bottles and cans strewn across the back seat and the piled on the floorboards.
â Yeah, but you ainât got my style.â Stoney revved the engine and popped the clutch. The tires spun and smoked as the startled cop jumped back and lost his balance, nearly falling on his ass. Chase held his ground because he knew Stoney and was in awe of how he kept the powerful old car under control, probably hitting eighty miles an hour by the time he reached the interstate.
Chapter 9
I n the airplane window seat Chase was feeling like a little kid, nose pressed to the acrylic surface, circles of moisture appearing and disappearing. They banked hard right on approach and he searched every inch of the exotic view. The green hills spreading out below were hazy with smoke from dozens of what seemed to be small fires. The towns, built from dirt and stone instead of wood and steel, were earth colored. And Chase was here to help kill their president.
The tires touched down with a screech and the stewardess reminded him three times to stay seated until theyâd reached the terminal and come to a complete stop. With just his camera bag, one backpack, and a suit bag containing a rented tuxedo, Chase zipped through the special line at customs reserved for journalists.
He checked into the Hotel Intercontinental and left his gear in the room. The concierge confirmed the address of the Palacio Nacional and promised a number of taxis would be waiting outside the hotel tomorrow night. Everything was falling into place, but he couldnât be boxed in. His adrenaline was pumping and he needed to find the pool, maybe take a long walk. He checked his watch every ten minutes even though the formal state dinner was twenty-six hours away.
A bite to eat then a second swim before collapsing into the queen-sized bed, where he just stared at the ceiling. Chase checked his watch a dozen more times before falling into the usual dream about the bloody day on the soccer field. In the dark he groped for a drink of water, the thick crystal glass shaking in his hand.
The envelope had come to his dorm room, seeming to appear from nowhere like any good spy message should. It made it real for the first time. Inside was a passport, visa, plane tickets, and instructions detailing how he was to aid in a presidential assassination during the formal dinner.
Chase went back to bed as the sun began to rise. He slept with it bright in his face until a little past noon, when the maid knocked. He had two bites of a room service sandwich, then went down to swim laps. Kids sat along the edge, feet kicking the chlorinated water as he lumbered past. Mothers in one-pieces with gold jewelry and full makeup were seated at round tables sipping fruit-filled drinks. Chase looked at his watch then tried knocking the water from his ears until realizing they werenât clogged. Something other than the pool was making his head feel underwater. He did two more laps and grabbed his towel.
Chase dressed an hour before cocktails were to be served. His pants were an inch too long and the shoulders were too tight. It didnât matter. James Bond he was not. His hair was too long and heâd lost his soccer-honed muscle tone. He pulled the press pass over his head and checked the bag of brand new Nikon gear, which had also magically appeared in his dorm. The same cameras the big city shooters used, but these didnât have nicks from stumbling and falling over fire hoses. No worn metal edges from throwing two camera bodies over the same shoulder to run toward a paramedic performing CPR. He splashed cold water on his face and wondered if he would feel different after taking part in a murder. He looked at his wet face, the face of a soon-to-be assassin. Would he be racked with guilt? Would he be so overcome heâd need to confess his crime?
â I can kill someone without getting all crazy,â he told the mirror. He wasnât confident.
The Palacio Nacional was an
â Yeah, but you ainât got my style.â Stoney revved the engine and popped the clutch. The tires spun and smoked as the startled cop jumped back and lost his balance, nearly falling on his ass. Chase held his ground because he knew Stoney and was in awe of how he kept the powerful old car under control, probably hitting eighty miles an hour by the time he reached the interstate.
Chapter 9
I n the airplane window seat Chase was feeling like a little kid, nose pressed to the acrylic surface, circles of moisture appearing and disappearing. They banked hard right on approach and he searched every inch of the exotic view. The green hills spreading out below were hazy with smoke from dozens of what seemed to be small fires. The towns, built from dirt and stone instead of wood and steel, were earth colored. And Chase was here to help kill their president.
The tires touched down with a screech and the stewardess reminded him three times to stay seated until theyâd reached the terminal and come to a complete stop. With just his camera bag, one backpack, and a suit bag containing a rented tuxedo, Chase zipped through the special line at customs reserved for journalists.
He checked into the Hotel Intercontinental and left his gear in the room. The concierge confirmed the address of the Palacio Nacional and promised a number of taxis would be waiting outside the hotel tomorrow night. Everything was falling into place, but he couldnât be boxed in. His adrenaline was pumping and he needed to find the pool, maybe take a long walk. He checked his watch every ten minutes even though the formal state dinner was twenty-six hours away.
A bite to eat then a second swim before collapsing into the queen-sized bed, where he just stared at the ceiling. Chase checked his watch a dozen more times before falling into the usual dream about the bloody day on the soccer field. In the dark he groped for a drink of water, the thick crystal glass shaking in his hand.
The envelope had come to his dorm room, seeming to appear from nowhere like any good spy message should. It made it real for the first time. Inside was a passport, visa, plane tickets, and instructions detailing how he was to aid in a presidential assassination during the formal dinner.
Chase went back to bed as the sun began to rise. He slept with it bright in his face until a little past noon, when the maid knocked. He had two bites of a room service sandwich, then went down to swim laps. Kids sat along the edge, feet kicking the chlorinated water as he lumbered past. Mothers in one-pieces with gold jewelry and full makeup were seated at round tables sipping fruit-filled drinks. Chase looked at his watch then tried knocking the water from his ears until realizing they werenât clogged. Something other than the pool was making his head feel underwater. He did two more laps and grabbed his towel.
Chase dressed an hour before cocktails were to be served. His pants were an inch too long and the shoulders were too tight. It didnât matter. James Bond he was not. His hair was too long and heâd lost his soccer-honed muscle tone. He pulled the press pass over his head and checked the bag of brand new Nikon gear, which had also magically appeared in his dorm. The same cameras the big city shooters used, but these didnât have nicks from stumbling and falling over fire hoses. No worn metal edges from throwing two camera bodies over the same shoulder to run toward a paramedic performing CPR. He splashed cold water on his face and wondered if he would feel different after taking part in a murder. He looked at his wet face, the face of a soon-to-be assassin. Would he be racked with guilt? Would he be so overcome heâd need to confess his crime?
â I can kill someone without getting all crazy,â he told the mirror. He wasnât confident.
The Palacio Nacional was an
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