Free The Alpha Deception by Jon Land Page A

parlor.
    And at the bottom, by itself, a four-digit number. The very last entry the dead agents had made.
    McCracken went ice cold.
    The number was T.C.’s room at the Waldorf.

Chapter 7
    BLAINE RACED BREATHLESSLY the two blocks toward the Waldorf. His thoughts had shut off by the time he reached the hotel’s majestic entrance. They brought only pain, the realization of a hurt too horrible to accept.
    He sped through the Waldorf s doors and took the marble steps leading up two at a time. He rushed to the elevator bank and pressed the up arrow. A compartment slid open and he was inside it immediately, pounding the CLOSE DOOR button as if it would make the machine get started faster. Twelve floors later he stepped out and dashed to T.C.’s room. The door was locked, but the security bolts and chain were not in place. He had it swinging open over the carpet less than thirty seconds later.
    T.C. sat in a chair by the window, propped up facing the television. Blaine held his breath as he approached and let it out only when he saw the small red hole in the center of her forehead.
    Blaine came closer, chewing his lips, fighting back tears. He wanted her to be alive, to be playing possum to confuse the man who had come to kill her.
    He had spoken to her five hours before, six maybe. Told her to stay put. Maybe if he had sent her home they wouldn’t have found her. Maybe she’d still be alive. Maybe …
    He could see her rushing to the door not long before to respond to a knock, thinking it was him probably. The end would have happened very fast. No struggle. Little pain.
    McCracken sank down on the bed, too shocked to cry. He fought to still his shaking.
    “Damn,” he moaned. “Damn… .”
    T.C. was dead, and he had helped kill her. He accepted the responsibility because he needed the rage that went with it, needed the guilt to push the grief back. The pain in him was sharp and lingering, worse than any bullet or knife. He wanted her back. He wanted it to be eight years ago all over again so he could have another chance.
    Why? She hadn’t known anything, damnit!
    Whoever was behind the killings in the townhouse was undoubtedly behind hers—the same killer, even, judging by the bullet wound. That there were two forces operating here was obvious. But which was responsible for what? Who was behind the “Hasidim,” the man with the dart gun? What had happened to require such a killing spree? The wild bullets in the street, three dead government agents, T.C., and possibly more.
    McCracken buried his rising grief and guilt and forced himself to think. The dead agents were his only lead. They would lead him to someone in the government who knew more of what was going on and how the crystals were connected.
    Which would lead him to those behind T.C.’s killing. Making them pay was the only thing he could still do for T.C.
    Revenge was no consolation but it would have to be consolation enough.
    Blaine covered T.C.’s body with a bedspread. He knew now what wheels he had to set in motion. For situations like the townhouse, various government agencies jointly operated a cleanup service. The contact number was changed often but was readily available. Always an 800 number. He dialed it.
    “Sanitation department,” said a voice.
    “There’s dirt on 222 East 48th Street in New York City. Operation’s probably on record.”
    “That’s improper coding,” the voice came back.
    “Send a crew.”
    “State your designation please.”
    “Tell them it’s going to be a long night.”
    “ What ?Who is this?”
    McCracken hung up. He had said enough. He knew they would respond because only someone cleared would have the number. They would check the on-call operations roster and find that the townhouse was active. A crew would be dispatched.
    He returned to East 48th Street, walking slowly to catch his breath and settle his nerves, knowing it would be awhile before the cleanup crew arrived. In fact it was ninety minutes after his