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“Fuck,” Damen grumbled as he closed the lid and turned back to Nikki. “Get dressed, quickly. If you can pack up in two seconds, fine. If not, leave the non-essentials.”
“I don’t have non-essentials in my life, Damen,” she huffed, fighting the rise of panic in her throat.
“Quickly, Nikki,” he asserted. Then snatched his cell, also on the vanity, and hit a number. “They’re tracking us—and have a fix on our location.”
Nikki’s jaw dropped. Only briefly.
She sprang into action, jerking on a pair of jeans and ankle boots, yanking a sweater over her head and zipping her suitcase. Meanwhile, Damen strutted into the living room with wide strides, carrying the laptop, his phone and his toiletries bag. He hastily dressed, placed the computer in Nikki’s bag and slung it over a shoulder, across his body. He did the same with his bag. He grabbed the handle of Nikki’s suitcase as one of his men burst into the suite.
Damen shoved the suitcase at the other agent, clasped Nikki’s hand and they were all on the move, rushing down the corridor toward the stairwell.
As soon as the door flung open and they crossed the threshold, Nikki halted, involuntarily. The action tugged on Damen’s hand and he glanced back at her.
“Jesus, you’re pale,” he said.
“Stairwells aren’t my thing anymore.” She suffered the flashbacks of being in the Mexico City hotel as explosions rocked the block—and the foundation of the hotel she’d been staying at with Kate and Jude. “One of those explosions sent Kate sailing over the railing and me hurling into a wall. A door blew off and slammed into Sophie’s mother.”
Damen’s tense expression softened. “This is a bit different. It’ll be okay,” he gently coaxed.
“Just a little PTSD,” she said on a shaky breath. Then sucked it up and forced her feet to move forward.
There were several agents with them, two in front and three bringing up the rear. They all hurried down the stairs, double-time. Nikki’s pulse raged in her veins, resonated in her ears. They made it numerous flights down when a group of black-clad men can barreling up the stairs from the ground floor.
“Shit.” Damen and his agents instantly whirled around, backtracking, and Nikki fell into step with them. They veered off at the landing between flights and bolted down another hallway, to the elevator.
Nikki’s heart pounded in her chest.
There was activity beside her, two guys speaking into earpieces, the other three on their phones. She couldn’t latch onto even one conversation.
Damen gave her hand a tender squeeze and she tried to breathe properly. Not vibrate from head to toe.
She was usually grace under pressure. But this scenario held a dual edge to it. Not only was her life in danger—Damen’s was as well.
Been there, done that, flitted through her mind. And, of course, she thought of Conner and the endless amounts of perilous situations he’d found himself in. One, he’d eventually not escaped.
As the elevator hit the ground floor where the sub-level garage was located, three of Damen’s men stepped out first to secure the immediate area. Damen and Nikki followed. It was the middle of the night and no one was around.
Still… Nervous anxiety skittered through her.
How the hell were they going to get out of this?
Especially as the door to the stairwell burst open and the men in black came charging forward, weapons drawn.
Nikki let out a small cry.
As a follow-on, she whispered, “Oh, my God.”
“Be calm,” Damen said from beside her. “No one’s going to hurt you. No one’s getting through me in order to get to you.”
She stared at him, seeing the conviction in his intense blue eyes.
A heartbeat later, a black SUV came careening around the corner, tires squealing, brakes screeching as it jerked to a stop in front of Nikki, Damen and their group. The passenger’s door flew open.
“Get in!” yelled a female voice.
Damen’s head ducked so he could catch a look at the driver. He scowled and erupted with an, “Oh, fuck, no!”
He drew his gun.
