The Shooters (Presidential Agent 4)

"Very well, Mr. Castillo," Crawford said. "But you'll really have to excuse me now."

He stood up and smiled, then gestured toward the door.

"I'll have to check you out with the Marine guard," he said.

[TWO] Hotel Resort Casino Yacht amp; Golf Club Paraguay Avenida del Yacht 11 Asuncion, Paraguay 2120 11 September 2005 Just as the elevator door was closing, a tall, good-looking, olive-skinned young man stopped the door and got on. He wore his shiny black hair long, so that it covered his shirt collar. And on his hairy chest-his yellow shirt was unbuttoned almost to the navel-there gleamed a gold medallion the size of a saucer.

"Thank you ever so much," he said, smiling broadly. "Muy amable."

Castillo, who had automatically classified the Spanish as Mexican, managed a smile, but not without effort.

I don't feel very amiable, asshole.

The last thing I need right now is a Mexican drunk breathing charm and booze fumes all over me.

The door closed and the elevator started to rise.

As Pevsner had done in Llao Llao, the Mexican manipulated the control panel and stopped the elevator.

Castillo felt a rush of adrenaline, and then the Mexican drunk said in English, "Welcome to the Hotel Resort Casino Yacht and Golf Club Paraguay, Colonel. Master Sergeant Gilmore, sir."

"Gilmore?" Castillo asked, incredulously.

"Yes, sir. My mother's the Texican. She married a gringo. If the colonel will give me a look at his room key?"

Castillo held it up.

"Sir, if the colonel will wait until they deliver his luggage, and then flick his lights three times, and then leave the lights off, repeat off, and unlock the balcony sliding door, Technical Sergeant Bustamante and I will be able to report properly without attracting attention."

"You don't just want to walk down the corridor and knock on the door? Who are we hiding from?"

"There have been some unsavory characters, Colonel, who seem fascinated with Bustamante and myself. Bolivians, maybe. Maybe Cubans. But what would Cubans be doing here?"

"I'll explain that when you surreptitiously appear in my room. But give me a couple of minutes. I've got some people with me. I want them to be there."

"Yes, sir. Corporal Bradley told me."

"He did?"

"Mean little sonofabitch, isn't he?" Master Sergeant Gilmore said, admiringly. "I was having a surreptitious look at what looked like an AFC case in his room, when all of a sudden there he was, with his.45 aimed at my crotch. He got me hands down, Colonel. It was five minutes before he'd let me get off the floor. If I hadn't been able to tell him who Sergeant Major Jack Davidson was, I'd probably still be there."

"Never judge a book by its cover, Sergeant. You might want to write that down."

"Should I call him and the German guy and tell them you want to see them right now?"

Castillo nodded.

"And I'll call Lorimer and Mullroney," Castillo said.

"Okay," Castillo ordered when everyone was in the room, "unlock the sliding door, then flick the lights three times and leave them off."

Then he firmly grasped Max's collar. He didn't want to surprise the shooters when they came into the darkened suite.

"I'll be curious to see how they do this, Charley," Munz said as the lights blinked. "These places are supposed to be burglar-proof. And we're on the third floor."

"I have no idea," Castillo confessed.

Corporal Bradley's voice in the darkness explained, "They're using a rubber-covered chain with loops every foot or so for handholds. And it has a collapsible grappling hook at the end, sir. Sergeant Gilmore showed me when he came to my room. I'd never seen a system like that before."