Death Dealt the Hand |
DEATH DEALT THE HAND
by
JOHN E. BAILOR
Gryphonwood Press
DEATH DEALT THE HAND. Copyright 2007, 2009 by John E. Bailor
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.
Published by Gryphonwood Press
www.gryphonwoodpress.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 0-9795738-9-0
ISBN 13: 978-0-9795738-9-7 Printed in the United States of America
First printing: September, 2007
Second Printing: June, 2009
To God,
with you all things really are possible
and
Melissa,
for the difference you've made in my life.
THE SACRIFICE
Brian leaned forward on the barstool and exhaled. He scanned the bar and tapped delicate fingers on his tin of exotic Camel cigarettes. He stopped tapping when he saw Robb coming out of the dance club. Brian smiled and started to stand, until he saw that Robb wasn’t alone. He was with Peter. Not Pete. Peter. Preppy bastard. Be the bigger man, even if you are shorter than him. Brian stood and waved. “Robb. Peter.”
Brian saw them stop, exchange a look, then continue toward him. Brian held up his drink. “You guys like a drink?”
Robb sat on the stool next to Brian’s. “Sure. How’ve you been?”
Peter stood behind them and adjusted his Italian silk tie unnecessarily. “Is that just a Coke with a mixing straw, or did you finally get over Eddie and have Russ put some rum in there?”
Brian crushed his cigarette in the ashtray and stood. Had his knees not been trembling, he would have come up to Peter’s shoulder. Peter, with his average build, easily had more weight and muscle than Brian. “What else did you tell him about me, Robb? About us?”
Robb rubbed his hands across his face and turned to Peter. He motioned with one finger across the throat for Peter to stop. Robb stood between them. “Brian, I didn’t do it to hurt you.” He grabbed Peter by the shoulder and turned him toward the door. “Don’t be an ass. Let’s just leave.”
Brian watched Peter and Robb exit. He turned back to the bar and was about to call for his tab and grab his cigarette tin when he felt a cold draft from the door as it reopened. Thinking Robb might be coming back to talk to him, Brian looked to the doorway and saw a tall blond man enter the club.
The stranger sauntered up to the bar holding his black leather jacket in one hand. As he approached, Brian noticed the coal black shirt and how it draped over the well-toned chest and strapping arms. It must have been custom-made to fit that well. His black-wash Versace jeans housed an impressive bulge in the crotch. He was wearing black hiking boots, probably Timberlands. The blond man stood self-assured, radiating power, wealth, and sexual energy. The man’s blue eyes coolly appraised Brian, and the man seemed to have made a decision in those few moments. “Would you like another drink?” he asked.
“Not right now, but would you care to join me?” Brian extended his hand in introduction. “I’m Brian.” His hand was taken in a firm clasp.
“Karl.”
Rusty, the bartender and sometimes bouncer, came over. “What would you like?”
Karl looked to Brian, who shook his head. “Armadale Vodka on the rocks. Lemon twist. Put it on Brian’s tab. I’ll close it out.”
Rusty must have been hoping for a nice tip from the newcomer because he quickly brought the drink with not one, but three, slices of lemon. Karl looked at the total, added ten dollars, slid the cash across the counter, and thanked Rusty.
The bartender smiled. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Brian and Karl talked for a while, and when it seemed an acceptable amount of time had passed, Brian agreed to go back to Karl’s cabin. This November seemed colder than last, and Brian was freezing by the time they reached Karl’s Wrangler. It was toasty inside the Jeep before they had gotten out of Harrisburg.
It was a long drive north, and Karl didn’t say much. Brian began making small talk. Before he knew it, he was telling Karl about the time two years ago when he and Eddie had gotten into an argument because Brian wanted to have friends over for Thanksgiving dinner, but Eddie didn’t. Eddie had left in a snit and went out drinking until early in the morning. On the way home, he lost control of the car he shouldn’t have been driving and crashed into a tree. He lived long enough for Brian to see him one final time. Since then he’d tried to have some relationships, but nothing worked out. Maybe he wasn’t ready for anything serious yet; he didn’t know.
Brian didn’t know what else to say, so they sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Karl finally pulled off the highway and picked up Rural Route 106. In the black of night, Brian couldn’t tell how Karl found the path he eventually took that wound its way to the cabin.
Karl parked the Wrangler near the front door. Brian jumped out of the Jeep, and Karl led him inside. Brian sat on a comfortable leather couch. It was the color of butter cream and felt as smooth as butter cream around him. Karl started the fireplace and turned on some loud, thumping trance music. Brian stood up in anticipation and stripped Karl and himself. Karl forced Brian onto the couch.
Brian reclined and closed his eyes. Karl was quick and efficient. Brian looked down to watch and noticed that a tattoo was somewhat visible between Karl’s shoulders. It might have been a monk holding a flag and riding a pale horse, but Brian was far too distracted to focus on the depiction. He’d ask Karl about it if… they… cuddled… after…ahhh!
Karl went out to the other room, and Brian heard him turn on the water. He was disappointed, but when Karl returned and stood in front of the couch, Brian leaned forward to eagerly return the favor. Karl ordered, “No. On the floor.”
Brian knelt on the wooden floor. He was used to luxurious, plush carpet or a thick bedspread on a memory foam mattress. His knees were getting sore, and he hadn’t even begun yet.
Karl grabbed Brian’s head and roughly pulled Brian to him.
Brian felt it had taken forever. His knees were sore and his legs stiff.
Karl went into the kitchen again and came back with some very bubbly champagne. He handed the glass to Brian. “Excuse me for a minute. I believe I left something in the Jeep.”
When Karl stepped outside, Brian poured the alcoholic drink into the ice bowl. He was thirsty, but he’d made a promise on Eddie’s deathbed, and he’d keep it.
Karl returned and saw the empty glass. His chiseled face broke into a smug grin, and he dressed. Brian reached over to pick up his own clothes, but Karl shoved him, and he pitched onto the floor. Karl’s harsh words, “You die tonight,” made Brian shiver although the fire still blazed.
Brian shook his head in confusion. He got back up onto his aching knees and tentatively reached for his pants. Karl kicked Brian solidly in the jaw with the rugged heel of his boot. Blood poured out of Brian’s mouth. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head.
Karl taunted, “By the time I toss you into my Jeep, you’ll be unconscious from the drug in your drink. Based on my experience, you’ll come to when I start carving slices of your abominable flesh from your body. Fortunately for you, you’re smaller than the others I’ve sacrificed. You’ll probably only last a few hours.” Karl laughed and went out to start the Wrangler.
Brian took advantage of the opportunity and grabbed a handful of his clothing. He ran to the kitchen and tried the back door. It was padlocked. He searched for another exit and noticed the large window over the kitchen sink. He climbed into the sink, balled the clothes around his fist, and smashed the window. He cleared the sharp edges with his clothes and climbed through the hole. Damn it’s cold up here. Brian began to shake the glass from his garments when he heard Karl rush into the kitchen. He turned and saw Karl lifting a rifle or shotgun.
Brian ducked and flung his clothing through the window frame to obstruct Karl’s aim. Blam! Brian scrambled away from the cabin on all fours. Too late he realized he was heading into the woods instead of toward the idling Jeep.
He hurried through the northern Pennsylvania forest. Wearing nothing on a cold, cloudy night in an unfamiliar place and with a rifle-toting murderer pursuing him, Brian was at a serious disadvantage. He stumbled forward, cutting his feet on rocks, and tripping over fallen tree limbs. He dropped to the ground when he saw the dirt road directly ahead.
Quickly peering into the darkness both up and down the road, Brian darted across the open area and into the trees and brush on the opposite side. He dived and rolled to a stop next to some tall trees. He listened for footsteps or the sound of an engine. Hearing nothing but the pounding of his heart and his own heavy breathing, he continued on. As Brian ran, his arms, chest, and legs were torn open by the jagged brush. Brian let out a stifled scream. He stopped, leaning forward, hands resting on his knees. He shook from exertion and tried to catch his breath, but the frigid air burned his lungs.
Brian was breathing so heavily and his teeth were chattering so hard that he barely heard the roar from the approaching Jeep’s engine. When the sound registered, he dropped to the ground shivering. The spotlight mounted on the driver’s side of the Jeep traced a path mere feet above Brian’s prone body, but the vehicle continued on at breakneck speed, toward Rural Route 106.
Brian sobbed quietly as he stood. He rubbed his hands over his body, but it didn’t help. He didn’t know what to do. The cabin? Can I find my way back? How could I defend it against Karl and his gun? My cell phone? Probably no signal. Middle of nowhere. Police would never find me in time. Keep moving. Highway. Another motorist. Only hope.
Brian’s feet were lacerated with open wounds. He swayed dizzily. In the dim light, he didn’t see the tree root in front of him. Brian tripped over it, tumbled forward, and slid down a steep slope. As the rocks littering the frozen ground battered him, he screamed in agony. Brian’s slide came to an abrupt halt when he rolled into the trunk of an aspen. He realized he could still feel pain at the same time he realized his ribs were broken.
He could only take in shallow gulps of air. The pain in his chest was too great when he tried to take a full breath. He struggled to stand and was about to give up when a twig snapped. Brian couldn’t tell where the sound originated. In the still cold night, it could have been hundreds of yards away or only a few feet.
Adrenaline overrode the pain, and Brian stood, leaning against the tree. Brian looked around. There was no way he could get back up the rise even if he’d wanted to go in that direction. Everything else looked the same. He continued ahead, wheezing with every weak breath. He staggered forward, slumping against one tree, then another. Brian thought he saw movement to his right. He crumpled to the ground to hide.
He closed his eyes and panted. He didn’t want to die like this, alone in the woods with a maniac. Through his closed eyes, he could tell it had gotten brighter. It was too intense to be the moon. Facing the inevitable, he slowly opened his eyes.
Karl looked down at him, flashlight in hand. Karl smirked as he unslung the rifle and aimed it at Brian’s head.
Brian forced out one final word. “Why?”
The last thing he heard was the rifle blast. The force threw him to the ground. Cold. Never knew death was so cold.
DELIVERING THE GOODS
The khaki paintjob on the Deliveries Overnight Worldwide Now Service van looked new because it was just applied to a generic cargo van within the week. John Byrne brought the van to a smooth stop as he parked at the turnpike rest area. He locked it carefully, but to anyone who might be watching, he’d appear a carefree kid in his early twenties. If they were close enough and bothered to read what was stitched on the jumpsuit, they’d see he was Petey.
John Byrne had many names but preferred his middle name, Trevor. However, today his guise was Petey, a DOWNS parcel delivery boy. Because of his slouch, it was hard to tell he’d be six feet tall if you measured from his hiking boots to his dirty blond hair. Petey was an easy role to assume. The young guy who was too good-natured and trusting to realize everyone thought he was a nobody. Between his friendly demeanor and the recognizable khaki uniform, people ignored him. They didn’t realize that today he would deliver death.
Petey ambled toward the brick and glass building and watched an old, beat-up Jeep Cherokee pull into an open space near the front of the plaza. Rust and gray primer showed through what remained of the original navy paint. The driver shouted at two shabbily dressed young boys who rushed out of the vehicle. Petey held the door for the boys and prepared to enter. The boys’ father brushed past Petey, cutting him off. Petey sarcastically said, “You’re welcome,” but no one noticed.
Petey strolled inside and looked for the coffee stand. Great. The Jeep’s driver stood at the end of the line for coffee and continued shouting at the children even though they were right in front of him. Petey stepped into line behind the man and pulled a $10 bill out of his pocket, so it would be ready when the cashier expected it. He knew from experience that this chain typically hired rude employees who didn’t want to be bothered or kept waiting.
Trevor observed the man in line ahead of him. The loudmouth’s wardrobe looked as old and worn as his Jeep. The tattered jeans were frayed at what remained of the cuffs and came down to the back of dirty sneakers. The man’s casual shirt was buttoned. It hung loose, not tucked into the jeans. Between barking at the kids, the man ordered his coffee and cinnamon scone at full volume. Trevor was surprised. He would have pictured the loudmouth as a muffin man.
The girl at the counter took some time calculating the change. She finally handed it to her customer. He reached behind him to stuff the bills into a pocket, but they slid off his shirttail and fluttered to the floor. The man jerked the tray from the counter. “Took long enough,” he said and ordered the boys to the burger stand for their breakfast.
Trevor bent down and retrieved the bills. Knowing no one would notice, he broke character long enough to fold them around the ten he was already holding. He rose and in his polite Petey voice tentatively called, “Excuse me. Mister.”
The man turned sharply and in an even louder voice than normal boomed, “What?”
Petey held up the bills and courteously replied, “You dropped your money, sir.”
The man pushed his tray toward the DOWNS boy. “Yeah, well, just throw it on here. And it better all be there.” Petey placed the folded bills on the tray and turned to order his coffee. The man interrupted him. “Hey, kid.”
Petey turned his head.
The man quietly said, “Thanks,” then walked away to join his boys.
The smile on Petey’s face was genuine. He turned back to the girl at the coffee stand, and she demanded, “Are you going to order?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll take a biggee morning blend.” He waited until she turned to fill his order and then asked, “What was that other thing that guy just ordered?”
The cashier was in her early twenties, but rather than perky she seemed world-weary. She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes up before answering. “It was a cinnamon scone.” She filled the coffee cup and placed it on the counter.
“I think I’ll try one of those cinnamon cones, too,” Petey said, purposely mispronouncing the word and nodding his head in confirmation. “That looked kind of good.” The girl shook her head and silently got the scone. She rang up the order and waited for Petey to dig small bills out of his pocket to pay. He thanked her and went over to the stand with the sugar and creamer. Petey poured some half and half into his coffee and spilled some on the counter when he pulled the carafe away from his cup. “Ooops.” He snapped a plastic lid onto his cup and grabbed a napkin to mop up the spill. He wiped off the counter, grabbed a few more napkins, and found a vacant seat.
He took a small sip and confirmed that it was nowhere near as good as the Gevalia Peruvian or Kona coffee Trevor would have made at home. Oh well, he was used to tough conditions in the field.
Trevor’s cursory scan of the lounge area provided the usual glimpse of families and business people sitting uncomfortably on cheap but sturdy chairs. He was pleased to see that the man and his two boys were quietly shoveling their breakfasts into their mouths.
The smell of hot coffee and frozen breakfast pastries, which had been partially, but not thoroughly, reheated completed the bland ambiance.
He saw nothing suspicious, so he enjoyed his scone, and his view of the busty redhead two tables away, who sat staring at her unopened pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights. Red sat alone. Staring. She was in less of a hurry than the other patrons. As she drank a slow sip of coffee, he noticed she was wearing several rings, but none on the finger that mattered. Had she left someone behind? Was she going somewhere new or just going? Whichever it was, Red seemed to be reassessing her decision.
Trevor hated uncertainty in his own life. He was typically decisive and sure of himself, but he continued to question the decision to end his engagement to Cindy. He couldn’t forget her, at least not yet. Ever? Life was full of decisions, and he had to live with the ones he made. Regret wouldn’t kill him as quickly as a bullet. No, it would spread slowly like cancer and his life might just as well be over. Enough of that.
He pushed his thoughts of Cindy aside, drank more coffee and looked again at the pensive redhead. Red’s light gray eyes and fiery mane emphasized her pale skin. Trevor didn’t remember why, but he associated gray eyes with cold women. If he had been returning from his assignment, he would have tried to strike up a conversation anyway to see where it led. Since he was on his way to eliminate a problem, however, there wasn’t time for Red this morning.
Petey swallowed the rest of the coffee. On his way to the restroom, he walked to Red’s table. He stopped, gave a goofy smile, and said, “Hi.” Red glanced up. When she saw his khaki uniform, she sneered and went back to studying her still unopened box of cigarettes. He trudged off, shoulders slumped.
Trevor continued on to the restroom confident his disguise was effective.
When he washed up at the sink, he examined his reflection in the cracked mirror. With the baggy uniform, youthful hairstyle, and his raven hair dyed blond, Trevor looked more like a lanky kid in his early twenties than the well-toned, thirty-eight year old government agent he had become. It was all a matter of perception. He felt good but didn’t have the same energy and stamina he did fifteen years ago. Perhaps those years of experience made up for what age had taken away? Trevor’s naturally brown eyes looked back at him, reflecting his easygoing smile. With a youthful gait, he returned to the parking lot.
Although it was a typical DOWNS van, the contents it carried were far from the usual business and personal freight. Trevor knew from the surveys and recon photos he’d studied that he wouldn’t have enough practical cover to get within range of his target with the Heckler & Koch MSG90 sniper rifle that was nestled snugly in a specially marked shipping carton in the back. No, if he were going to succeed, he would once again rely primarily on his dual SW99 .45s. The baggy jacket hid both the pistol in his shoulder holster as well as the one inside the waistband at the small of his back.
Some of his colleagues thought he was overly cautious with his preparations and training, but he was alive. Several field agents he had known weren’t. He considered himself pragmatic. Each mission could be his last. Trevor credited exercise, martial arts, and frequent combat and weapons practice with his survival to date. Without these, he certainly wouldn’t have returned from his last assignment in west Los Angeles.
Trevor had made good time since he’d started the trip in the darkness of early morning. Now, there were more cars and campers on the road, but traffic was far from heavy. As he approached New York, he enjoyed the beauty of the colorful golden and red leaves that still had not fallen. Soon they too would fall, and the barren trees would look even more lifeless than the clerk who had waited on Petey at the coffee stand.
A few minutes after eleven, Trevor pulled up to the gate of a mansion far removed from the nearest New York suburb. The place was apparently as much a fortress as a luxury home. The bulky guard in the bulletproof gatehouse called out over the speaker, “You need something?”
Trevor smiled to the guard and looked at his electronic data pad. “Yes, sir. I have a package for P. Eneas Cowen. I’ll need his signature to release it. Is he here?”
“I’ll sign. What is it?”
Petey smiled and leaned forward to make a point of examining the estate. “Man, this place is huge. I don’t know what’s in it, but the package is heavy. Do you want me to leave it here, or should I go on up to the house, mister?”
The guard stepped out of the gatehouse and squinted into the midday sun. “Just show me where to sign and leave the damn thing here, kid.”
Petey held out the data pad but let go just before the man had a chance to grasp it. Without thinking, the guard bent down and retrieved it. As he looked up to ask for the stylus, he saw the .45 pointed directly at his head. “Open the gate then get in the driver’s seat. And no alarms or you’re a dead man.” There was now steel in the voice and the left-hand grip, which kept the semi-automatic leveled on the guard, was easy but unwavering. Petey stepped out of the truck. The formerly friendly brown eyes had turned icy and convinced the guard that now was not the time for heroics.
Lacking the opportunity to attempt closing the gatehouse door behind him, the guard hit a button, and the gate slid open. After Petey backed into the van, the guard climbed into the driver’s seat. Petey ordered, “With your right hand, slowly throw your gun off to the side of the gate.” The guard hesitated for a split second as he considered swinging his weapon around, but he wisely tossed it away before driving to the mansion.
Resembling a scaled down version of an ancient cathedral door, the heavy steel reinforced barrier opened soundlessly moments after the doorbell was rung. The man who answered was even stockier than the first guard. “Jim, what the hell are you doing here? You should be at the gate.”
“Hey, Leo. I know it’s a little unusual and all, but this DOWNS boy has a delivery for Mr. Cowen.”
Keeping the .45 aimed at Jim’s back, Petey stepped forward. “Sorry to bother you guys, but I can’t release the merchandise until I get positive acceptance. Could you please ask Mr. Cowen to come here for just a minute?”
Although Trevor couldn’t see Jim’s face, he could tell Jim was sending Leo a message. Leo dropped and rolled behind the wall. Trevor blew the expression off Jim’s face from behind with one hollowpoint round. He shoved the corpse through the doorway. Leo fired several shots, and Jim’s body jerked unnaturally before it fell to the floor.
For the last six years, Trevor unfailingly loaded his gun alternating hollowpoints followed by armor-piercing rounds. However, being unable to see where Leo was hiding, there was no sure way to shoot him without entering the home or luring him outside.
Fortunately, like Petey, the data pad was more than it appeared. Ducking below the window and crawling forward, Trevor stopped within arm’s reach of the entrance. He set the data pad to his side and kept his eyes riveted to the open doorway. Without looking, he pressed the buttons in a practiced sequence and immediately hurled the data pad into the room. He silently counted to himself. When he reached five, he threw his arm in front of his face and closed his eyes. The flash grenade’s brilliance quickly dissipated, and Trevor spun through the opening using the door’s frame as partial cover. Leo was trying to get his bearings. Instead, he got three bullets in the chest. The rounds exited the gaping hole in his back, and blood spurted across the shell white wall in a pattern the painter had never foreseen.
Trevor had used four rounds, leaving six in the gun he was holding and another ten in the one under his shoulder. He also carried three back-up clips with nine rounds each. The recon reports indicated Cowen had as many as five bodyguards total, typically on staggered shifts. There should also be a maid and butler somewhere in the mansion at this time of day. Both Kandi and her husband were confirmed present prior to Trevor’s arrival. He had gained access and already eliminated over twenty percent of the estimated opposition.
Once inside, Trevor saw little, if any, trustworthy cover. Trevor knew that the other guards on duty would have heard the racket and would come running. He briefly considered pushing forward until he saw the barrels of two full automatics rounding either side of the adjoining hallway. Without waiting to glimpse what the gunmen looked like, Trevor dived out the front door. He rushed to the railing, vaulted over it with one hand, and sprinted to his van. Trevor broke a cold sweat when he heard the thud of bullets pounding the doorway, railing, dirt, and his van.
Trevor would be an easy mark if he stopped now to break out some heavier artillery, so he gunned the idling engine and drove to one side of the vast house. It would be much easier to avoid being surrounded from here—as long as nobody got to the upstairs balcony before he did. Throwing off the jacket, he unlocked the inside door to the back of the truck and quickly strapped a bandoleer of grenades across his chest. He grabbed the parcel containing the Uzi submachine gun and glanced out the driver’s side door. The two guards were not yet in sight. Trevor lobbed a grenade at the corner of the house he expected them to come from and waited inside the van for the explosion before he carefully climbed to the van’s roof. No one was on the balcony, so he tossed the box onto the ledge, ran across the roof of the vehicle, and jumped.
He just missed grabbing the rail and, instead, barely caught one of the posts with his right hand. His weight pulled him down, and he almost lost his grip on the post when his fist slammed into the floor of the balcony. Trevor swung his legs and caught the edge of the overhang with his left hand. He pulled himself up and then dropped over the railing onto his back. The door behind him slid open. Trevor whipped the gun out of his shoulder holster and aimed it at the unarmed man’s chest. The butler spoke. “Mr. Cowen will see you now.”
Trevor stood and nodded. “Thank you.” The butler was an athletic man in his early fifties. Keeping the gun trained on the butler’s back, the agent followed him inside to the luxurious guestroom. The furnishings and artwork were impressive and very expensive. Trevor didn’t attempt to guess the artist or designer. That wasn’t his field of expertise. Instead, he looked around considering cover he could use if needed and where an enemy might hide. The room looked safe enough for the moment.
The butler neared the room’s exit and turned to face the uninvited guest. He gestured to Trevor’s left and told him, “This way, sir.” The butler stepped out of the room and crooked his head faintly to the right before turning smartly to the left.
Trevor realized someone was standing outside the doorway. If they still wanted to kill him and waited until he was in the corridor, he might not have time to react. Hope it’s not Cowen. No, he wouldn’t have the balls to do it himself. Trevor fired rounds into the wall just right of the doorway and ran backwards to the sliding door. He stopped firing when his gun locked open. The hollowpoints may have been stopped by studs, but at least the alternating rounds made contact with lethal force. The would-be assailant cried out in surprise before falling across the doorway.
Trevor thumbed the magazine release. The empty clip dropped from his SW99. He slammed one of the three spares into the pistol with enough force to bring the slide forward and chamber the top round. He holstered the pistol and then ripped open the box he’d thrown onto the balcony. Trevor pulled out the Uzi.
Trevor crouched and returned to the empty guestroom. Three guards down. At most that should leave another two, the butler, maid, the subject, and his wife. Some experts advised gamblers to take their winnings and go to a different casino before the odds caught up to them. Trevor didn’t have that option. He had to keep pressing his luck against this house.
He peered into the hallway in both directions and saw no threat. Assuming the butler had tried to mislead him completely, Trevor warily made his way to the room at the right end of the corridor. Pushing the door open, he scanned the room with the Uzi ready.