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Without a second to spare, I sneak toward the closet and look through the neatly arranged things.
All male.
I slip on a pair of luxurious, soft cotton pajama pants and a shirt. Instantly I pause, taking a full inhale of the shirt.
“Vi . . . Victor . . .” I groan, breathing in the smell that reminds me of him.
Lux, this isn’t the time for wallowing in sorrow.
I need the present. I pull on the dead woman’s flats.
I, Luxury, have only one mission.
To live.
10
Victor
The elevators zip open on the 143rdfloor. Janae’s quickened pace matches mine. She’d uttered an apology in Arabic when learning from one of Al Rafi’s wives that Luxury had left the palace. Had comehere.
“Dayuna has her. Your room, sir.”
“She has—”
“The girl. Cinnamon freckles.”
We move swiftly down the hallway.
I place the keycard in the lock and open the door. Janae gasps. Instincts hit like a thunderbolt. A bullet blazes past my head. Fuck, wearing the keffiyeh, a traditional male head covering, obstructs my peripheral vision.
“Dayuna,myDayuna!” Janae screams for her dead lover on the floor while a person at the west exit targets us from the hallway. I shove the frantic prostitute into the hotel room to ensure she doesn’t meet a similar fate as Dayuna. Plastering myself against the wall, I take a measured peek. The elevators to the far corner start gliding shut. My heart scrambles into my throat as I glimpse—
“Victor!” Luxury shouts to me. A forearm is leveraged over her shoulder. The wanka uses my lady as his own personal body shield. The Arab fires another round. I drop to the ground. As I turn to tell Janae to do the same, a bullet thumps into her side. She drops to the floor.
My last glimpse of Luxury is her biting down on the forearm that wields the weapon.
Holding my handgun close to my body, I surge forward.
“Fucking bullocks!” The lift rapidly descends. I press the button. It takes seconds, precious moments that will never return, for another door to open.
“Excuse you, sir!” A couple shouts as I step inside. They glare. An offered glimpse of my gun motivates them to scram while I jab the button for the first floor. On my way down, each time the doors open, I flash my gun and continue alone.
On the main level, I slip into the lobby, gun holstered. I take lengthy, poised strides, though blood pounds through my ears.
At the commotion near the valet, I can no longer contain myself. I sprint outside into the blistering heat. The back doors of a Range Rover open, and my unconscious lady is tossed inside. I aim for the tires.
The fucking bullet ricochets, piercing the window of a supercar in the opposite lane.
Bloody Bulletproof!
Not a second later, open fire rains on me in all directions. I dip behind a marble statue, take aim at the security detail before me, and let off two shots.
Bullets pierce the skulls of the pair of guards, and the blokes are dead before they hit the ground. I exchange the clip. The magazine clanks on the concrete, and I continue shooting. I point the gun at a valet driver, pulling forward in a two-tone Bugatti.
He tosses the keys, and I quickly get inside. The back window bursts, riddled with bullets as I drive out of the parking lot. Up ahead, the Range Rover zips out and into traffic with Luxury in the back.
I pull out my phone and dial Paul.
