The tone does it. Not the nickname. The no-argument, I-mean-it growl under it.
I kick my heels off mid-sprint, grab them by the straps, and keep running barefoot, the carpet burning my soles.
We hit a T-junction, and Ethan yanks me right. A conference center opens up ahead—glass doors, a wall of signage listing ballroom names, a potted plant that looks expensive and distinctly not fake.
“Can’t we just take the elevator?” I pant.
He gives me a look like I suggested we sit down and wait to be murdered. “Elevators are kill boxes. Stairs.”
Of course. Stairs. Why wouldn’t it be stairs?
He hauls open a heavy fire door, and we plunge into a concrete stairwell that smells like dust and industrial cleaner. The door slams behind us with a metal clang that echoes up and down the shaft.
I lean on the railing, gulping air. “How… many floors… are we going down?”
“As many as it takes to put steel and concrete between you and them,” he says.
He’s still not breathing hard. I hate him. I admire him. I’m going to yell at him if we survive this.
I force my legs to keep moving. Down one flight. Two. Three. Every few landings, Ethan pauses just long enough to crack the door, peek through, then move on. On the fourth, he swears under his breath and yanks me back just as voices drift up—low, tense, male.
“That’s them, isn’t it?” I whisper.
He nods once. His jaw is granite. “Zhao’s men, yeah.”
Cold dread trickles through my chest as he gives the bogeyman a name.
“Great,” I croak. “So this is… what? Their revenge for you guys messing up their trafficking shipments? Was kidnapping Emily not enough?”
Ethan rolls his lips together, giving me an assessing look. “Just how much did she tell you about what we do and what happened?”
My heart stutters. “I’m guessing by your tone that it wasn’t the whole truth.”
“I’ll tell you more later. I promise,” he says gravely, giving my hand a comforting squeeze.
We keep going. At some point, my thighs stop burning and just go numb. I’m floating, adrenaline and sheer stubbornness dragging me down flight after flight.
Finally, Ethan slows. “One more,” he murmurs. “Basement level. Garage should be this way.”
Basement. Garage. Open space, probably cameras, hopefully exits. That sounds… marginally less awful than being trapped in a stairwell.
We spill out into a low hallway that smells like oil and concrete. The air is cooler here, humming with distant ventilation. A sign reads PARKING in block letters with an arrow pointing the way.
“Almost there,” Ethan says.
We round a corner and nearly plow into two men in dark suits. They’re not hotel staff.
Everyone freezes for a split second. Then Ethan shoves me sideways into a row of cleaning carts and moves.
I’ve never actually seen anyone fight up close. This is fast and lethal and terrifyingly precise.
The closest guy goes for his gun. Ethan grabs his wrist, slams it into the wall, and drives his knee into the man’s stomach. The second man lunges for Ethan’s back. Ethan twists, uses the first guy’s body like a shield. A suppressed shot pops, muffled and awful.
“Down, Barb!” he barks.
I drop behind the cleaning cart, heart ricocheting around my ribcage. I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the noise clawing up my throat. I did not sign up for live-action John Wick.
There’s another thud, a grunt, the sickening sound of bone hitting concrete. Someone’s gun skitters across the floor and hits the base of the cart. It bumps my bare toe.
