Chapter 4 - Blood in Room 214
The neon sign of the Whispering Pines Motel flickered weakly against the midnight fog.
Half of the red letters were burned out, casting erratic shadows across the cracked asphalt parking lot.
Only three other cars were parked in front of the two-story wooden structure.
A rusted pickup truck, an old station wagon, and a rented dark gray sedan with out-of-state plates.
Roman’s two black sedans pulled into the darkened tree line across the two-lane highway.
The engine purred quietly before Roman signaled to kill the headlights.
Marcus checked the night-vision scope attached to his rifle.
"Second floor, room on the far left," Marcus whispered from the passenger seat.
"Curtains are drawn, but there is faint blue light leaking through the edges."
"Looks like a television screen."
"No exterior guards visible."
Claire sat in the rear seat, her hands clamped tightly around the edges of her heavy Kevlar vest.
Her knuckles were white, and her breathing was rapid and shallow.
Roman turned to look at her in the dim cabin light.
"Stay behind Marcus on the stairwell," Roman instructed her calmly.
"If anyone opens that door from the inside, you step behind the concrete pillar immediately."
"Do you understand me, Claire?"
She looked into Roman's dark eyes and gave a small, resolute nod.
"I understand."
Roman checked the chamber of his custom nine-millimeter pistol and pulled back the slide.
The metallic click sounded terribly loud in the enclosed silence of the car.
Four of Roman’s elite operators exited the second vehicle, moving across the highway like wraiths.
They wore dark tactical windbreakers with no insignias, their suppressed weapons held low.
Roman and Marcus led Claire up the creaking metal staircase on the east side of the motel.
The rain had lessened to a misty drizzle, but the wooden walkway was slick and treacherous.
They reached the door of Room 214 without making a sound.
Inside, the muffled audio of a late-night infomercial played over an old television set.
Marcus knelt by the lock, producing a set of thin titanium picks.
Within eight seconds, the deadbolt disengaged with a faint, oily click.
Marcus pushed the door open an inch and peered through the gap with a fiber-optic lens.
He looked back at Roman and held up two fingers, then made a tapping motion on his own chest.
One target tied down, no armed hostiles in immediate sight.
Roman pushed the door open completely, stepping into the room with his weapon raised.
The smell inside was overwhelming.
Stale tobacco smoke, cheap disinfectant, and the coppery stench of fresh blood.
Sitting in the center of the room, tied to a heavy wooden chair with nylon cords, was David Mercer.
The accountant looked ten years older than the photograph in Claire’s memory.
His silver hair was matted with sweat and dried blood from a gash across his temple.
His dress shirt was shredded, revealing deep purple contusions along his ribs.
His head hung low against his chest until the beam of Marcus’s tactical light hit his eyes.
Mercer gasped, recoiling against the ropes, his swollen eyes blinking frantically.
"No... please... I don't know the password," Mercer rasped, his voice raw and broken.
"I already told you... she doesn't know what's on it..."
"David," Claire cried out softly, breaking rank and stepping into the room.
Mercer’s head jerked upward at the sound of her voice.
He stared at her through swollen eyelids, his mouth falling open in shock.
"Claire?" he whispered, his chest heaving violently.
"Oh god, Claire... why are you here?"
"Why did they bring you here?"
Roman stepped into the light, lowering his pistol slightly so Mercer could see his face.
"They didn't bring her, Mercer," Roman said coldly.
"I did."
Mercer looked at Roman, and a look of sheer, paralyzing horror washed over the old man’s features.
"Roman DeLuca..." Mercer muttered, trembling so violently the wooden chair rattled against the floorboards.
"You shouldn't have come here, Roman."
"It's a trap."
"They never wanted the ledger."
"They used Isabella to pull you out of the city!"
Roman stepped forward and grabbed Mercer by the collar, lifting him slightly from the seat.
"Who is 'they', David?" Roman growled.
"Who was the man wearing my father's ring in that photograph?"
Mercer choked back a dry sob, his eyes darting toward the bathroom door.
"Your father didn't die in that crash, Roman," Mercer whispered, his words hitting the room like a bomb.
"He faked the accident to disappear before the internal audit."
"He took the forty million to build a private army because he knew his own brother was going to assassinate him."
Before Roman could process the words, a tiny red laser dot appeared on Mercer’s forehead.
It had come through the thin bathroom window behind them.
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"Down!" Roman roared, throwing his entire body weight against Claire to tackle her to the floor.
A high-powered rifle bullet shattered the glass, obliterating the wall where Roman’s head had been a second earlier.
