Free Tom Clancy Duty and Honor by Grant Blackwood Page B

me.”
    Jack held his breath. Sans beard, Jack’s appearance was close to that of Möller’s. Whether it was close enough now depended on the attendant’s observation skills.
    The attendant laughed. “I hear you. Just a moment,please. I’ll be right back.” The man disappeared through a door behind the desk.
    Two minutes, Jack thought, half imagining the attendant already on the phone with the police. Any more than that and he’d leave.
    The attendant reappeared. He handed back Möller’s passport along with a new key card. “Here you go. Let me know if you need directions or a map.”
    “Thank you very much.”
    Jack started to walk away, then turned a short circle as though trying to get his bearings. “My room is . . .”
    “One twenty-five. Out through the door you came in, then left down the side of the building.”
    Jack thanked him again and left.
    —
    H e parked his car four stalls down from Möller’s room and shut off the engine.
    The room’s window curtain was parted about an inch. Through the gap Jack saw a faint yellow light. He checked his watch. Forty-five minutes had elapsed since Möller had fled the preserve’s parking lot. If he’d had an accomplice waiting at the preserve he could already be back in his room. Otherwise, his options were to hitchhike or call a taxi. He wouldn’t risk the former, Jack decided. Taxi, then. Whichmeant he was probably ahead of Möller; if he was coming back here, Jack’s lead was very slim.
    Jack’s question from earlier popped back into his mind: Did he snatch up Möller, or try to track him? He reached the same conclusion. Track him. Jack had to assume that unless Möller was working for himself he’d already reported the incident up his chain of command, regardless of whether he’d recognized Jack at the preserve.
    With Möller wounded and on the run, he would be hypervigilant for any sign of pursuit. Jack thought it unlikely he could maintain a one-man surveillance of Möller without being spotted. That left him with one option: Track the man remotely, passively.
    So many ifs and maybes. Too many.
    Without giving himself a chance to come up with more of them, Jack got out of the car, strode toward Möller’s door. It was late afternoon, heading toward twilight, and the rain was still falling. Jack glanced around. No one was about. He stopped at Möller’s door, drew his Glock, and held it tight against his leg. He took a breath, let it out. He swiped the key card, pushed open the door, stepped inside, then used his heel to force the door shut. He raised the Glock.
    To his right in the corner the floor lamp was on.
    Jack reached back over his shoulder with his free hand and eased closed the door’s cross-latch lock.
    “Hello? Manager, Mr. Möller,” Jack called. “Are you here? Hello . . . manager . . .”
    Jack moved now, quickly clearing the front room, then the bathroom and closet.
    As he’d done in Weber’s room, Jack searched the room, taking care to leave everything as he found it. Like Weber’s, Möller’s clothes were nondescript, either tagless or bought locally at a Target or Walmart. No identification, no airline boarding passes, no scribbled notes or credit card receipts.
    He turned his attention to the less obvious hiding spots—inside the chair’s zippered cushion or the cover of the ironing board, taped to the underside of a drawer, or down the back of the toilet tank. Nothing.
    He lifted the shower-curtain rod free of its wall bracket, gave it a shake, then tilted it downward. From inside the plastic tube came a scraping sound. Jack pulled off the rod’s cap and out slid a screw-top aluminum cylinder. He caught it in his palm, then laid down the curtain rod, unscrewed the top, and checked the interior.
    Bullets.
    He turned to the sink, closed the drain plug, and dumped out the rounds.
    They were .22-caliber short bullets, but the tips were coated black. It took Jack a moment to realize what he was seeing. These were