But there was a technique that was tried and true.
He glanced at Desmond, who nodded. Moll stepped back, took a deep breath, which for some reason seemed to help, and drove his size-twelve foot into the wood just below the lock with all the force of his solid right leg behind it.
44
Colter Shaw steered his Winnebago over the cracked asphalt of the Sunny Acres motel’s parking lot, off Route 92.
Even in broad blaring daylight there would be nothing sunny about the place, given the trash-filled grassland encircling it. Small industrial facilities were the view to each side, if you could see over the green-slatted chain-link. In the back was tall grass, from which rusty appliances and machinery rose like cautious soldiers, awaiting a skirmish.
In the distance was the telltale water tower.
He checked his Glock 42. The slim gun contained six rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. He sometimes carried an extra mag—always left hip, as his father had taught. Sometimes two. Today, he clipped both, each in its own leather holster, on the sinister side of his belt. He untucked his black knit shirt to make sure the weapon was covered; it tended to be visible underneath the leather jacket when he bent or turned.
In a rare moment of verse, his father would recite the rule:
Never reveal when you’re supposed to conceal...
Hand near the weapon, he moved fast toward the motel office,scanning for Merritt’s pickup or Parker’s 4Runner. Neither vehicle was here, though he was sure she’d swapped her wheels for something else. Was one of these others theirs? There were some sedans, some SUVs, a white Ford Transit, two tractor-trailers. Many had out-of-state plates, but one could still be a rental of Parker’s; the companies were forever moving cars here and there.
Inside, no one was behind the counter.
He rang the clerk’s bell. No response to the ding.
He drew his weapon and started up the hallway, knocked on the door to the office.
A grunting voice responded.
A thud.
Shaw pushed inside, gun up, holding it two-handed. There he found the clerk, zip-tied and gagged, thrashing frantically, trying to free himself. The round man whose face and shirt and hands were covered in damp blood, panicked even more when he saw Shaw and the gun and tried to scrabble away, as if there were a hiding place in a twelve-by-twelve box of a room.
He yanked the tape off.
“Ow, Jesus.”
“When was he here?”
“I’m bleeding.”
“When?”
“Five minutes.”
“He armed?”
“They both were.”
“Both?”
“Two of them.”
Two? What was this about? Merritt and someone else? Or men working with him?
“Describe them, fast.”
He hesitated.
“Now!” Shaw growled.