The fuck.
I stood there a second.
I didn't love the FBI. Not because the FBI had done anything to me, personally, but because in my line of work, the FBI was the agency that turned up after the fact and asked the kind of questions you couldn't answer without getting somebody fired, including yourself. We didn't run in the same lanes. When we did, somebody was usually unhappy.
But I wasn't a guy who left a man standing in a hotel hallway.
I left the chain on, kept the pistol tucked behind my hip, and cracked the door.
The agent gave me a slow up-and-down. The kind of look that catalogued a man—height, weight, distinguishing marks, am-I-going-to-have-to-tackle-this-guy. He held the look a beat too long. I let him have it.
"Can I help you?" I said, polite.
He went down and back up.
"There's someone who would like a word with you, Mr. Dane."
I tilted my head.
"Is it Santa Claus?"
He blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Santa," I said. "St. Nick. Big guy, white beard, makes lists, checks them—at minimum—twice. If it's him, I'll come right out. Maybe Mr. Beast. I'd come out for Mr. Beast. I like his videos. His chocolate, not so much. Otherwise I'm not coming into a hotel hallway in my underwear for somebody who isn't on television."
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He'd come up here with a script, and the script had not contemplated underwear or Santa.
I was good at this. Saying silly things to serious people and watching them buffer. It was one of the most underrated skills of my profession. You could learn a lot about a man by what he did when his rehearsed lines stopped working. Some of them got mean. Some of them got quiet. The good ones laughed and pivoted. This guy couldn't do any of it. He just stood there, blinking.
I almost felt for him. Almost.
He gathered himself. The serious face came back.
"Mr. Dane, there's a federal official who would like to speak with you. If you could?—"
"Look," I said. "Friend. I don't even know if you are who you say you are. Last week a guy in El Paso asked me for a twenty to buy gas, and ten minutes later I saw him hand it to a woman on the corner who didn't appear to be selling gas. I'm careful with my faith in strangers these days. Is that what we're doing here? You looking for a free one?"
"Sir—"
"Because if you are, you've come to the wrong door."
"Mr. Dane."
"All right, all right." I leaned my shoulder against the frame. "Let's see it."
He pulled out his badge. Pulled out his ID. Held them up flat against the gap in the door so I could see them in the bad hallway light.
I gave the credentials the kind of look a man gives a check he's not going to bother cashing. I'd seen Bureau IDs. Some real, some fake, some printed in a basement in Caracas by a guy who charged extra for the laminate. This one looked real.Special Agent T. Mendez.Photo matched. Holograms in the right places.
"Special Agent Mendez," I said. "Pleasure. Now—who wants to see me?"
He hesitated.
"Sir, it would be best if?—"
"Tell you what." I straightened. "I'm not leaving this very fancy suite where I was looking forward to a very long, very hot shower, until I know who's extending the invitation. Names, brother. Give me a name. Then we can talk about whether I bring my pants."
