Disclaimer: See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.
Georgetown Suites, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2147 Romeo
If Hauser had to guess, he was in some form of maintenance hallways for janitors and handymen to move around the hotel quickly without being seen by the guests. Hauser had dated a girl in the hotel business once, a long time ago, before he'd grasped the obvious fact that he just wasn't made for that kind of relationship. She'd explained a lot about it and its own little culture and rules. One of those rules was to make sure the guests saw as little of the staff who kept the place running in the mechanical sense as possible. It gave an impression that they weren't needed as frequently, and thus the hotel was a better quality, thus their money was well spent, thus their money was well spent, thus they should spend even more of it or spend it there again later.
He eventually came through a door into a side hallway, which lead to the main lobby. There were a few people milling about, and Hauser was just about to head for the elevators when he saw the two men in dark suits standing on either side of them. Their stances and attentive scanning of their surroundings meant they could only be feds.
Figures. They know he's in town and I'm after him, they're gonna try to be sure.
Hauser turned and retreated back to the side hallway, and then even further back into the maintenance hall. It took a little searching, but he found a wall mounted slip of paper containing the layout map of every floor. The layout for each floor was the same, the only differences being in regards to which wing of the floor he was looking for. This map only showed the rooms on the ground floor, but if the pattern was the same on every floor, he needed to head up to…floor fourteen.
Which might really be floor thirteen.
Another quirk of hotel culture was the "nonexistent thirteenth floor." In the old days, guests would refuse to stay on the thirteenth floor because of the number's association with bad luck. After awhile, hotels adopted one of two common practices which continued into the present: they'd either use the thirteenth floor exclusively for storage and spare supplies, or they would simply label the thirteenth floor as the fourteenth in the guest elevator, add a few turns to the guest stairway to make it appear longer between floors twelve and thirteen, and pretend there was no thirteenth floor.
When he entered the maintenance elevator, he saw the letter S on one of the buttons instead of thirteen. So it was, in fact, fourteen floors he had to deal with. With that confirmed, he made his way to the stairway instead, peeked inside the small vertical window, and entered when he saw it was clear. He closed the door as slowly and quietly as possible before making his way upstairs. He kept his steps light and soft, meaning no steps echoed up the narrow shaft between the stairs and floors. He heard no doors open or close, nor did he hear any footsteps of descending workers. When he reached the fourteenth floor, he checked the window and saw the hall was clear, maybe. It certainly was right in front of the door, anyway.
Slowly, oh so slowly, Hauser opened the door and peered in to the right. Clear. He stepped around the door and looked to the left. Clear. With a sigh of relief, he closed the door and walked along the maintenance hall until he found the door leading into the guest hall.
This was the tricky part. Unlike the stairwell doors, this one had no window at all, meaning he'd be risking walking right into a G-Man. Or a Faceless John mindin' his own business who'd get curious when he saw someone creepin' around, obviously tryin' not to be seen. Such a John could draw attention, maybe alert the hotel staff. Then they'd alert the feds, and Hauser would have a whole slew of problems on his hands. With that possibility on his mind, Hauser drew his USP and screwed on the suppressor.
Suppressors didn't work in real life like they did in movies. The shots from his handgun wouldn't magically become soft pops that couldn't penetrate flimsy hotel doors. You can't eliminate the sound of a miniature explosion, which is essentially what a firing gun is. A suppressor's job isn't to eliminate the sound, since that's impossible, its job is to dampen the noise as much as possible, make it sound like something other than a gun firing, and eliminate the muzzle flash. That last part was realistic, at least.
The point remained that when Hauser used his firearm, even with the suppressor, he'd start an invisible clock, one that ended when the staff sent someone up to investigate the loud snapping or slamming noises guests were calling the front desk about. They might even bring an agent or two with 'em.
Hauser didn't want to fire a shot until he got to Margott's room. Then the other guests might shrug it off as some other guest being noisy or watching TV too loudly.
The door only gave the slightest creak as he opened it to reveal a small alcove. Directly to his right was the hallway, which the alcove jutted out of perpendicularly. Stepping around the door and letting it close quietly, Hauser peered around each corner. Going left would lead past several doors and what was likely a niched out area for the elevators before eventually hitting the end of the hall. Going right would lead to the other end, which was much closer.
A ding signified the arrival of an elevator. Hauser ducked back into the alcove and listened. Only one set of footsteps exited the elevator, walking along tiles of the niche area before almost vanishing on the carpet of the hall itself. Hauser pressed himself against the left corner furthest from the hall itself and crouched down, keep his weapon in hand.
He picked up the sound of the footprints again mere seconds before a man, whose manner of dressing and carrying himself meant he could only be a fed, walked by going right. Quietly, Hauser followed at a crouched walk, making sure to roll his weight. He was thankful for the carpeting. Another trick he used was to not look directly at the agent himself. The well-known feeling of being watched was a true phenomenon, in Hauser's experience, and some people had it stronger than others. By watching the spot directly in front of the man's feet, Hauser was able to keep track of and follow his progress without risking giving himself away by the hairs on the back of the agent's neck.
That progress ended before 1426. The agent reached into his pocket, withdrew a card key, and inserted it into the slot above the door knob. He whipped it back out, and when the lock clicked, he turned the knob and began to enter.
In a flash, Hauser shot his left arm out under the agent's left armpit, hooked it around the man's neck, and squeezed, using his shooting hand to apply more leverage to his left hand. The agent couldn't even grunt in surprise, and his struggles were useless as Hauser pushed him into the room, letting the door close behind them.
The large living room and the dining room were before Hauser and his choking hostage, and as they moved from the foyer area, a second man in a dark suit came into view, sitting in a chair and reading a magazine. This agent looked up, and his reaction was instant, as he dropped the magazine and shot to his feet, his right hand going for his holstered Glock 22.
At the same moment, Hauser released his chokehold and shoved his meatshield forward. The two agents collided and fell to the floor, unable to even reorient themselves before four .45 caliber rounds ended their panic.
Hauser turned, scanning his surroundings with his USP. No one was in the kitchen, so that meant…
The sound of a door opening in the bedroom confirmed his suspicion. "Agent Heinz? Agent Green? Is everything alright?"
When Eaves Margott turned through the doorway into the living room, wearing only a bathrobe, he froze at the sight of the man standing near his two dead bodyguards, a silenced pistol in his hands…and pointed right at him.
He hadn't been a field operative, his work in the SAD had been of the intelligence variety, one he felt was more true to the purpose of the Agency. But even a man like him could tell that this stranger knew what he was doing.
He barely had time to wish he'd taken that Agent Fornell's advice to get an early flight out of the States before he marked another tally in Hauser's mission.
Hauser was a bit quicker going down the maintenance stairway. His weapon and suppressor were both stashed in their individual holsters, and his immediate goal was to get out the same way he'd come in: unnoticed. He was just making the turn to head down the flight between floors seven and six when he came face to face with an FBI agent leaning against the railing, a lit cigarette halfway towards his mouth.
Both men jumped, then froze in shock for a moment. Unfortunately, the fed was the faster man.
His left hand dropped the cigarette and raised to his cheek, where he was able to start yelling into the small mic in his jacket cuff. His right hand, meanwhile, was attempting to draw his Glock. Though Hauser had kept fit and fast in his age, the youngblood had the advantage and was able to get a warning out before Hauser had even finished drawing his USP.
"Contact, maintenance stairway floor seven!" the fed cried before gripping his weapon in both hands. He was just opening his mouth to order Hauser to freeze when the SEAL unhesitatingly pulled off the Mozambique Drill.
BANGBANG BANG
The sounds of the unsuppressed shots echoed and bounced off the concrete walls, reverberating up and down the shaft like Speedy Gonzales in a Red Bull commercial. It'd been awhile since Hauser had endured such a loud volume on a constant basis, and so his ears were actually ringing, that cotton-packed feeling stronger than it'd been since his rookie days. Looking down at the dead agent, Hauser could clearly see the earwig he wore.
Fucking stupid! he thought. I shoulda smelled the tobacco, goddammit that was stupid!
"SShhit!" Hauser screamed in frustration. Instinct took over and ejected the empty magazine from his USP before stowing it in a back pocket. From his right pocket he withdrew a fresh clip, slapped it home into the magazine well, and flicked the slide catch. He then took stock of what the fed had reported.
Maintenance stairway, floor seven…alright, need to get outta this stairway and off this floor.
Nodding, Hauser bolted down the stairs, keeping his weapon drawn but lowered by his right leg. Once at the sixth floor, he burst through the door into the maintenance hallway. Behind him, he could hear another door burst open, its own banging echoing up the shaft from somewhere down low, likely the first floor.
Hauser's next obstacle was a man with olive skin in a pair of worker's coveralls, likely a janitor. He'd been approaching the door, maybe to investigate the loud banging, when Hauser had entered. His eyes widened in shock and fear before he turned and began to run. He looked about Hauser's age, but unlike the SEAL, he certainly wasn't fit in that age. He easily chased and tackled the man down and broke his neck before he had the chance to cry for help. Shooting him would've been easier, but it also would've given him away.
Standing, Hauser rushed to the door leading into the guest hall. He went through, making sure to keep his weapon low and behind his leg so that anyone walking toward him from the front wouldn't see it. If they were walking in the same direction as he was from behind, well, he was shit outta luck. But he needed his weapon out and able to use in a moment's notice.
The guest hall seemed empty, so Hauser resumed his casual walking pace. He kept his ears open for any opening doors, specifically any behind him. Sure enough a door did burst open, but not behind him: the guest stairway door ahead and to the right flew open in the wake of two agents with their weapons drawn.
"Contact!" one of them radioed.
Hauser's USP was like a cobra as it flew up and fired three shots, dropping the radioing fed like a bag of sand. Said fed's partner had already taken cover behind one of the pillars that lined the walls every two doors or so. Hauser likewise covered up beside his nearest pillar just as two shots hit the other side of it. He cursed his luck again, as any moment now he'd be pancaked between the fed ahead, and the agents behind. Hauser looked back toward the maintenance hall alcove when he saw his answer: a wall-mounted fire extinguisher directly across from said alcove.
As if perfectly synched with the forming of his plan, the alcove door burst open and the agents emerged.
Hauser fired a single shot and hit the red tank.
The resulting gush of pressurized nitrogen and sodium bicarbonate filled that section of the hallway with a thick gray-white cloud. An agent was knocked over, another screamed about his eyes, and all were confused and blind in some fashion.
With them taken care of, Hauser returned his attention to the lone agent ahead. Hauser began moving up, fast, his pistol held out before him. The agent popped out to take a shot, but Hauser was faster, dropping to a knee and putting two rounds into his head. Without breaking stride, he burst into the stairwell and started running down.
If they're smart they'll have someone watching the bottom, he thought before bursting through the door onto the second floor guest hall. Hauser tried to remember the hall's orientation to the northern alley, where he'd made his entrance, simultaneously counting down the seconds as they passed. No doubt the cops were on the way, and once back-up arrived, lockdown would make this place a bitch.
…But they couldn't lock it down if everyone was leaving, could they?
Hauser stopped, turned, and searched. He almost gave up before he found it: the fire alarm. He gave it a yank before heading to a door which (he thought) lead to a room overlooking the alley. With a swift kick, he sent the door crashing inwards before following it in. The room's light was on, and a young, screaming, and attractive woman was in the bed, her sheets pulled up to her waist as she began backpedalling, as if she were trying to bury herself into the headboard.
Hauser ignored her and went straight to the window. It did indeed look out over the alley, and even better: right across said alley was a storage warehouse for the shopping center. An eighteen-wheeler trailer had been parked against one of the large loading bays and left. It'd be tough, but Hauser thought he could make it.
Raising his pistol, Hauser fired three shots that made the glass disintegrate. Screams came from the hallway, where people were abandoning their rooms in a panic induced by the wailing alarms and the gunfire.
Hauser holstered his weapon, pulled himself onto the window sill where he remained crouched in the broken frame, and gauged the distance one more time. Then with a mighty effort, he threw himself forward into the drop.
If the universe was just, Hauser would've missed the trailer and broken his spine in the fall, causing no more bloodshed that night before living the rest of his life in two kinds of prisons: a federal penitentiary, and a wheelchair. But he was half-right in thinking he could make it.
His chest slammed into the corner of the trailer, his arms struggling to find a grip as his legs kicked against its side. For a moment, he had it, then his foot slipped and gravity pulled the SEAL off the trailer and to the asphalt below. After the hard plop of his body hitting the ground, he simply laid there, the sounds of screaming and alarms bleeding into the night from the shattered window above.
After a few deep coughs, Hauser pulled himself up, beat to hell and dirty, but otherwise none the worse for wear, and started walking.
Mendocino Grille and Wine Bar, Georgetown, Washington D.C./September 15, 2010, 2236 Romeo
In his stupor of broken spirit, McGee didn't mark the passing of time. He only knew the feeling of utter disgust he felt at himself, and the dread at what deserved-rejection he'd get from his team.
Then the driver's door opened, letting in the distant sounds of sirens, and a sweaty, dirty Vince Hauser took his seat and shut the door. For a minute, he just sat there. After taking a few deep breaths, the silence of the car was broken by its engine before Hauser pulled out and began heading south, lookin' to eventually make US-50 and head west. Toward Hanson.
Toward the end of the whole mess.
For awhile the drive was silent, and then, either because he had the gallows humor that was a trademark of any combat veteran or simply because he liked the music, Hauser put in a CD, and the bass riff of "Another One Bites the Dust" filled the silence.
As Freddie Mercury told the horrible truth of it all, McGee sat, hated himself even more, and didn't fight the tears.