Her breathing steadies under Xiomara’s soothing hands, the blood that seemed to cover her uniform has clearly come from the dead bell boy who now lies frozen on the salon floor, and that from her superficial cuts ceases to flow. Within moments, as if from nowhere, paramedics arrive.
Xiomara looks up from where she kneels with Giannina.
‘I’m a doctor. She does not need to go to hospital,’ she orders, ‘Attend to the boy.’
My jaw drops. Surely it would be wiser to have the waitress checked at Accident and Emergency? What is Xiomara doing?
‘James, help these people with the boy. I will take Giannina to the bathroom,’ she continues.
It is only at this point that I glance down to the feet of the nearest paramedic. Nike trainers, with the trace of grey trouser leg appearing beneath the scrubs?
Xiomara has been ahead of me again. Whoever they may be, they are not wearing ESM Reeboks, standard issue for paramedics from Hospital Aleman.
As the male paramedic signals to his female colleague to follow Xiomara and Giannina, I intervene.
‘You heard what the doctor said, stay and attend to the boy.’
We are now surrounded by onlookers, Americans, Chinese families and Korean couples, seemingly jostling for a view of the drama. A Brazillian tourist offers to assist as peremptory, ineffectual steps are taken to resuscitate the dead youth.
I step away along the corridor leading from the salon, but hear footsteps following. I move quickly towards the restrooms, and slip behind a pillar. The lead paramedic comes into view carrying an object before him. He passes. I step out from my concealed position. Placing my 9mm supressed FN FNX-45 Tactical between his shoulder blades, I fire one shot.
In the distance a small dog barks and a Peruvian voice swears. The door to my left leads to the gents. From the hotel layout I figure that a courtyard beyond leads directly to the adjacent ladies powder room. I take the exit and close the door quietly behind me.
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