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The knocking on the door disturbs my sleep, but not enough to make me actually wake up or turn over or even pull the lumpy pillow over my head. Timid rap-rap-rap knocks aren’t for me. When someone wants my attention, they knock on the door with fists or rocket launchers or something.
Deke groaning and rolling out of bed does wake me.
There’s half a second of disorientation. The musty air conditioning? No, I’ve smelled that in places from Boston to Bangkok. It’s not unique. Nor is the mattress that aspires to be a hammock, the sheets working their way through Sandpaper School, or the sweaty stink of the body armor I’ve got to clean.
The drifting thought half a billion dollars a year, though?
I’m in a run-down hotel room outside Detroit. Hunting the woman who killed my father.
I fli
