“Don’t let him leave the hotel!” his pursuer shouted.
The other man—Jake—broke into a sprint, heading for the stairwell at the far end of the hall. Cutting off Alan’s escape to the loading dock.
Alan changed direction. Shoulder-checked a security officer who tried to stop him. Took the other stairwell, the one Jake was now racing toward from the opposite side.
He hit the door, plunged into the concrete-and-echoes darkness, and came face-to-face with Jake on the landing.
The man was reaching for his weapon. Fast, but not fast enough.
Alan grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and swung.
The blow caught Jake across the temple with a sickening crack. He crumpled against the railing, blood already sheeting down his face, and slid to the floor.
Alan dropped the extinguisher and kept moving. Down. The service floor. Housekeeping carts, linen baskets, a long supply closet. The catering kitchen was ahead—and beyond that, the loading dock. Freedom.
If he could just?—
Footsteps behind him. Wow, the guy was impossibly fast despite the knee. Gaining.
The kitchen door was right there. Alan shoved through it and found himself in chaos—line cooks plating hors d’oeuvres, the clang of pots, the shouts of chefs, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread.
Too many witnesses. Too many obstacles.
He ducked behind a prep station, crouched low, and waited.
The door banged open. “C’mon, Martin. Don’t run away.”
Alan watched through the gap between two shelving units as the man moved into the kitchen. Limping now, favoring the knee, but his eyes were hunter sharp. Scanning.
The staff had gone quiet. A line cook frozen over his station. A waitress with an empty tray, staring.
The attacker walked deeper into the kitchen, checking corners, moving toward the hallway that led to the loading dock.
His back turned to Alan.
Now.
Alan drew his blade—the small knife from his ankle holster—and moved.
The waitress’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened?—
“Look out!”
The man spun just as Alan’s knife came down. He threw up an arm, and the blade sliced through the flesh of his outer lower arm instead of his throat.
Blood sprayed across the stainless-steel counter.
The guy didn’t even flinch. He grabbed Alan’s wrist, wrenched him forward, and sent a punch across his jaw that made the world go white.
Alan ripped himself away, tasting blood, breathing hard.
Around them, staff pressed against walls, watching with wide eyes.
“Run,” he said to them, his gaze never leaving Alan. “Get out of here. Now.”
They scattered. Doors banged. And then it was just the two of them, circling each other between the prep tables, blood dripping onto the tile floor.
“You’re not getting out of here.”
