Burned Bridges (John Flynn Thrillers Book 2) by A.J. Stewart

Author:A.J. Stewart [Stewart, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jacaranda Drive
Published: 2018-01-10T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Flynn wanted to stop and bunker down and reassess. Hutton knew just where. She pulled onto Route 9A and took the Henry Hudson Bridge off the island, and then followed the road north until it became Saw Mill River Parkway. East of Yonkers she pulled into a motel that made low rent look polished and new. The place looked closed. There was a lit sign on the corner, a utilitarian announcement of the establishment’s name. No more, no less. No mention of amenities, no claims of spa tubs or HBO. The place was surrounded by leafless trees. The rooms were in one long strip, three stories. Twelve rooms on each of two levels, twenty-four total, with parking underneath on the ground level a thoughtful concession to rough winter conditions. Attached to the end of the row was a solid block that housed the office and some kind of breakfast room and probably the manager’s billet above.

The only light in the place came from the office. It wasn’t lit like Times Square. A soft, dull glow more than the proverbial well-lighted place. There were six vehicles parked under the rooms, all large sedans. Businessmen. The kind of road warriors for whom even the cheap chain business hotels were out of the budget. No light came from any of the rooms. Heavy drapes had been pulled, warding off the cold.

Hutton stopped short of the office, and Flynn wandered inside. The office was as plain as the exterior. Linoleum floors, worn thin and colorless. A wooden rack of dusty tourist brochures. The counter was peeling gray laminate. Behind it stood a young guy in a hoodie. Maybe a college student working the graveyard shift. Plenty of time to study or sleep.

“How much for a room?”

“Fifty,” said the kid.

“Okay.”

“Credit card and ID.”

Flynn pulled a hundred from his roll.

“Fifty for the room, and the rest is my ID.”

“We need a credit card for incidentals.”

“You offer a minibar?”

The kid shook his head. “The rooms don’t have fridges.”

“So no incidentals.”

He shrugged and pocketed the money and handed Flynn an old-fashioned key on a ring attached to a large wooden tag with the number 24 burned into it like a brand. Flynn offered the kid a nod and walked out to the end of the block. Hutton parked the Yukon under cover and gathered their bags. They used the fire stairs at the end of the building. The stairs were rusted and small flakes of concrete fell from where they were fixed to the wall as Flynn and Hutton took each step.

Room 24 was last in the block on the top level. The original owner was clearly a no-nonsense guy. He had eschewed the convention of including the floor level in the room number. So 212 was plain old 24. The door was a solid item, some kind of old-growth hardwood that would outlast the stairs. The room was as expected. Everything they needed and absolutely nothing they didn’t. A queen-sized bed with a bedspread in a pattern designed to mask stains and wear.

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