News of the presidential debates filled Atlanta’s early morning news, but at last Rainey was rewarded by a report on the police shooting.
“Last night, Officer Jayden Smith was gunned down when police were called to the scene of a fight at a construction site just south of the Mercedes-Benz Stadium. Presidential debates are scheduled there for this evening, and police feared a security breach. Officer Smith was shot execution style, two shots to the chest and one to the head, leading police to believe gang violence.”
Rainey shook her head.
The coverage switched to a picture of a couple in their late twenties perhaps, the woman holding a baby outside a nice home.
“Officer Smith leaves behind a wife and eight-month-old daughter. The suspect is still at large.”
Rainey shook her head. Another child without a father. Maybe she could send an anonymous donation. She muted the sound. So the Albanian had survived. Just as she’d suspected. It would have been too much to hope the police had put him out of action. No such luck. The job was still hers.
Brad assembled the team early on the morning of the debate. Grant’s vision was still a bit blurred and his stomach threatened to empty its contents on the conference room table. What the fuck time was it, anyway?
His eyes strayed to the wall. Seven o’clock in the morning.
“We’ve got a real job, now,” Brad said, his voice eager.
Grant remembered watching the sun rise before he’d fallen into the bed and finally slept. He rubbed his gritty eyes.
Last night, he’d followed Earl into the party room and gotten swept into a fantasy world. Stunning women. Rich, powerful men. He remembered Earl handing him a glass of his pricey Scotch, pounding him on the back, and saying, “Go have fun. We’re safe in here.”
Grant lost track of how much he drank. The expensive stuff disappeared with Earl into a back bedroom where he heard some screaming behind a closed door. He’d spent the night with the new love of his life. Betty—petite, brunette, with a cute giggle. Said she was a model.
Grant closed his eyes, savoring it all again.
“Did you all hear me?” Brad slammed his fist down on the table.
Grant jerked upright.
“We have a credible threat. Morton thinks it might be a high-level assassin targeting Earl. We need to run a tight ship today.”
“Do we have a description of this guy?” George asked.
“No, but you should look for anything big enough to hold a weapon. Check all the closets, small rooms. Watch the concession deliveries.”
“That’s a big place for the three of us.”
“The other agencies are searching, too. We’ve got the right side of the stadium floor which we’ll split with two of the Ken Dolls. Also, the top two tiers. Cobra Squad will follow us an hour later.”
“Yes, sir.”
He eyed Grant. “We can party when we get to the Keys. Derrick, George, you take Grant here and sober him up. Then get over to the coliseum. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Derrick pulled Grant from his chair and marched him down the hall and into their suite. He turned on the shower and shoved Grant into it fully clothed.
The needles of cold water penetrated the fog.
“Jesus Christ, man. What the—” Water squirted up his nose and he sputtered.
“George, would you mind getting us an espresso from the mess hall?”
“Sure thing.”
Grant heard a door slam.
Derrick leaned against the shower stall, one hand on each side, blocking him in. “Feeling better yet?”
“I’m fucking freezing, man. Let me out of here.”
Derrick reached around and turned off the water. “Strip off those clothes and then take a real shower. How’s your stomach?”
“A little better.”
“Good. Do you want to eat?”
A wave of nausea hit him. “Naw. Not yet.”
Grant dressed and sipped the espresso until his head cleared a bit, then the three of them headed out.
The noise level at the Mercedes-Benz Stadium made Grant grind his teeth. He stopped off at a booth to buy some aspirin and a soda. The woman stared at him, so he tried to remember what they called it in the South. “Pop. Give me a pop.”
“Yes, sir.”
He tore open the foil aspirin container and swallowed four.
“All right?” Derrick asked.
“Yeah.”
“How should we do this?” George asked.
“Let’s split up. I’ll take the floor here and meet up with Brad when he shows up. Grant, you take hallways leading to the ceiling access. George, you’re on the floor below.”
“Roger that,” they said in unison.
They checked their coms, then headed off.
The place was crawling with security teams. Grant pushed the elevator button for the top floor and stepped out into relative quiet. He breathed a sigh of relief. Leaned against the wall for a few minutes just to catch up with himself, then pushed off and started his inspection.
Routine. With the master key, he opened every door to every closet, cubbyhole, bathroom, and utility room, giving each a cursory sweep. The whole search took just over four hours.
His stomach started to grumble, so he called in an all clear and headed down to the food courts. He passed another security guy with spikey brown hair. He wore a black uniform with a Cobra Squad insignia on the sleeve and sported quite a scar on his face. They nodded, professional to professional, and Grant headed down to get lunch.