Code of Honor

70

Clark was lying down reading a book at the JW Marriott Hotel in downtown Chicago when his cell phone began to buzz on the nightstand. Marriott had good mattresses, and he’d learned over the years to take advantage of a soft bed when one presented itself. There was plenty of opportunity to be uncomfortable. He half-rolled with a quiet groan and reached over the Glock 19 nine-millimeter pistol that lay next to the lamp on a folded washcloth and picked up the phone.

Resting the open book, pages down, against his chest, he tilted his head until he got to the right spot on his glasses so he could make out the number on the caller ID.

“Hey, Gavin,” he said.

“Shit’s about to get real, John,” Biery said. Breathless, like a kid about to tell his dad he’d won a race at school. He was known to gloat a tad when he came through in a pinch — which he obviously had.

“What have you got for me?”

“I got him,” Biery said.

“In Chicago?”

“For now,” Biery said. “You have something to write with?”

Clark sat up straight, tossing the book on the mattress and swinging his legs off the bed, stifling the groan this time. “If it were up to me, you’d get a raise,” he said while he got the hotel ballpoint pen and notepad off the nightstand.

“You know me, John,” Biery said. “I’d do this for free. But still—”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay,” Biery said. “I don’t know where he is right now, but I do know where he’ll be at two p.m.”

“Two?” Clark checked his watch, already on his feet. “You should have led with that, Gavin. It’s almost one.”

“Sorry, Boss,” Biery said. “He’s close, though.”

Clark put the phone on speaker and threw what little gear he had in a small daypack while Biery filled him in on the details.

Kang was indeed close, but Clark had a lot to do to make it work. This was going to be tight.