Free Desperate Souls by Gregory Lamberson Page A

monitor the black metal door in the rear of the lobby swing open and a figure lumber forward: tall, shaved head, Chinese. His eyes resembled black pits. Three men followed him. One appeared Hispanic, one African American, and one Caucasian.
    A regular United Nations envoy,
Jake thought, watching the men move with mechanical precision. They wore identical expressions: flat, impassive, dead. He wrinkled his eyebrows.
These aren’t the corner boys or the Escalade hit men.
Then who?
    His heart skipped a beat.
    All four men had something else in common. They carried gleaming weapons.
    Machetes.

    The bald Chinese man thumbed the elevator call button, and the door opened seconds later. Without speaking to his fellow assassins, he boarded the elevator, and the door closed. The black and Hispanic men headed toward the stairway, while the Caucasian stood guard in the lobby.
    Covering their bases,
Jake thought as he stepped onto the leather sofa.
But so am I.
    Grasping the frame around the painting mounted on the wall, a black-and-white depiction of Manhattan when the Twin Towers still dominated the sky, he removed the canvas, revealing a niche where he stashed his secret arsenal. Lifting a Beretta from its compartment, he screwed a silencer into its barrel and slapped a magazine into its grip. He had learned his lesson after taking out the Cipher, and the Beretta was one of several untraceable—and illegal—weapons he owned. The silencer was also illegal. He took a second magazine and an additional silencer for the Glock in case he needed it, returned the picture to its rightful place, and hopped off the sofa. With no police response to the alarm, he could handle this situation his own way.
    Whatever the hell
that
is.
    On the lobby monitor, he saw the black man climb the stairs and the Hispanic man twist the knob on the door leading to the basement. When the knob did not turn, the man stepped back, raised the machete high over his head, and brought it down in a powerful swing that produced sparks and sent the knob rolling across the tiled floor. He pushed the door open and descended the stairs.
    Jake ran to the window, raised the blinds, and threw the latch. The window ground open, and he looked outside. He saw plenty of traffic in the street and on the sidewalks despite the late hour. Reaching the sidewalk posed no problem; the green fire escape provided an easy exit. But he didn’t want to escape. He wanted to sneak into one of the neighboring suites and take the intruders by surprise. A six-inch stone ledge ran the building’s length, but the nearest windows contained air conditioners.
    Screw that.
    He closed the window and its blinds, then sprinted through the office to his front door and turned the locks as quietly as possible. The echoing squeak that the door issued as he opened it made him shudder. The elevator hadn’t reached the fourth floor yet, but he knew the noise had been heard by the assassin ascending the stairs.
    Stepping into the hall, he discerned the stairway at the opposite end thanks to an opaque window laced with wire through which city lights shone. As he closed the door and locked it, he heard the elevator and ran down the hall to the dark stairway. Throwing himself around the corner of the stairway leading to the roof, he pressed his back against the wall and gripped the Beretta in both hands. He stared down the stairs at the third floor, which he had climbed every day for nine months. The building had felt safe to him. He should have known better.
    The floor and stairs vibrated as the elevator reached its destination. Jake listened to the elevator door slide open and held his breath. Then he heard footsteps walking away from him toward his office.
    I can’t believe this is happening again.
    Sharp banging echoed through the hall.
    He’s banging on the door with the machete’s handle.
    Jake sprang from his hiding place as silent as a jungle cat, gun raised in both hands, and moved forward.
    Oblivious,