“Don’t know yet,” I lie. “But we’re not waiting to find out.”
I stand, tossing enough cash on the table to cover the bill, the tip, and the replacement of anything I’m going to break inthe next few minutes. I offer her my hand like the gentleman I sometimes forget I can be.
She takes it, her fingers a little colder now, and we move toward the service door at an unhurried pace. We’re halfway there when it begins.
The guy by the bar touches his ear—comms. The one at the table stands, shrugging his jacket back just enough to flash the hint of a holster. The newcomer finishes speaking to the hostess and steps directly into the path toward the exit.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Ethan?” Barbara whispers, her fingers tightening around mine.
I don’t answer. I’m already shifting gears, the world slowing into that sharp-edged clarity I only get when shit’s about to go down.
I angle us toward the service door anyway. Bar Guy peels off the counter and starts moving parallel. Table Guy accelerates, trying to cut us off from the other side. Host Stand Guy falls in behind. Classic herd-and-box maneuver.
They’re good. Not good enough.
When Bar Guy reaches for the inside of his jacket, I move.
I yank Barbara down just as the first suppressed shot thuds into the wall where we were just standing. The room erupts—screams, shattering glasses, the sharp crash of someone upending a chair. I flip the closest table with my free hand, sending plates and wine glasses flying. It slams down between us and the shooters, buying us half a second of cover.
“Under,” I bark, not bothering with endearments now.
Barbara drops to her knees and crawls behind the table as another shot punches into the linen. I lunge sideways, grab the dessert cart, and shove it hard toward Bar Guy. It slams into his legs, sending him crashing to the floor in a flail of metal and chocolate mousse.
“Stay down,” I snap at Barbara, even as I know there’s no safe place in this room anymore.
The service door is three meters away. Might as well be three miles.
Host Stand Guy is reaching for Barbara’s ankles when I drive my foot into his wrist. Bone crunches under my heel, and he shrieks, dropping the gun he’d been about to pull. It skitters across the floor under another table.
“Back,” I hiss, grabbing Barbara by the elbow and dragging her with me in a half-crouch, using the still-standing tables as partial cover. Patrons are screaming, ducking, and crawling. Someone’s crying. The staff are frozen or fleeing.
I grab the handle of the service door and shove it open hard, pulling Barbara through ahead of me.
The relative quiet of the staff corridor slams into us like a wall. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Stainless steel carts line the hallway, smelling of lemon cleaner and overheated food.
Behind us, the door explodes inward—someone hitting it full-force. Bar Guy, I’d bet my left nut.
I jam a chair under the handle as a temporary wedge. It’ll buy us maybe ten seconds.
“Run,” I tell Barbara. “Stay right in front of me. Don’t stop unless I tell you.”
She doesn’t argue this time. Smart girl. She takes off down the corridor, her heels clicking against the tile. I pull my phone out of my pocket while we move and thumb open my favorites.
Killian’s in the Maldives, allegedly not checking his phone. That leaves the other trigger-happy motherfucker on speed dial.
I hit Caleb’s name.
He answers on the first ring. “Kane?”
“Hotel Artemis, rooftop restaurant,” I say, already scanning hallway intersections, counting camera domes, mapping exits.“Zhao’s guys. At least three men, guns, disguised as civilians. I’m unarmed with Barbara in tow.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Caleb’s voice goes cold. “On my way. ETA ten.”
“Bring toys,” I add.
“Have you been practicing your aim?”
