He jogged up the steps to his room on the second floor and walked along the exterior passage to his door.
The next moment he had pulled his M11 and curled his finger around the trigger guard.
His door was open, not by much but enough. He distinctly remembered locking it that morning after leaving the light on for his cat.
And this motel did not provide daily maid service. You’d never see the maid, because she only showed up when you checked out, if then.
He slid to the side of the door and eyed the gap. Not wide enough to see anything. He nudged it open farther with his foot. He had both hands on his weapon and the next moment was inside the room, in a crouch, his M11 making defensive arcs in the air as he looked for a target to fire on.
He didn’t find one. But he saw two things.
Fir
