Chapter 14 #2
Silence. That was about as good as August could hope for. Now he could save his breath for the stairs.
In the time it took to get to the seventh floor, August had plenty of time to rue his decision to cut back on cardio. Swimming just wasn’t cutting it under the circumstances.
Not that these jobs are going to become a habit, he promised himself unconvincingly, but fuck you, laissez-faire, holiday season August. Fuck you and your chocolate addiction.
And of course August’s feet were less than thrilled about climbing even one flight of stairs, never mind hurrying all the way to the seventh floor. Ouch.
He made it, though. With a lot of wincing and swearing, sure, but he made it.
Outside the door that would lead him out onto the seventh floor, August paused and calmed his breathing, listening for signs that he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t going to get taken out like goddamn Bremmer.
Nothing. He eased the door open as quietly as he could, glanced down the hallway, and—
There was a long, lanky form standing right outside Darrow’s room. As August watched, the light on the lock turned green.
There you are. He opened the door the rest of the way, gun at the ready. “Hey, Birdie,” he called out down the hallway. “Smile for the camera.” The camera that Ricardo had better have blocked the hotel staff from seeing. Problem for later.
The man froze for a second before slowly turning to look at August. He was sporting a mustache straight out of the eighties, but that calm, assessing gaze…yeah, that was him. “You’re supposed to be napping right now,” he said, hand frozen on the knob.
“You should be glad I’m not,” August replied, letting the door go while keeping NightPigeon firmly in his sights. “Because then you’d be dealing with Ricardo, and he prefers to shoot first, ask questions later.”
The hitman smiled. “Are you fighting over me?”
Oh, you’d love that. “Only over where to leave your body.”
“Then why am I still standing?”
“Because we want to have a little chit-chat with you first, honey,” August cooed as he closed the distance until he was five feet away. “I’ve got some very cozy restraints for you to try on, NightPigeon.”
The smile fell away. “Don’t call me that.”
August was about to give into the urge to taunt him again because he wasn’t a fucking saint, all right, when the elevator dinged.
August immediately tucked his gun out of sight, and a second later the same pair of kids he’d seen downstairs charged into the hall, followed by their frazzled mother.
“Slow down!” she called after them as they ran to a room a few doors down.
“I want to use the key!”
“It’s my turn! Mom, give it to me!”
“I have to find it first,” she muttered as she trailed behind them, staring into the depths of her purse.
August stared at NightPigeon, who was smirking in a way he didn’t like. It took a moment for him to realize what had happened in the time it took for the family to pass him by.
The other hitman was armed now, only his gun wasn’t pointing at August. It was aimed squarely at the woman who was currently head down, oblivious to her tussling kids as she tried to find her door key.
Son of a bitch.
“Put it away,” NightPigeon mouthed.
“Fuck. You.”
“I’ll shoot them.” He waggled the barrel of his gun a little. “I’ll do it.”
God damn it. August should have made sure to bring nonlethal measures along, but the gas cylinders were bulky and the taser was a one-off that wouldn’t do shit for bystanders. He should have brought it, though.
“August?” Ricardo’s voice was tense.
August clicked his tongue twice.
“I’m on my way.”
August ought to tell him to stick with Darrow, but he wasn’t above wanting backup once crazy people started pointing guns at kids. Click-click.
“Five,” NightPigeon counted silently. “Four. Three.” His finger was tightening on the trigger. “Two.”
August put his weapon back in the holster beneath the left side of his jacket. As the muzzle of the other gun turned in his direction, he let out a breath of relief.
“For heaven’s sa—ah, finally!” The woman dug the key out of the labyrinthine depths of her purse and fended off her spawn’s grabby hands.
“No, nope, I’m opening the door this time.
Jimmy, you head for the shower. Larry, you—stop hitting your brother if you want to keep iPad privileges!
” The door finally shut, none of them aware of just how close they’d come to being collateral damage.
“So,” NightPigeon said into the new quiet of the hall. “The rumors about you going soft are true.”
“Oh sweetie, I’ve always been soft,” August replied smoothly. “I’ve got skin like a peach.”
“Yeah?” The hitman motioned him closer. “Why don’t we test that?” He glanced at August’s ear. “I assume Mr. Torralba is listening on his way, so we’ll make this short and sweet.”
“Incoming.” Ricardo’s voice was flat. “One minute and counting.”
One minute. August could handle that. “But not in the hallway,” he said. “That would be so gauche.”
“It would,” NightPigeon agreed. “And no, I have a little welcome gift in mind for Mr. Darrow that will pair very nicely with your corpse, so it’s better if we finish things in his room.” He stepped back and gestured at the door, keycard still inserted in the lock. “You first.”
August considered his options. They were too far apart for a dive to be effective, but the second he was inside that room the other man could simply shoot him in the back.
He probably would, in fact, so August would have to content himself with moving slow and diving to the side the second he was in.
Hopefully that would correlate well to Ricardo’s arrival.
If it didn’t, the only comfort he’d be getting was the cold kind.
“Get a move on,” NightPigeon snarled as August swanned over to the door. “Or I’ll shoot off a few more toes before we’re done.”
“Rude,” August muttered as he grabbed the knob. Forty-five seconds…he turned the knob, pushed the door open a few inches, then felt the tension under his hand suddenly give way.
He fell to the floor just in time to avoid the shotgun blast that splintered the door right where his head had been. Well…he avoided most of it. Prickles of heat lit up around his right shoulder and the base of his neck, followed by the slow, hot seep of blood. No pain yet…that was bad, wasn’t it?
Not as bad as the pattern on the carpet beneath his face. Honestly, chartreuse wasn’t a color that should be used industrially except on warning signs, and what was that shape supposed to be? A boomerang? A banana? Why were there bananas on the carpet?
“August!” Warm, familiar hands clasped his arms, shaking him sharply. “August!” He let his husband roll him over onto his back, and—ah, there was the pain, excellent. It wasn’t all that bad, either.
“I’m all right,” he assured Ricardo, who was staring at him with murder in his eyes. He looked around for NightPigeon’s body. “Shit, he got away?”
“Not clean,” Ricardo said grimly, looking behind them. August craned his neck so he could see the splotches of blood along with the damage from the shot on the far wall. That was nice.
“Darrow’s gone too.”
That was not so nice. “Fuck.” August winced as Ricardo helped him to his feet, and it was only a little bit from the bites of pain in his shoulder.
“We have to track him down before NightPigeon does.” Darrow had gone from being a useful distraction to a significant problem, and they couldn’t leave the job undone.
And they especially couldn’t let NightPigeon get credit for it.