He'd stuffed a small folded piece of a matchbook cover between the door and the frame, and it now lay on the floor in front of his door. He'd asked not to receive any maid service and so far no maid had entered his room. Bolan walked back to the elevator area and punched a speed-dial button on his cell phone. "How far away from the hotel are you?" he asked Osborne. "I've just pulled out onto the street." "Would you mind pulling back in and coming up to Room 312? I have a situation." "I'm on my way." The Executioner approached the door to his room as silently as possible and stopped outside to listen for movement from within the room. He heard nothing, but the sixth sense he'd developed over years of fighting told him someone was inside. He didn't want to chance having stray bullets flying through the paper-thin walls and killing innocent travelers in adjoining rooms. It was a distinct possibility even with his 9 mm Beretta, so he drew the Fairbairn-Sykes knife from the leg sheath he wore over his blacksuit and prepared to enter the room.
