Chapter 20 Ethan
ETHAN
The door shuts on Barbara with a solid, armored thunk, and my pulse finally starts coming down.
“Alright,” I tell Caleb, rolling my shoulders as I turn toward the ramp. “Let’s take the trash out.”
He snorts. “Always did love your foreplay.”
We move.
Up the ramp, back into the service hallway, retracing our path toward the restaurant. We find the two guys from earlier still on the floor—one clutching a shallow gunshot wound, one making weak noises through a nose that’s not going to look the same again.
Caleb plants a boot between the wounded guy’s shoulder blades and wrenches his arms back. Zip-ties cinch tight with a plastic hiss. I do the same to Broken Nose, patting him down, dumping his weapons in a pile.
“Think ESU’ll appreciate the party favors?” I ask.
“They love surprises,” Caleb says dryly. “Call Torres.”
The NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit guys owe us more than one for the tips we’ve passed along. Time to cash another chip.
I pull out my phone and call an old brother in arms who walks the straight and narrow now.
He answers on the second ring. “Tell me you’re not about to ruin my night, Kane.”
“Wish I could,” I say. “Hotel Artemis. Underground lot and restaurant. I’ll have at least five of Black Ash’s hitters trussed up like Christmas turkeys for ESU pickup. Suppressed weapons, foreign hardware, fake IDs. You’re going to want the toys and the intel.”
A pause. Then: “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious when I’m cockblocking organized crime.”
He exhales a curse. “Alright. Sit tight, don’t kill anybody else unless they actively try to shoot you. I can spin this as an anonymous tip and a lucky patrol. ESU’ll roll in twenty.”
“Make it fifteen,” I say, already moving again. “Feels spicy in here tonight.”
He mutters something about vigilante idiots and hangs up.
We dump the two trussed guys behind a maids’ supply alcove, where the cameras see them nice and clear. Then we ghost back up the stairs toward the restaurant level.
The rooftop’s a mess—tables overturned, glass everywhere, guests huddled and sobbing while hotel security tries to restore order with zero success. Our three shooters are gone, but there’s blood on the carpet, a dropped magazine, and a shattered comms earpiece.
“Two went downstairs after us,” I murmur, scanning. “The third tried to flank.”
Caleb points to a trail of smeared red heading toward the staff hallway. “Made at least one bleed.”
We follow the trail. Find the first guy slumped in a service closet, hand clamped over a gash on his cheek. He reaches for his gun. Caleb kicks it away, drops him with a single punch, and zip-ties him while I roll my eyes.
“You’re getting soft,” I say. “Didn’t even break his jaw.”
“I’m evolving,” Caleb says. “New year, less paperwork.”
The last two take a little longer—one tried to blend with panicked guests, the other ditched his jacket and went for the elevator. We run them both down within ten minutes. They’re not ready for ex–special operations in a confined environment they don’t control.
By the time we’re back in the garage, my adrenaline is coming down enough that my hands stop itching for another fight. We stash the last guy beside his friends, zip-tied, disarmed, lined up like a buffet for ESU.
“Torres’ll cream his pants when he sees this,” Caleb says.
“His dry cleaner will hate me.”
We turn toward the SUV. Relief loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize was so goddamn tight. Barbara’s safe. We’ve swept the hotel. Five shooters down, zero bodies. For once, the night might actually—
“Stop,” Caleb says sharply.
I freeze.
The SUV looks the same at a glance, but there’s something dark on the concrete near the rear tire.
A glistening trail.
Gasoline.
My blood goes cold.
“Where is she?” I whisper.
Then I see her.
Barbara stands on the other side of the SUV, just past the pool of fuel—the line of it leads from the open gas cap to a spot near the front wheel where a red plastic can sits on its side.
Her dress is streaked with dirt, her hair messy from fingers that weren’t mine.
Her hands are shaking, held up slightly to either side.
And there’s a man behind her.
Adrian Wen Zhao looks unbothered and put together in an expensive suit, with perfect hair, his face calm, and a gun pressed to the side of Barbara’s head.
In his other hand, there’s a lighter, his thumb resting on the wheel.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
Caleb’s already moving sideways, slow and controlled, trying to angle for a flank. I lift a hand: wait. Not yet.
Zhao smiles when he sees us. Small. Pleased. Like we’re right where he wants us.
“Mr. Kane,” he calls across the garage. His voice carries easily in the echoing space, smooth and unhurried. “You’ve been causing me a lot of trouble.”
“Get in line,” I call back, forcing my voice into a lazy drawl. Every instinct I have is screaming to rush him, but I’ll only get Barbara killed that way. “You crashed my date, man. That’s rude.”
His fingers flex on the gun. “You cost me several shipments,” he says conversationally. “And good men. Half my partners think I’m losing my touch.”
“Seems like a you problem,” I say. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my skull, but I keep my tone light. “Maybe business would be better if you stopped making enemies.”
His eyes harden. “You took a lot from me,” he says. “Now I take something from you.”
His hand tightens in Barbara’s hair. She winces, jaw clenching. Her eyes find mine across the distance. There’s so much fear there, but also stubborn, beautiful fury.
“No,” I say, voice dropping. “You don’t.”
Caleb is a few steps to my left now, angling toward a column. He meets my gaze for half a second. Knows what I’m thinking. Mouths: Two shots.
One for the lighter. One for the head.
Ballsy. Precise. Risky as hell with Barbara that close.
I lift my index finger on my left hand, pointing up. He’ll know what I mean.
“I suggest you put the gun down,” Caleb calls out loud, voice flat. “ESU is en route. You’re not walking out of here.”
Zhao doesn’t even glance at him. “ESU will arrive when I am gone,” he says. “And all they will find is a burned-out car and bodies.”
He lifts the lighter. His thumb flicks. Flame blossoms, small and bright in the dim garage. He holds it out slightly, over the trailing sheen of fuel.
My field of vision narrows to that tiny, dancing point.
“Ethan,” Barbara whispers, voice cracking.
That’s what decides it.
Her voice. Saying my name like a plea and a warning and a goodbye all at once.
I draw in one slow breath. Everything else falls away; it’s just me, my gun, my target. I shift my weight half a step, just enough to give myself a cleaner line past her cheek.
“Zhao,” I call out.
He arches a brow. “Yes?”
I smile, baring my teeth. “You should’ve stayed on the boat.”
Then I shoot. I hit him dead center in his forehead, making his head kick back.
Caleb’s round takes the lighter. It explodes out of Zhao’s fingers, spiraling away in a spray of sparks that vanish harmlessly on bare concrete, missing the spill by inches.
There’s no time for drama. No slow fall. One second, he’s standing, smug and in control, the next, the back of his head kisses the concrete as he crumples at Barbara’s feet. The gun clatters out of his hand, skidding under the car.
Barbara screams, her knees buckling.
I’m already moving.
I reach her in three strides, shove Zhao’s body aside with my foot, and pick her up, hauling her back, away from the corpse. She’s shaking so hard her teeth chatter, her hands clutching at my suit.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you, little bee. It’s over.”
“You shot him,” she whispers, voice thin with shock.
“Yeah,” I say. My own hands are trembling now that the adrenaline is starting to ebb. “He was going to light you on fire. I’m not really a ‘let’s see how this plays out’ guy.”
A siren wails faintly in the distance, growing louder. ESU, right on schedule.
Caleb appears at my shoulder, glancing once at Zhao’s body, then at me. He lets out a low whistle. “Nice,” he drawls. “Guess you did practice your aim.”
“Again. I was highly motivated,” I mutter.
Barbara is still plastered to my chest, her breathing ragged. I ease back just enough to cup her face, scanning for injuries. Her pupils are blown, cheeks streaked with dirt and mascara, but she’s alive. Whole. Stubborn.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head, then nods, then shakes it again. “I don’t know,” she laughs, the sound half-hysterical. “My brain’s… fuzzy.”
Caleb grunts. “Shock. She’ll be fine once she remembers she’s mad at you again.”
“Not helping, Ward,” I say, but there’s no bite to it.
Blue and red lights start flashing at the far end of the ramp. Radios crackle. Boots pound on concrete. ESU trucks roll into view, big and boxy and full of men who think they’ve seen everything.
“Alright,” Caleb says, stepping back. “I’ll handle Torres and the official story. You two disappear before they start asking questions you don’t want to answer on the record.”
“You sure?” I ask.
He gives me a dry look. “Go. I’m better at lying to cops than you are.”
Barbara starts to protest. “We should stay, we should—”
I kiss her.
Not gentle. Not polite. I crash my mouth into hers like I’m still trying to prove she’s real and here and breathing. She gasps against my lips, then melts, arms winding around my neck.
The world falls away again.
When I pull back, her eyes are glassy and dazed.
“I need you,” I groan. “Need to feel you’re okay.”
She swallows, her beautiful brown eyes as big as saucers. “Where?”
I look at the SUV. At the open rear door. At the dark, private space behind tinted glass.
Our gazes meet, and heat flares. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.
“Get in the back,” I say roughly.
Her blush climbs all the way to her ears. “You mean… here?”
“Door locks. Tinted windows. Caleb’ll stand guard and practice his disappointed dad face.”
“I heard that,” Caleb calls, already walking toward the ramp to flag down Torres. “I’ll be over there, not listening to anything. If the car starts rocking, I’m going blind.”
Barbara lets out a strangled laugh that makes my heart sing. God, I love this woman.
“Come on,” I murmur, guiding her toward the open hatch. “I won’t feel right until I’m balls deep inside you.”