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I know he’s right, and that knowledge is what gets me moving, sprinting for the metal door leading to the stairwell.
Someone must have thought of that already because a pair of bulky men cut me off, one of them throwing himself in front of me while the other takes hold of me from behind, hands wrapped around my arms and pinning them to my sides.
Panic blooms in my chest, but so does anger. No, stronger than that, more intense. “No!” I scream in rage, raising my right foot and delivering a solid kick to the sternum of the man in front of me. He staggers back, gasping for air, which only tightens the grip of the man still holding me. I twist my head around to gauge his height, then snap my head back, connecting with his mouth.
“Fuck!” he shouts, his grip loosening just enough for me to free myself and spin around, my fist connecting with his nose. Now there’s blood pouring from two spots on his face, and he raises the ski mask over his face to cover his wounds with one hand. Like that will do anything.
I’m ready to make a run for it again, but there are more of them running at me, backing me against the wall. “Dallas!” I scream before one of them lunges forward. A hand clamps over my mouth, and I’m lifted off my feet, an arm wrapped around my midsection.
“Stop fighting!” the man growls in my ear as I twist and thrash. His urging somehow filters through the haze of panic in my head, and I know my instincts were right. This is all a set-up. I want nothing to do with it.
Twisting my body, I kick off the wall as hard as I can, knocking my captor on his ass and rolling away from him once we hit the floor. He grabs hold of my wrist at the last second, and I can’t hold back a cry of pain as electric heat sizzles up my arm. The pain only sharpens me, focuses my energy. I kick out blindly and make contact with something that snaps under my foot. Like magic, I’m free, while Dallas continues his gunfight with the pair of men waiting by the van. They aren’t here to kill anybody. They’re only a distraction, a way of splitting us apart, so I’m more easily captured and taken. It’s not going to happen. Not so long as I’m conscious and able to fight.
The stairwell door flies open, and there’s never been a sweeter sight than the hotel security team pouring out and fanning over the area. My attackers shout to each other before fleeing to their van, but the one I most recently kicked is slow moving, staggering to his feet with a hand pressed to his side. There’s too much shouting, too much confusion, and soon he’s surrounded by our men with their guns drawn. The rest of the attackers jump into the van, which starts moving before they’ve all climbed in. The door is still open as it careens away, and Dallas takes a few shots before it disappears.
“Hands!” the men on the security team bark as they circle their wounded prey. “Show your hands!”
All I can see thanks to the ski mask is his eyes darting around. He knows it’s over; he has to. He’s surrounded. He’ll be questioned at best, tortured at worst. And I doubt Mason will take it easy on him.
Nor would my mother, since he failed his mission.
He knows it. That’s why he reaches for the pistol in his waistband, raises it to the side of his head, and pulls the trigger before anybody has the chance to put a hand on him. I watch in silent horror as he hits the ground.
“Are you all right?” Dallas takes my face in his hands and turns my head until I’m gazing up into his eyes. Eyes that are now wide, almost frantic as he searches me for injuries.
“Fine,” I grunt, though the throbbing in my wrist tells another story. “Asshole twisted my wrist. It might be sprained—I don’t think it’s a break.” There’s something else, something I’m only now realizing. When the now dead man grabbed my wrist, he forced something into my clenched fist. Something my hand is still closed around, gripping tight.
“I’ll take you to medical, get you checked out.” Dallas glances around, surveying the aftermath, and I use his distraction as an opportunity to pull what I now see is a folded slip of paper from my fist and shove it into the back pocket of my ruined slacks. He shows no sign of having noticed once he’s turned back to me, his steely gaze softening with concern once he finds me wincing. “They’ll give you something for the pain.”
“I fucking hope so,” I grit out. It seems the elevator is still out of commission, but the medical wing is only on the first floor, above the lobby. We take the stairs, neither of us saying anything about what we went through down there. How sudden it was. How easily we were duped.
