Crueler, Part II

Ding! Third floor.
The elevator car hummed quietly up the shaft. Inside, Crueler leaned against one wall, studying the floral carpet design, faintly aware of some music playing inside. He recognized it to be Queen.
We are the champions… we are the champions… no time for losers…
Ding! Fourth floor.
Normally, Crueler would have opted for the stairs. Any Joe-off-the-street could kick in a fire alarm, or somehow bypass the elevators, and strand Crueler in this stinking car with Bohemian Rhapsody or something for unbearable, innumerable hours. But he wasn’t feeling particularly stalked today, and for whatever reason, he decided he could afford the luxury of the elevator.
No time for losers… cause we are the champions… of the world!
Ding! Fifth floor. He got off.
The carpet in the halls, he noticed, was the same carpet featured in the elevators. He wondered briefly what sort of person invented these little designs found everywhere – on airplane seats or hotel carpets or any of that. He supposed it was just an example of the commercialization of Navajo rug-weavers. He didn’t really care. Found himself slightly surprised for devoting that much thought towards such a pointless issue.
God, the hall was quiet. He glanced down the vacant rows of doors… 316, 317, 318…on and on forever. He checked his watch.
Huh. It was only nine. Oh well, he thought – perhaps all New Yorkers get themselves off to bed in a timely manner. Which reminded him how comfortable a bed was sounding, at the moment.
He angled for his door drowsily, and fumbled for the keycard in his jeans pocket. When he went to insert the card, the door creaked open. His mind shot to awareness. Someone was inside his room. His hands moved like oiled machines, whipping a pistol out of his shoulder holster, screwing on a silencer with an experienced flip of his wrist. No more fun and games, Jacobin.
He drew back the action and slipped in the door in one motion, entering the suite on his haunches, gun extended in front of him. Nothing appeared to be immediately out of place. The bathroom and kitchenette were dark. He scanned the small living room. No-one; the balcony was also vacant. The master bedroom, then? He moved silently, no audible footfalls…
We are the champions… we are the champions… no time for losers…
Great. Perfect time to get that damned song stuck in his head. He ignored the mini-Queen chanting pretentiously in the back of his mind, moving into the bedroom. There was a note on the bed. He didn’t lower his gun, didn’t read it – instead, he checked the bathroom.
Empty.
He rose to his full height, strode (still cautiously) to the bed, examined the note. The handwriting was hard to make out, apparently the whole thing had been rather rushed. Whoever left the note hadn’t even closed the door. He ignored churning questions and just read the thing.

Port Nassau, Bahamas. Find the yacht “Delilah”.
Be there by noon Tuesday or you’ll feel the pain.
Don’t forget your swimming trunks.

Crueler rolled his eyes and went to bed.