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the target. He stood beside the opened side door, a gun held at his side.  
    “You guys all right?”  
    “So far,” I said.  
    We were less than ten yards away from the SUV when Ian let go of the Racist. I watched it happen from the corner of my eye. It took only a second, Ian releasing his grip on the target’s elbow so he could switch hands. But it was all the Racist needed. He was in motion at once. His arms were behind his back, sure, but that didn’t stop him as he swung around, trying to get at us. His teeth bared, his face flushed, he growled as he kicked out first at me, then at Ian.  
    Ronny didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward, withdrawing an EpiPen from his pocket. Instead of containing epinephrine, this pen was filled with a special form of methohexital—a barbiturate—we had cooked up for situations such as these. In one smooth motion, Ronny stabbed the Racist in the side of the neck.  
    The effect wasn’t instantaneous. It would take nearly a minute to knock the Racist out. But it slowed him, and gave us the extra time to hurry him over to the SUV and shove him inside.  
    Then Ronny turned to me and said, “Go.”

    •     •     •

    C ARVER WAS WAITING for me in the lobby, his gun in hand. In his other hand was the black plastic keycard.  
    “Nothing yet?” I asked.  
    He shook his head.  
    We started toward the stairs. Both with our guns out, neither saying a word. Now that the ringing had completely left my ears, the silence surrounding us was just too palpable.  
    Through the fire door then and up the stairs.  
    First one flight, the second flight, the third.  
    Carver and I paused in front of the fire door, our guns at the ready. I placed my hand on the knob. Carver nodded once. I pulled the door open, just a little, giving Carver enough space to aim his weapon.  
    Keeping his gun aimed and his focus through the space looking onto the third floor, he nodded again.  
    I pulled the door open further, enough so Carver could slip through. I followed. Here there were four elevators, a potted plant in the corner, a polished oak table standing against the wall with a lamp and telephone on top. The carpet silenced our footsteps as we approached a T-intersection of the hallway. There were signs on the wall, pointing which rooms were to the left, which were to the right. The ice machine directly across from us hummed quietly, working its hardest to produce its required one-ice-cube-per-hour quota.  
    The direction we wanted to go—where room 339 was located—was to the left.  
    The silence seemed even more oppressive up here. In our ears we could hear Ronny and Ian situating the Racist in the SUV. The noise was low but still too much of a distraction that we took out our earpieces and slipped them in our pockets.  
    Carver placed his back against the wall, peeked around the corner. He raised a fist—clear.  
    We started down the hall, Carver covering the front while I covered the back. The hallway was carpeted in a design of seashells. Doors lined both sides.  
    Besides the humming ice machine, the silence thickened.  
    We were only five rooms away from room 339 when a door suddenly opened. A man stepped out. He had a rifle in his hands, aimed directly at Carver.

 
     
     
    11

    It was as if time had slowed. The man fired only twice and I watched each bullet as it tore loose from the rifle’s barrel and tore into Carver’s chest. I watched Carver’s body jerk. I watched his shoulders hitch. I watched as he fell to his knees. Then time sped up once again and I stepped forward, raising my gun, and fired.
    The shooter disappeared back into the room. My bullets tore chunks from the wall, from the door.  
    Carver was at my feet. He had fallen onto his side. Groaning. Gurgling. The front of his jacket had been ripped up. He’d been hit right in the chest. Blood was everywhere.  
    The shooter appeared again, his rifle aimed at me.  
    I fired at him, taking out more chunks