The service elevator was at the far end of the ballroom, past the bar, through a door marked Staff Only. Alan kept his pace unhurried, his expression blank. Just another server running an errand.
A man was standing near the east exit, talking to a woman—dark-haired, pretty. His gaze swept the room the way a soldier’s did, cataloging threats, and when it landed on Alan, it stopped.
Recognition.
Of course one of the Jones, Inc., men—one of the guys from Italy—was here. Alan’s gut tightened.
He didn’t run. Running attracted attention. Instead, he turned smoothly, walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and watched the man’s reflection in the polished brass doors as the man started toward him.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Alan stepped inside, hit the button for eleven, and let the doors close on the man’s approaching form.
He’ll take the stairs. Or the other elevator. He’ll be waiting.
Good.
Alan was tired of running.
The eleventh floor was quiet. Executive suites. Thick carpet that swallowed footsteps. Alan stepped out?—
—and found the man waiting for him.
Fast, Alan thought. The man had taken the other elevator, beaten him here, and positioned himself perfectly.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the man smiled. “Miss me?” And right then, he launched himself at Alan.
Alan sidestepped, sent a punch at the man’s head. But the guy was ready—he ducked, grabbed Alan’s hand, twisted. Alan’s arm wrenched back, and before he could counter, the man fist slammed into his ribs.
Air left his lungs in a rush. He bounced off the wall, grunting, turned. “I see we’re still angry about Italy.”
I man came at him again.
Alan threw a punch—deflected. Tried a cross punch—slapped away. And then the guy had his arm, swinging it back, locking his elbow in an arm bar that sent pain screaming up to his shoulder.
A chopping blow to the back of Alan’s neck drove him forward, bending him over in submission.
The arm bar tightened. One more inch and his elbow would snap.
Alan did the only thing he could.
He slammed his fist into the man’s bad knee.
The same knee Alan had destroyed in Italy. It was a cheap shot—the kind of move that got you killed in what was supposed to be a fair fight.
His attacker’s grip loosened for a half second. Just long enough.
Alan twisted free, spun, kicked the man square in the chest. He flew backward, hit the wall, and Alan ran.
He burst into the stairwell at a sprint, taking the steps three at a time. Behind him, the door banged open—wow, the guy somehow already recovering, somehow still coming.
Alan made it to the ground floor, burst through the door into the hallway outside the ballroom. People scattered—guests, security, a woman in pearls who shrieked.
Behind him, the man shouted, “Jake!”
He was shouting at a man in front of them, down the hall.
Aw, now there were two of them.
