Chapter 19 Barbara
BARBARA
If I ever fantasize about being chased again, someone needs to shoot me. Which is an ironic thought to have over the soundtrack of gunfire.
This is nothing like the lumberyard sim. That was dark and atmospheric and hot. This is fluorescent lights, slamming doors, and my heart trying to punch its way out of my throat.
“Run,” Ethan says, and for once, I don’t argue. My heels hammer against the tiles as we fly down the service corridor, stainless-steel carts and hotel staff blurring at the edges of my vision. Someone yells after us. Another shot thuds into the door behind us, muffled but unmistakable.
My legs wobble. “I can’t believe they’re shooting at us.”
“Yep,” Ethan says, weirdly calm. “Keep moving, little bee.”
I don’t even have the breath to cuss him out for being so... casual about this.
He’s right by my side, one hand clamped around my wrist, tugging me left, right, weaving us through a maze of corridors that all look the same. Every time I think about slowing down, his fingers tighten—silent, wordless encouragement.
We burst through a swing door into a commercial kitchen.
For a second, it’s chaos: line cooks shouting, someone dropping a pan, steam and garlic and oil-slick floors. A chef yells, “Hey! You can’t be in—”
Behind us, the service door bangs open, interrupting the chef’s words.
Ethan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a cutting board off a prep station and hurls it back the way we came. It smashes into the doorway, narrowly missing whoever’s following us, and buys us a half second of very creative swearing.
Then we’re through another door, out of the kitchen, and into a wide carpeted hallway lined with tasteful art.
I gasp for air, my dress hitching up my thighs. “This—this is not how I pictured our first fancy date going.”
“Happy to exceed expectations,” Ethan says dryly.
My heel wobbles on a runner. I grab for the wall. “I can’t run in these.”
He barely slows. “Take them off.”
“What—now?”
I hear distant, panicked screams. The gunshots must have finally registered with the guests.
“Now, Barb.”
The tone does it. Not the nickname. The no-argument, I-mean-it growl under it.
I kick my heels off mid-sprint, grab them by the straps, and keep running barefoot, the carpet burning my soles.
We hit a T-junction, and Ethan yanks me right. A conference center opens up ahead—glass doors, a wall of signage listing ballroom names, a potted plant that looks expensive and distinctly not fake.
“Can’t we just take the elevator?” I pant.
He gives me a look like I suggested we sit down and wait to be murdered. “Elevators are kill boxes. Stairs.”
Of course. Stairs. Why wouldn’t it be stairs?
He hauls open a heavy fire door, and we plunge into a concrete stairwell that smells like dust and industrial cleaner. The door slams behind us with a metal clang that echoes up and down the shaft.
I lean on the railing, gulping air. “How… many floors… are we going down?”
“As many as it takes to put steel and concrete between you and them,” he says.
He’s still not breathing hard. I hate him. I admire him. I’m going to yell at him if we survive this.
I force my legs to keep moving. Down one flight. Two. Three. Every few landings, Ethan pauses just long enough to crack the door, peek through, then move on. On the fourth, he swears under his breath and yanks me back just as voices drift up—low, tense, male.
“That’s them, isn’t it?” I whisper.
He nods once. His jaw is granite. “Zhao’s men, yeah.”
Cold dread trickles through my chest as he gives the bogeyman a name.
“Great,” I croak. “So this is… what? Their revenge for you guys messing up their trafficking shipments? Was kidnapping Emily not enough?”
Ethan rolls his lips together, giving me an assessing look. “Just how much did she tell you about what we do and what happened?”
My heart stutters. “I’m guessing by your tone that it wasn’t the whole truth.”
“I’ll tell you more later. I promise,” he says gravely, giving my hand a comforting squeeze.
We keep going. At some point, my thighs stop burning and just go numb. I’m floating, adrenaline and sheer stubbornness dragging me down flight after flight.
Finally, Ethan slows. “One more,” he murmurs. “Basement level. Garage should be this way.”
Basement. Garage. Open space, probably cameras, hopefully exits. That sounds… marginally less awful than being trapped in a stairwell.
We spill out into a low hallway that smells like oil and concrete. The air is cooler here, humming with distant ventilation. A sign reads PARKING in block letters with an arrow pointing the way.
“Almost there,” Ethan says.
We round a corner and nearly plow into two men in dark suits. They’re not hotel staff.
Everyone freezes for a split second. Then Ethan shoves me sideways into a row of cleaning carts and moves.
I’ve never actually seen anyone fight up close. This is fast and lethal and terrifyingly precise.
The closest guy goes for his gun. Ethan grabs his wrist, slams it into the wall, and drives his knee into the man’s stomach. The second man lunges for Ethan’s back. Ethan twists, uses the first guy’s body like a shield. A suppressed shot pops, muffled and awful.
“Down, Barb!” he barks.
I drop behind the cleaning cart, heart ricocheting around my ribcage. I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the noise clawing up my throat. I did not sign up for live-action John Wick.
There’s another thud, a grunt, the sickening sound of bone hitting concrete. Someone’s gun skitters across the floor and hits the base of the cart. It bumps my bare toe.
I jerk back, staring.
“Don’t touch it,” Ethan snaps.
I nod so fast my neck twinges. What would I even do with a gun?
He grabs the weapon one-handed, checks the magazine with the precision of someone who’s done it a thousand times, and aims it at the guys who just attacked us.
Both men on the floor are groaning—not dead, though one is bleeding on his side.
Ethan notices me staring at the gun in his hands, then the men on the floor, and I see him clench his teeth so hard it’s a miracle nothing cracks.
With a curse, he puts the gun at the back of his waistband with practiced ease.
I stumble after him, threading my fingers through his when he offers his hand without looking. My palm is sweaty. His is warm, steady.
The garage doors open with a hiss of hydraulic mechanisms. The underground lot is mostly empty—sleek cars sleeping in numbered spaces, overhead lights buzzing. The concrete echoes our footsteps.
“This feels like the start of a slasher movie,” I mutter.
He squeezes my hand. “We’re too pretty to die.”
“Comforting,” I say faintly.
He leads me between rows of cars, eyes constantly moving, mapping sightlines, checking shadows. I start to breathe again. Maybe we’ll make it out of here. Maybe this will just be a really intense story to tell over drinks someday.
Headlights slice through the dim.
A black SUV glides down the ramp, moving fast but controlled. For a second, my muscles tense, but Ethan’s shoulders drop a fraction.
“Finally,” he mutters.
The SUV stops hard enough that the tires squeal. The driver’s door flies open.
Caleb Ward steps out like he’s walking into a warzone. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bulletproof vest with gadgets and weapons strapped to it. His gaze takes us in—me barefoot in a cocktail dress, Ethan rumpled and wild-eyed, the bruises blooming on his knuckles.
“You look like shit,” Caleb says.
“Nice to see you too, sunshine,” Ethan retorts.
Caleb strides around to the back, pops the hatch, and tosses Ethan a pistol. Ethan catches it without looking, checks it with the same economical movements as before. There’s a weird comfort in seeing guns in their hands and not pointed at us.
“What happened?” Caleb asks, eyes scanning the garage.
“Zhao’s men crashed dinner,” Ethan replies. “Three upstairs, two down here, minimum. Suppressors. They were going for Barbara.”
My stomach drops. “Me?”
Both men look at me. Caleb’s expression is grim. “Zhao likes targeting women,” he says. “You’re close to Ethan and Emily. That makes you useful leverage.”
The idea of being ‘useful’ to someone who traffics guns, drugs, women, and who the hell knows what else makes bile rise in my throat.
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. I am not—”
“You’re not anything to him,” Ethan cuts in sharply. “Because we’re going to stop him.”
He turns to Caleb. “We stash her and clean this up. Quickly.”
“Agreed.” Caleb jerks his head toward the SUV. “Get in the back, Barbara.”
I chew on my lower lip, eyeing the car. “You’re leaving me alone?” I hate how weak my voice sounds.
Ethan steps closer, his free hand curling around the back of my neck, thumb stroking my skin, grounding me. “I need to know you’re safe while we do cleanup. That’s why you’re getting the armored car.”
I blink. “This thing is armored?”
Caleb snorts. “You think I drive a regular SUV when half my clientele have price tags on their heads?”
Fair point.
“I can help,” I say anyway, stubbornness flaring with a burst of courage. “I’m not useless.”
“You’re not,” Ethan says immediately. “You’re brilliant. You’re brave. And you’re getting in that car.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It still makes my hackles rise. “You can’t just—”
He steps closer, lowering his forehead to mine. The gun is lowered at his side, a cold weapon, while his eyes are warm and furious.
“Barbara Neal,” he says quietly, “if something happens to you because I let you stay in the line of fire, I will burn this city down and salt the ashes. Don’t make me choose between your pride and your pulse.”
My chest squeezes. Damn him. Damn him for saying things like that.
“Fine,” I whisper.
His shoulders ease a fraction. “Good girl.”
My thighs clench traitorously. This is not the time, you hussy.
Caleb opens the rear door. The interior is dark leather, neat, and faintly smelling of gun oil and something like clean laundry. The windows are tinted so dark that I can barely see out.
“You lock the doors,” he says as I climb in. “You don’t open them for anyone but us. Not hotel security, not cops, not God if he shows up. Got it?”
“Noted,” I say, my voice only shaking a little.
Ethan leans in, one hand braced on the doorframe. Up close, I can almost see the adrenaline humming under his skin, the tightness around his eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises.
“You better,” I whisper. “I need to yell at you for letting terrorists ruin our first date.”
Even now, his mouth quirks. “That’s my girl.”
He cups the side of my face and kisses me—quick, hard, all teeth and heat and promise. Then he pulls back, shuts the door, and I hear the solid thunk of heavy-duty locks engaging.
My world narrows to the dim cabin, the glow of the dashboard where the engine still idles, the distant echo of raised voices and slamming doors somewhere in the garage.
I curl my fingers into fists, press them against my knees, and force myself to breathe.
This is fine. They were soldiers. They’re well-trained. They know what they’re doing. These fuckers picked the wrong hotel, the wrong night, the wrong woman.
We’re going to be okay.
A shadow moves past the front of the SUV, and the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I sit up straighter, heart thudding faster than when Ethan was bringing my fantasy to life yesterday.
But Jesus on a bike… reality is a hell of a lot scarier than a simulation.