In he went. The neon-lit hallway was empty, again according to plan. This was a slow time for all the staff except room service and the kitchen.
He slipped off his overcoat and threw it into a large laundry hamper parked halfway down the hall. Underneath he was wearing the uniform of a Strand Palace security man.
He checked his watch. Sixty-five seconds . . .
At that moment the door of the service elevator opened and a tall Irishman stepped off. He was wearing the same uniform.
It was a Strand Palace security guard, a real one. The worst possible luck.
The moment seemed frozen in time. However, one thing was certain: the security guard wasn't fooled for an instant by the intruder. He automatically grabbed one of his trouser legs and knelt with a practiced move, reaching for the holster strapped to his ankle.
The intruder was quicker. As the guard dropped down, his knee came up, slamming against the man's square jaw. The Irishman toppled back against the side of the elevator with a groan, but not before his fist lashed out, aimed for the groin.
It was a glancing blow, and it was too late. The intruder chopped down against his neck, disabling his left arm, then slammed his head against the steel strut running down the center of the elevator wall. He groaned and twitched backward.
Should I just break his neck? he wondered. Just kill him now? One twist would do it.
No, he lectured himself, be a professional.