two Asian women, practitioners of the world’s oldest profession and painted for the evening, greeted him.
The shorter of the two said in heavily accented English, “You must be looking for friend.”
“I’m looking for my friend.”
She smiled. “Then you come with us.”
The other woman seductively touched Jake’s arm and, wrapping hers in his, said, “You want to party all night with us instead?”
“Business first, ladies. Then maybe we can celebrate.”
The three walked to the far end of the hallway and, just outside the door to room 212, Jake stepped on a loose board, which moaned a loud, painful wail as he put weight on it.
“What’s with all the squeaky boards in this place? Is the maintenance staff on sabbatical?”
Both women looked at Jake, confused by his complaint. The shorter woman knocked on the door and waited for a response. When the door opened Jake was greeted by a Middle Eastern man in his thirties with a thick, dark beard.
“He come alone,” said Jake’s escort.
The undercover agent entered as the ladies retreated down the hallway, seeking additional income for the evening. Jake’s eyes swept the room. In the hotel’s heyday it would have been a “parlor”—now it was just a drab, run-down “suite,” with a sagging foldout couch flanked by two mismatched end tables. In front of the couch, a scratched and scarred coffee table, two battered wooden chairs, an incongruously placed wingback easy chair, and a vintage Queen Anne–style side table complete with a crystal lamp, circa 1940—all reminiscent of a much earlier era.
Kareem Abdul, the bartender, occupied the tattered wingback, a large-caliber semi-auto pistol and an open bag of salted sunflower seeds within easy reach on the side table. His tired, bloodshot eyes revealed sleep had not been a recent luxury.
The two others—both apparently of Mideast extraction—were standing and both had oversized semi-autos tucked inside the front of their waistbands. The one who had opened the door for Jake looked like a Doberman ready to pounce. The other, whom Jake guessed to be in his mid-forties, stood by the couch, his posture indicative of indifference instead of aggression.
The sounds of traffic from a busy Olympic Boulevard flooded through an open window and Jake noted the door to an adjoining room was slightly ajar. He took in the disheveled appearance of the three men, empty takeout food wrappers from Aladdin’s Mediterranean Delights, the hot plate with a cheap teapot, five plastic teacups, the stench of stale sweat, and concluded: This is amateur hour.
“You are a huge disappointment,” said Jake, directing his comment to the bartender.
Kareem surveyed the undercover agent. “You came alone. At least you listened, but unless you’re keistering three million in foldin’ money, we got no business.”
“I guess you weren’t rehabilitated with that latest prison stint,” said Jake.
“Shut up!” screamed Kareem, trying to establish his dominance, his eyes intense.
Jake sized up the situation, positioning himself to keep an open shot to the hallway door or the adjoining room. All three opponents were close enough that should Jake need to shoot he could easily drop them without much maneuvering. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that but he didn’t want the men spreading out, making a rapid assault more difficult.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends? You know my name but I really feel at a disadvantage. Maybe we should print up name tags. We need a little guy-time before the fun begins,” said Jake, trying to keep everyone distracted with his self-assured banter.
Kareem shook his head.
“So what do I call them, Dopey and Bashful? You didn’t pick these guys up off Craigslist. Obviously they’re two more pimps of war. Come on, Kareem, we’re among friends. Surely their mamas call them something.”
Kareem bit. “Mohammed and Rostam.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. So, who’s who?”
There was a moment of silence before the older of the two said quietly, “I am Mohammed.”
“Hi, guys. Nice to meet you. I’m guessing you’re hoping to get rich this evening.” Jake remained calm; his demeanor in the face of horror was unsettling to the three terrorists. . . . If you have no fear, they have no power.
Frustrated, Kareem looked to Mohammed, the cell leader, before returning to Jake and barking, “I need to see some green.”
“I brought earnest money for the first round of negotiations,” said Jake, noting Kareem sought Mohammed’s approval.
The ex-con bartender spit a mouthful of sunflower husks on the floor and said, “I don’t need no earnest money and there’s no negotiating. I want to see three million.”
Jake noticed the one called Rostam, his lips curled in disgust, was looking at the well-chewed detritus on the worn carpet. These are not happy campers.
In the hotel basement, Trey could barely hear what was happening in room 212. Between the static from the transmitter and the noise from the pipes, the conversation was garbled and barely audible.
He slammed his fist on the workbench as he tried to focus on the situation on the second floor, knowing Jake’s life hung in the balance. Cupping his hands over his ears in an effort to block out the extraneous noises, he debated moving from the basement but wasn’t sure of the layout of the hotel and whether two white guys would bring more attention to the pending eruption.
There was no panic in Jake’s eyes as he looked directly at Mohammed rather than Kareem. “I’ve got your money,” he said. “I want to see Jenny and the girl.”
“You’re not seein’ nothin’ till I see the money,” said Kareem, trying to get Jake’s attention.
“I brought the money, a little here and a lot outside. I want to see Jenny and Gracie,” said the ever-defiant undercover agent, showing absolutely no fear.
Kareem laughed but didn’t smile. “That ain’t right, Batman, unless Robin is hangin’ on the other side of the door. You came alone and I know you ain’t dumb enough to leave a pile of cash in the hallway. I need to see a three and six zeroes now!”
“You’ll see all the money when I see the girls, but here’s a little taste,” said Jake with calculated assurance.
He reached inside his shirt and Kareem’s two partners immediately drew their weapons from their waistbands, pointing them at Jake.
“Whoa, fellows! Mohammed, Rostam, let’s not get trigger-happy. I’m just reaching for some bundles of Kareem’s Monopoly money, or is it Mohammed’s play dough? I can’t tell who’s calling the shots but I’m guessing it’s not you, Rostam. Kareem says you’re just Mohammed’s chai boy.”
The bartender jumped out of the chair and shouted to Mohammed, “Teacher, I never said any such thing to this infidel.”
“Well,” said Jake, looking at Mohammed, “I guess that means you’re the boss man.”
Jake grabbed three bundles of the Supernote hundreds and threw them on the couch. Three pairs of eyes followed the bundles as they bounced on the stained cushions.
Jake continued to focus on Mohammed. “Now it’s your turn to play nice. Let’s get this over with. Bring in Jenny and the little girl.”
Mohammed nodded toward Kareem.
“Bring them in!” hollered Kareem.
With that, Candy walked in from the adjoining room, a .45-caliber, M1911A1 auto pointed at Jenny, who was a step in front, her mouth gagged and her hands behind her back. With Candy’s free hand she was holding Gracie’s hand, tears running down angelic cheeks.
Jake looked at Jenny. “Are you guys okay?”
Jenny put her head down, refusing to look at Jake, and nodded slowly.
“Gracie, why don’t you come stand over here with me?” said Jake.
“No,” said Kareem.
“For an ex-con bartender you have no sense of fair play. You’ve still got Jenny and it’s four to one. You have to like those odds. I want to make sure the little girl’s okay,” said Jake.
Kareem thought for a long moment, then looked to Mohammed, as did Candy. When Mohammed nodded, Candy released her grip. The tiny ballerina, confused and frightened, slowly made her way to Jake, who crouched down and cradled her in his arms, her head on his shoulder as she sobbed softly. “It’s going to be okay, Gracie. You’ll be going home to your grandfather soon.” Turning to Candy, he said with a calm, deliberate delivery, “Tommy loved you and you had him killed. That’s pretty cold.”
Candy said nothing, focusing her attention on Mohammed rather than Jake.
Looking at Candy and Kareem, Jake said, “I’m confused by Mohammed and Rostam. Is this some eclectic UN kidnapping conspiracy? You must really believe in diversity and equal opportunity. This is a regular rainbow coalition. And Kareem, I’m not paying attention to you anymore. I thought you were my go-to guy, but since Mohammed is in charge, I’m directing all my comments to the boss.”
Looking at Mohammed, Jake said, “What are we talking here? Al-Qaeda? Hamas? Maybe Hezbollah? I’m guessing you’re Iranian.”
“Wrong,” said Mohammed.
“He speaks again,” said Jake with a manufactured smile.
Kareem jumped back into the game. “I need to see the rest of the green and I need to see it now!”
Candy barked, “We know you have money!”
“Park wouldn’t have sent you here without three million,” added Kareem.
“Mohammed, you can play anytime,” said Jake. “Like the rest of these guys I’m looking to you for direction.”
Candy’s frustration was growing as the tension thickened. “I know Park has much money. Tommy tell me. He always talk too much. He always try to impress. He tell me Park bringing in three million and you would deliver.”
Kareem added an evil smile. “See, Tommy got his piece off my girl here. Now I want my piece. If I don’t see the cash very soon, Gracie’s next nap will be permanent.”