Fortress

61

Tom was in the bathroom doing some maintenance on the previous night’s damage when there was a knock at the door.

‘Room service.’

He looked through the peep-hole: Beth, carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He had been looking forward to some time alone and catching up on some much-needed sleep. Besides, he didn’t feel like celebrating; Kyle’s demise and the carnage at the gun shop had left him feeling deeply troubled. But maybe this was a chance to get another angle on Stutz. He reached for a robe. The accumulated damage had left him with a number of welts and angry-looking bruises.

He opened the door and she strode in on those endless legs.

‘Courtesy of Mr Stutz. I believe congratulations are in order!’

She looked different today, less of the efficient PA, more Jack Wills at the Beach. She had on a vest that clung nicely, shorts and trainers, evidently her off-duty kit. He took the bottle from her: Krug, Clos du Mesnil 2000.

‘Mr Stutz says you Brits know your champagne.’

‘Very thoughtful, thanks.’ He glanced down to see that one of the cuts inflicted by Colburn and Co was oozing onto the carpet. He pulled the robe closer round him. ‘Just give me a minute.’

She brandished the bottle. ‘Would you like me to open it?’

‘Go ahead.’

He went back into the bathroom and put on a long-sleeved fleece and trousers to cover the evidence.

‘Where did y’all get to last night?’

He laughed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. We rather overdid it, I’m ashamed to say. I think I might have come off his bike at some point.’

He heard her turn the inside lock on the door. That wasn’t right.

He was only halfway through the doorway when a jolt stung him on the thigh and he went down for the second time in less than an hour.

What was this, Groundhog Day?

He lifted himself up a little and, without even turning, she jabbed her left elbow into his chest, forcing all the air out of it. Then her face followed, like thunder, as if she’d just ripped off her happy mask to reveal the scary android beneath. She smashed the back of her hand across his face. This helped him focus just enough to grab her wrist and pull her down. He didn’t see the foot heading for his left temple until it was too late.

He was on the carpet. His limbs felt like sludge, but he grabbed the foot and twisted it hard. She rotated with it, trying to avoid the crack, and crashed into the side of the minibar. He grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head down. She fought hard with her fists, hammering his face, chest, shoulder — wherever she could land them — twisting all the time like a hooked marlin. With a huge effort of will he forced her off him, but as he did so, she used his momentum to send him smashing into the wall.

He tried to open his eyes. The room was on its side, a blur. He twisted to try to see the right way up, but it was painful. When he recovered a little, he found he was on the floor and she was standing over him, the Glock in one hand, a small black wallet open in the other. He focused on the wallet, in particular the three white letters: FBI.