The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(17)

“Stand by, Chuck,” Van Heerden replied. “To all call signs, this is Albert. Does anyone have eyes on Flower?”

None of them did. Was it possible that Hammond had left the hotel? If so, to go where? Barry, who was in the lobby, would have let Van Heerden know if he had seen her. Chances were that she was still in her room and that the bodyguard had simply gone to his own room to use the washroom and would be back at his post in a minute or two. Still, Van Heerden didn’t want Chuck and Daniel to breach Hammond’s room only to be caught seconds later by the Secret Service agent. So far his operation had remained under the radar. He wanted to keep it that way.

Chuck, just like Van Heerden, was in possession of a key card that would unlock Hammond’s room, courtesy of their employer.

“Chuck, this is Albert. Wait for me. I’m on my way.”

“Copy that, Albert.”

Van Heerden holstered his pistol and then slipped out of his hotel room and walked down to the elevators. While he was waiting for the elevator to arrive, he scanned the length of the hallway and observed a young man exiting a room not far from the elevators. Van Heerden hoped the elevator would arrive before the man did. He had no such luck.

The man was in his midtwenties, tall and fit with light skin and longish black hair. He was dressed in a pair of expensive jeans and a designer T-shirt. He nodded at Van Heerden and stood next to him.

“Oh,” the young man said. “You’re going up?”

“Yeah,” Van Heerden replied.

The young man pressed the down button and looked at Van Heerden. “Hey, man, do you know a good steakhouse around here? It’s my first time in San Francisco.”

Van Heerden had no intention of making small talk. “I don’t. I’m not from here either.”

“Where are you from? Is that an Aussie accent I hear?”

Where the hell’s that elevator? Van Heerden thought, resisting the urge to choke the man out. Maybe I could hide his body behind the ice machine?

“Small world. My girlfriend is from Australia,” the man continued. “Whereabouts are you from? She’s from Brisbane.”

There was a ding, and Van Heerden looked up. The elevator had arrived, and it was going up. Without another word, Van Heerden, distracted by the incessant chatting of the younger man, stepped into the elevator the moment the doors opened.

A mistake.

He did his best to mask his surprise, but one of the special agents assigned to Hammond was already in the elevator. The man—Black, tall, and built like a bulldozer—stood with his back to the rear wall. There was no hiding the muscular frame under the man’s unbuttoned tuxedo jacket, or the Secret Service badge clipped to his belt. The special agent occupied so much space that Van Heerden couldn’t stand next to him against the rear wall. Instead, he leaned against the side wall and rested his hands in front of him. Both men eyed each other. Neither was smiling. To Van Heerden’s horror, the young man with the Aussie girlfriend stepped into the elevator just as the doors were closing.

“Sorry, I changed my mind,” he said, looking at Van Heerden. “I think I’ll go check out the lounge before heading out.”

What the hell? Had he misread the young man? Was he part of a countersurveillance team? Van Heerden didn’t like this one bit. If the two men were working together and they knew who he was, or why he was there, and they made the first move, he was done.

The Secret Service agent’s eyes didn’t stray from Van Heerden. Moreover, the agent had pushed his tuxedo jacket to the side, and his hand had moved closer to the holster on his right hip. This was tactically sound for the agent, but not so much for Van Heerden since the weapon was out of his reach and could be protected by the agent’s left arm. He could feel the suspicion in the big man’s eyes, and he was confident that the agent knew something was wrong but that he hadn’t yet come to terms with what it was exactly. He would. Soon.

And that’s why Van Heerden struck first.

Van Heerden went for the young man, the closest and easiest target. With his left hand, he drew a small combat knife from the sheath inside his waistband and stepped forward, plunging the knife hard and deep into the rear of the young man’s neck, mortally wounding him. He let go of the embedded knife and turned his attention to the Secret Service agent, knowing he had the advantage of surprise.

The agent’s eyes went wide in astonishment. He jerked his gun from his holster, but Van Heerden chopped down at his rising wrist with the edge of his right hand. The agent yelled in pain as his pistol clattered to the tile floor of the elevator. Then, stepping in even closer, Van Heerden whipped out his left hand in an uppercut that packed all the strength he could muster. The punch was fast and perfectly timed and would have knocked out most men. But not this one. The uppercut didn’t even faze him.

The Secret Service agent drove his left fist forward into Van Heerden’s face. The blow sent him backward, but the agent didn’t let him fall. Instead, he kept Van Heerden close by holding him by the collar of his coat. The agent drew back his left fist and punched him again, this time right on the chin. Van Heerden’s knees buckled, and he tripped over the dead body of the young man he had killed less than five seconds ago.

Van Heerden hit the floor just as the elevator stopped. The doors opened. The agent hesitated, his eyes darting between his service pistol and Van Heerden.