No…Antonio.
A satisfied smile flickered over the man’s features as he spotted the senator. This had to be their guy. From the earlier conversation, the man clearly had no love for Karlsen. Antonio’s smile faded as he finally noted the bodyguard, too. The instructions had been for the senator to come alone. Antonio hesitated near the entrance.
Time to move.
Painter slid smoothly out of his seat and crossed in front of Antonio. He grabbed the man’s elbow in one hand and poked his Beretta in the man’s ribs. He kept a smile on his face.
“Let’s talk,” Painter said and guided him away from the bar.
It was his intention to interrogate the man in private. The less Senator Gorman was involved in all this, the better for all.
Antonio allowed himself to be led away at gunpoint, his face a mask of terror.
“I work for the U.S. government,” Painter said pointedly. “We’re going to have a short conversation before you meet with the senator.”
The terror faded from his eyes, but not completely. Painter guided him toward a settee in an empty area of the lobby. It was partially shielded by a low wall and a potted fern.
They never made it.
Antonio suddenly tripped and fell to one knee. He gurgled and gagged. His hands fluttered to his neck. Protruding from his throat was the pointed barb of an arrow bolt. Blood splattered the marble tile floor as Antonio dropped to his hands and knees.
Painter noted a small blinking light at the back of the man’s neck, nestled in the plastic feathers of the bolt. Painter’s body reacted before the thought even formed.
Bomb.
He leaped forward and dove over the low wall. He’d landed behind it when the charge exploded. It was as loud as a thunderclap in a cave. Pain squeezed his head. He went momentarily deaf—then sound returned.
Screams, shouts, cries.
It all sounded hollow.
He rolled back up, keeping sheltered behind the nearby wall. Smoke choked the lobby, lit by puddles of fire. The explosion had blackened a large section of the floor. Antonio’s body had been obliterated into bits of flaming ruin. The superheated air burned with a chemical sting.
Thermite and white phosphorus.
Painter coughed and searched the lobby. From Antonio’s position, the arrow had to have come from inside the hotel, off to the left. From that direction, two masked figures ran through the smoke from the staircase. Another slammed through the front door.
They pounded toward the Limelight Bar.
They were going after the senator.
12:04 A.M.
Monk stood at the open door. Beyond the threshold stretched a long hall. Lights turned on, one after the other, illuminating the way ahead.
“We’ll take a fast look,” Monk whispered. “Then get the hell out of here.”
Creed waited for Monk to take the lead, then followed. The kid barely breathed, and he definitely didn’t blink.
Halfway down the passage, double doors opened to the right and left. Monk headed toward them. The place smelled of disinfectant, like a hospital. The smooth linoleum floor and featureless walls added to the sense of sterility.
He also noted that there were no cameras in this hall. Apparently the company placed its full trust in the extra layer of electronic security down here.
Monk reached the doors. They were palm-locked like the other. Monk pressed his hand against it. Surely there were no areas off-limits to Karlsen.
He was right.
The lock snick ed open.
Monk headed through and found himself in an enclosed entryway facing another set of doors. The antechamber was glass. Beyond the doors opened a huge room. Lights flickered on, but they were muted a soft amber.
He tried the next set of doors. Unlocked. The doors were clearly not intended to keep anyone out, so much as to keep the room’s occupants in.
As Monk pushed into the next room, he gaped at the walls to either side. Extending the length of the long room were floor-to-ceiling windows. A low tonal buzzing filled the room, like a radio tuned between stations.
Creed followed at his heels. “Are those—?”
Monk nodded. “Beehives.”
Behind the glass, a solid mass of bees writhed and churned in a hypnotic pattern, wings flickering, bodies dancing. Racks and tiers of honeycombs rose in stacks to the roof. The hives were divided into sections along the length of the room. Each apiary was marked with a cryptic code. Studying them, Monk noted that each number was prefixed with the same three letters: IMD.
He didn’t understand the significance, but plainly the bees were used in some sort of research.
Or maybe Ivar just had a real hard-on for fresh honey.
Monk moved with Creed to the closest bank. The buzzing grew louder, the agitation more frenzied. The lights, though muted, must have stirred them.
“I think they’re Africanized bees,” Creed said. “Look at how aggressive they are.”
“I don’t care where they came from. What is Viatus doing with them?”
And why all this security?
Creed reached toward a small drawer in the hive window.
“Careful,” Monk warned.
Creed pinched his brows and pulled open the drawer. “Don’t worry. I’ve worked with bees before at my family’s farm back in Ohio.”
The drawer came out to reveal a sealed box with a meshed end. A single large bee rested inside.
“The queen,” Creed said.
The bees became even more frenzied within the cage.
Monk noted that the box was stamped with the same cryptic code as the cage. As Creed returned the drawer to its slot, Monk freed a small pen camera. Pressing a button, he took a short digital video. He recorded the banks of bees and the numbers above each hive.
It could be important.
For now, the best they could do was document it all and get the hell out. Once finished recording, Monk checked his watch. He still wanted to check the room across the hall before they headed to the servers and finished their primary mission.
“C’mon,” Monk said and led his partner back out into the hallway.
Stepping across the hall, Monk pressed his palm against the other door’s reader. As the door unlocked, he headed inside. It opened into an anteroom similar to the other lab. But here respirator masks hung on wall pegs to one side. Ahead, lights flickered on as before. The room beyond the door was the same size as the other.
But there were no bees.
The room held four long raised beds running the length of the room. Even from here, Monk recognized the little fleshy umbrellas growing out of the beds in riotous exuberance.
“Mushrooms,” Creed said.
Monk passed into the next room. The door opened with the small pop of an air seal. The room was negatively pressurized to keep the air inside. Monk immediately understood why.