Adrenaline is a cold bitch. It hits my system, flushing out the warmth of Atara’s skin and the lingering haze of the last few hours. My brain clicks into the mode I’ve lived in since I was nineteen, a world of sectors, exit points, and kill zones.
I roll off the bed and grab Atara by the waist, dragging her with me. She’s a dead weight, her breath coming in tiny, high-pitched hitches.
Fuck, she’s in shock.
"Stay low," I growl into her ear. I don’t have the time to be gentle right now. Gentleness gets people killed.
Another burst of fire chews through the headboard right where her head was ten seconds ago. Wood splinters spray my back. I reach for my Glock, the grip familiar and solid. I peek over the edge of the mahogany frame.
Three shooters on the balcony. They’re moving in a tight, triangular sweep.
My blood turns to ice. Not because of the bullets, but because of the formation. It’s a signature. A specific, high-efficiency tactical movement I haven’t seen in five years. Not since the night I put three rounds into Silas’s chest and watched him fall into the Vegas desert.
Could… could it be?
It’s impossible.I watched him die. I killed him myself.
"Echo! Left flank!" I roar.
The door to the suite bursts open. Echo and Kieran are in the room, their suppressed weapons spitting softthwipsinto the dark. One of the men on the balcony drops, his head snapping back as he tumbles over the railing.
"Extraction! Now!" Kieran shouts, his voice a jagged edge over the ringing in my ears.
My eyes move over Atara automatically. The dress she's wearing is impractical, and so are her bare feet. I'd carried her out of her suite and into mine like a fucking caveman.
I pull out my phone.
"Sean."
"Boss."
"Collect Miss Ross's belongings from her suite."
A brief pause.
"Now?"
"Of course now!"
My gaze flicks back to Atara.
"Luggage. Clothes. Toiletries. Electronics. Every fucking thing."
Once we're in Vegas, she won't have the pleasure of a shopping spree. Not when someone has the audacity to shoot at me in my own fucking resort.
"Understood."
"Good. Meet us in five."
I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket. I grab Atara’s hand, yanking her up. She’s staring at the balcony, her eyes wide and glassy.
I drag her toward the door. We hit the hallway, and it’s a goddamn war zone. The smell of cordite and burnt carpet is thick. One of the O’Shea men is slumped against the wall, his chest a mess of red.
"Maeve," I rasp, the word feeling like a hook in my throat.
I’m still dragging Atara behind me like a rag doll. She stumbles, her knees hitting the floor once, but I yank her back up.
"Keep moving," I snarl.
