“Alright,” I tell Caleb, rolling my shoulders as I turn toward the ramp. “Let’s take the trash out.”
He snorts. “Always did love your foreplay.”
We move.
Up the ramp, back into the service hallway, retracing our path toward the restaurant. We find the two guys from earlier still on the floor—one clutching a shallow gunshot wound, one making weak noises through a nose that’s not going to look the same again.
Caleb plants a boot between the wounded guy’s shoulder blades and wrenches his arms back. Zip-ties cinch tight with a plastic hiss. I do the same to Broken Nose, patting him down, dumping his weapons in a pile.
“Think ESU’ll appreciate the party favors?” I ask.
“They love surprises,” Caleb says dryly. “Call Torres.”
The NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit guys owe us more than one for the tips we’ve passed along. Time to cash another chip.
I pull out my phone and call an old brother in arms who walks the straight and narrow now.
He answers on the second ring. “Tell me you’re not about to ruin my night, Kane.”
“Wish I could,” I say. “Hotel Artemis. Underground lot and restaurant. I’ll have at least five of Black Ash’s hitters trussed up like Christmas turkeys for ESU pickup. Suppressed weapons, foreign hardware, fake IDs. You’re going to want the toys and the intel.”
A pause. Then: “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious when I’m cockblocking organized crime.”
He exhales a curse. “Alright. Sit tight, don’t kill anybody else unless they actively try to shoot you. I can spin this as an anonymous tip and a lucky patrol. ESU’ll roll in twenty.”
“Make it fifteen,” I say, already moving again. “Feels spicy in here tonight.”
He mutters something about vigilante idiots and hangs up.
We dump the two trussed guys behind a maids’ supply alcove, where the cameras see them nice and clear. Then we ghost back up the stairs toward the restaurant level.
The rooftop’s a mess—tables overturned, glass everywhere, guests huddled and sobbing while hotel security tries to restore order with zero success. Our three shooters are gone, but there’s blood on the carpet, a dropped magazine, and a shattered comms earpiece.
“Two went downstairs after us,” I murmur, scanning. “The third tried to flank.”
Caleb points to a trail of smeared red heading toward the staff hallway. “Made at least one bleed.”
We follow the trail. Find the first guy slumped in a service closet, hand clamped over a gash on his cheek. He reaches for his gun. Caleb kicks it away, drops him with a single punch, and zip-ties him while I roll my eyes.
“You’re getting soft,” I say. “Didn’t even break his jaw.”
“I’m evolving,” Caleb says. “New year, less paperwork.”
The last two take a little longer—one tried to blend with panicked guests, the other ditched his jacket and went for the elevator. We run them both down within ten minutes. They’re not ready for ex–special operations in a confined environment they don’t control.
By the time we’re back in the garage, my adrenaline is coming down enough that my hands stop itching for another fight. We stash the last guy beside his friends, zip-tied, disarmed, lined up like a buffet for ESU.
“Torres’ll cream his pants when he sees this,” Caleb says.
“His dry cleaner will hate me.”
We turn toward the SUV. Relief loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was so goddamn tight. Barbara’s safe. We’ve swept the hotel. Five shooters down, zero bodies. For once, the night might actually?—
“Stop,” Caleb says sharply.
I freeze.
