"Will do." The assistant jotted a note in his day-runner with one hand, loosening his bow tie with the other. He tugged it free and draped it over his sports jacket hanging on a chair.
Max stepped up onto the bed and tapped the ceiling. Solid cinder block like the walls, built to withstand typhoons. Nothing had slithered in that way.
DeMassi's arms bulged through the openings of his sleeveless T-shirt as he twisted a screwdriver along an air-conditioning vent. Finally he dropped his hands to his side with a huff. "Nothing came in through those." He raked a finger along the outside. "And the dust is so damned thick and undisturbed you can file a complaint with the cleaning staff when you get that name."
Max stepped back to the floor and knelt beside the bed, trying not to think about Darcy sprawled on the floor earlier. A tough-as-hell proposition when her baby powder scent clung to the sheet trailing off the side.
He didn't even bother trying to control the urge to protect her. Hell, it would be weeks before he could suppress the image of that snake inches from her face.
Dropping to his side, Max peered underneath the bed. He snagged his gun and tucked it in his waist holster before looking again. More dust and shadows. He reached a hand out behind him. "Hey, DeMassi, pass me a flashlight."
The flashlight smacked into his palm. Max swung the beam under the bed. A long swath sliced through the dust, a clear coil pattern in the middle. A damned big coil.
Max whipped upright before the anger could twist any tighter. "At least we know where the thing hid out. But then, who the hell knows how long it slept curled under there?"
DeMassi crouched beside him. "It could have slithered past while the maids were cleaning the bathrooms."
Max stood, scoping the room while scenarios played out in his head. "Who's in the next room?"
Perry flipped a page in his leather planner. "U-2 pilot from Beale AFB. She left this afternoon to head back home to California."
Max flung the flashlight on the bed and crossed to the connecting bathroom. A possibility.
Returning to Darcy's room, Max paced while Perry worked the crank on the hurricane shutters. Restless energy without an outlet fueled Max's feet. "I'm not sold on the coincidence theory of two attacks in one day."
DeMassi scooped the maglight from the bed. "The same car or guy following you twice in a day, that's no coincidence. Clicks on different phones, not a coincidence. But freaky weird animals in Guam are pretty much the norm, Doc."
Max grunted, unwilling to dismiss the possibility so quickly. Could DeMassi be an insider leak? He'd been the one following Darcy, after all, with a free and clear order to do so. The guy had opportunity to plant the pests. Seemed unlikely, but Max wasn't ruling out anything. He paused by the dresser, his hand absently flipping Post-it notes filled with Darcy's scrawl scattered along the mirror.
"Fill out mission reports."
"Check takeoff currency."
"Fly-safe meeting—O' Club— 1600.''
All written on pink posties with a lighter floral background—her warrior spirit mixed with undeniable femininity tempted him.
"Okay," Perry drawled, snapping shut his day-planner. "Say it's not coincidence. What's the motive for anyone messing with Renshaw?"
DeMassi reached up into the corner of the mirror and pulled down a faded family photo. "Someone's jealous of her high connections? The U-2 pilot even." He thumped the picture. "Wants to see General Renshaw's daughter screw up. Or maybe even just a practical joke. God knows those flyers are always pulling something."
"Possible," Max conceded, taking the photograph of dad, daughters and a son. Darcy wore her school uniform, all arms and legs with scabby knees and no front teeth. And a killer smile even then. "In which case it's petty stuff, nothing to do with the mission."
DeMassi flicked the photo in Max's hand. "Unless you're sleeping with her."
The memory of Darcy in skimpy ribbed cotton mocked him.
"So?" DeMassi pressed. "Are you?"
Max dropped the picture on the dresser. "No. Hell, no! This is work. Rule number one—avoid entangling alliances."
DeMassi folded his arms over his pumped chest. "Why the hell can't you Agency boys speak plain English? Say it like it is. Nothing can screw up ops for a guy faster than a woman.">Two rooms down. Darcy.
He tore out the door and into the night air as a third shot reverberated. He blasted down the walkway past Lurch, already sprinting in the same direction. Doors flung open above them, feet pounding, heads peering over the balcony.
Max reached the door first. He twisted the knob. Locked. "Damn it." He shouldered the door. Not that it budged. "Darcy, talk to me."
Silence.