Choke Point by Jay MacLarty

EN
     

The Pacific Pearl, Taipa Island, Macau
     
    Friday, 29 June 10:02:54 GMT +0800
     
    Simon stepped off the elevator and stopped, momentarily stunned by the sweeping view and vast expanse of open space. The place was truly spectacular, even beyond Billie’s gushing description.
    Everywhere he looked there were people, from the casino floor far below, to the revolving cocktail lounge high above, craftsman of every ilk—electricians and carpenters; audio and video techs; carpet layers stretching out giant rolls of material; painters painting; stencilers stenciling; women on their hands and knees cleaning grout and shining tiles; men on short aluminum stilts hanging wallpaper—everyone intent on their task, all working like bees in a hive, their efforts coalescing into one deep sonorous drone.
    And there was nothing, he realized, he could do to prevent another accident. There were too many people, too many opportunities for mayhem, too many ways something could happen. If he was going to help, he would need to figure out who was behind the mayhem before something happened.
    Despite the frenzy of activity, most of the open walkways that circled the atrium were deserted, all the guest rooms finished and locked and sealed with tape, ready for the initial onslaught of visitors. Trying not to spill the two large, open-topped containers of café mocha, Simon made his way toward a broad-shouldered Caucasian man in a blazer and slacks standing post outside Kyra’s suite. “Good morning.”
    The young man dipped his chin, his expression as impassive as a stone god. “What can I do for you, sir?”
    Juggling the two Styrofoam cups into one hand, Simon pulled his new security badge and clipped it to his pocket. “You could open the door.”
    “Sorry, sir, but no one is to be admitted without a verbal confirmation from the occupant.”
    Simon eyed the man’s name tag, pleased that he had not given up the occupant ’s name to a complete stranger, security pass or not. “That’s right, Paul, and I’m the one who issued that order. Would you please check with Ms. Rynerson?”
    Without taking his eyes off the containers of hot liquid, the man pulled a small two-way radio off his belt and pressed the TALK button. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
    A good fifteen seconds ticked by before a soft, croaking “yes” reverberated back through the tiny speaker.
    “I have a Mr.—” He paused, a frown of consternation as he studied Simon’s badge.
    “Le-on-o-vich,” Simon offered, enunciating each syllable.
    “He’s okay,” Kyra answered before the guard had a chance to repeat it. “Just a sec.” There was a shuffle of bed covers, followed by a soft buzz as she unlocked the door with a remote. The guard gave Simon a little salute, finger to brow, and pushed open the door.
    Simon stepped inside and the sounds of construction faded to a distant purr as the door closed behind him. The air smelled pure and clean, with the faint scent of fresh-cut flowers. From what he could see in the dim light the suite was moderate in size—central living area, small dining room, four-stool bar, two bedrooms—decorated with floral prints and Chinese watercolors. “Where are you?”
    “In here,” she answered, her words almost swallowed up by the plush fabrics and blackout drapes that covered the windows. “And unless you have coffee, I’m going to order that nice young man to shoot you.”
    He followed her voice into the room and snapped on the light. She was sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, head drooping, blond hair spiking out in every direction, hands dangling between her legs. “I feel like roadkill.”
    “You sound more like a wounded frog.” A very attractive frog wearing white drawstring shorts and a pink tank-top camisole. “And you look even worse,” which wasn’t exactly true. Somehow, despite the tornado-victim appearance, she looked sexy and virginal, more like a teenager than a mother in her