Taylor said, “He’s either very brave or very desperate.”
“I’ll take either.”
As they walked toward the front doors of the luxurious hotel, Taylor said, “Those slums, Scott… I can’t believe what we saw…”
“You’re just a clean-living country girl at heart.”
“The hills I grew up in were poor, but… not like that.”
“Right. On another subject: Brendan Worley, Afghanistan, Ted, Tomás de Heres, and Flagstaff. What was that about?”
“It wasn’t about Kyle Mercer.” She reminded him, “Focus.”
“Right.”
They entered the lobby of the air-conditioned hotel and Taylor said, “I’m going to stop at the gift shop.”
“Get me an AK-47.”
“Then I’m going to wash the grime off and take a dip in the rooftop pool. Meet me there in an hour and I’ll buy you a beer.”
“You can wash the slums off your body, señora, but not from your heart or your mind.”
“That’s what the beer is for. See you later.”
He watched her as she walked toward the gift shop, then got in the elevator and rode up to his room.
There were three possible outcomes of this mission: getting Mercer, getting killed, or getting laid. Or some combination thereof. Meanwhile, a dip in the pool before a plunge into the abyss sounded good.
CHAPTER 25
Brodie entered the suite, got a cold beer from the living room bar, and went into his bedroom. He rehydrated as he stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes, then hit the shower, wrapping his Glock in a shower cap—a trick that a young lady in his business had shown him some years ago. You’re always vulnerable in hostile territory, but you’re most vulnerable naked, in the shower or in bed, which was why you should have company in both places.
He scrubbed the day off his skin, as he’d done in Iraq on the occasions when they’d gotten to base camp and headed straight for the quartermaster showers. Rub-a-dub-dub, doomed men in a tub.
Brodie dried himself, then slipped into a pair of shorts, hotel slippers, and a bathrobe. He put his sat phone and smartphone in the robe pockets, then went back into the living room, where he locked his Glock and extra magazine in the safe. He saw no sign that Taylor had returned from her shopping trip, and he exited the room and rode the elevator up to the pool.
The expansive rooftop terrace held a sixty-foot swimming pool ringed by lounge chairs and a few cabana tents. Potted palms and bursts of tropical flowers decorated the terrace. The surrounding slums looked pleasant from up here.
There were a few guests enjoying drinks or floating in the pool, and he wondered who these people were, and why, if they had the money to be here, they weren’t someplace else. He suspected that many of them were wealthy locals who found this place to be a safe oasis, a way to remain in Caracas without really being in Caracas.
He was early for his rendezvous with Taylor, and he found an empty cabana, signaled to a waiter, and sat in a wicker chair in the open-sided tent.
The waiter inquired, “What may I get for you, señor?”
“A very cold beer.”
“Sí, señor. Will anyone be joining you?”
“A very hot blonde. Keep an eye out for her.”
The waiter smiled and moved off.
The thought of alcohol was intimately tied to thoughts of Dombroski, so he decided maybe he should take Taylor’s advice and call the boss. He made sure no one was within earshot, took out his smartphone, opened Signal, and dialed.
Dombroski picked up and said, “Señor Brodie. Working hard or hardly working?”
Brodie watched as a brunette with bronze skin and a skimpy pink bikini did a dive off the board.
