51 - Colson
COLSON
It tore my heart out to leave her behind, but it had to be done. Staying together would’ve drawn too much attention. Sticking by her side, I’d be less of a protector, and more of a liability.
Besides, this last part was something Peyton had to do all by herself.
Alone.
Shit.
I paced the service corridor for the hundredth time, feeling worse than helpless.
I was woefully unarmed, hopelessly outnumbered.
And there were a lot of moving parts that hadn’t fallen into place yet.
Guests were arriving quickly, and being ushered from the hallways.
Theo was still locking down the logistics of what needed to be done.
“Are you tapped in yet?” I asked, clasping a hand over my earpiece.
No answer. Same as a minute ago.
SHIT.
More of Donovan’s men streamed past, causing me to turn away. They remained in tight lockstep with one another, moving fast enough for me to know they moved with a common goal.
I could only hope that goal had nothing to do with Ripley.
“Theo!” I hissed. “Are you there?”
I ducked into a lesser-traveled hallway, with only a handful of people. My mistake was not looking up. I bumped clumsily into a passerby, heading in the other direction. They apologized half-heartedly, and then stopped.
My blood ran cold when I saw who it was.
“Hollis?”
I recognized him as Acardi; one of Donovan’s mid-level men. The look of utter confusion on his face gave me a full two seconds before his mind registered exactly what was happening.
Two seconds was more than I needed.
“WAI—”
My knee connected with his midsection hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, erasing anything he might’ve thought to say.
I clamped my hand over his mouth and shoved him backwards, into an alcove that had probably been used for a payphone, a thousand years ago.
He was still gasping around my fingers, desperate for oxygen, when I drove him full force into the wall.
Acardi’s head snapped back with a sickening thud. It left a spider-webbed wreckage of broken plaster behind him, fanning outward like the golden halo behind saints’ heads in Renaissance paintings.
“THERE HE IS!”
My head whipped over my shoulder. A giant of a tattooed man sprinted past the alcove in a chef’s apron. His paper hat, which had fallen off mid-stride, drifted comically to the floor.
Ripley?
A blur of pursuers dressed like members of the security team followed, close behind.
I let Acardi sink to the floor and ran after them.
FUCK.
“Theo?” I called out, thumping on my mic. “THEO!”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got—”
“Problems, I know,” Theo interjected quickly. “Ripley’s been made. They’re chasing him into the cocktail lounge.”
I was already racing forward, my feet digging hard into the carpeted hallway.
“How many?”
“Four at least. Hard to see. They’re moving fast.”
I clenched my teeth as I picked up speed, running full-tilt through a pair of open doors.
I was flung into a beautifully-decorated lounge area, all set up for the after party.
Ripley was on the far side of the room, legs spread in a fighting stance.
He was busy swinging bottles of liquor at two different attackers who were trying to flank him.
Luckily the other two spectators were hanging back, to see what happened. One brought his arm up, presumably to speak into his watch, so I swept his leg and slammed him face-first into the marble floor.
There was a sickening crunch, followed by a gush of blood and scattered teeth. The second man looked horrified, especially at the eerie, otherworldly sounds his broken companion was suddenly making.
“Colson!”
Ripley laughed my name aloud, to purposely distract his attackers. It worked like a charm. They both turned to see what he was looking at, and he smashed his bottle directly into the nearest guy’s face.
In a testament to its construction, the bottle didn’t break. The guy’s face did. He fell straight down, like a switch in his brain flipped, which it probably did.
Before the other guy knew what was happening, Ripley already had him wrapped up in a rear naked choke.
That left the one remaining pursuer who’d apparently drawn a wicked-looking Beretta. He held the weapon level with my face now, causing me to take two steps back.
“Easy,” I told him, in a calm, even tone.
The arm holding the weapon was shaking violently. I hated that part most of all.
“Listen,” I said, holding my hands up. “You don’t want to—”
“STOP!” a voice barked, somewhere behind me. “Put that away!”
For the first time in my life, I was relieved to see Roman burst into the room. He was flanked by another three of Donovan’s men, all of whom I recognized.
“But…” the man with the gun stammered. Using his free hand, he pointed awkwardly to his fallen companions. “T—They just—”
“Who do you work for!” Roman blurted loudly.
The man didn’t answer right away. The arm holding the Beretta shook more violently, however.
“You work for your company, which was hired by Donovan for this event. And that means you work for me.”
The poor, crumpled mess on the floor moaned again. To the man holding the gun, the sound was like nails on a chalkboard.
“Five hundred of the most important people on this planet are two rooms away,” Roman snarled, in a tone that told everyone he wouldn’t be saying it again. “You fire that weapon and I’ll put it straight up your ass!”
The shaking arm slowly lowered. Which meant I could finally breathe.
“Let go of him,” Roman barked, turning his attention to Ripley. “NOW.”
I’d completely forgotten Ripley was still choking someone. Apparently, he did too. The guy he was holding was out cold.
“Jesus fuck,” Roman swore, looking around at the blood, broken glass, and scattered teeth. He sneered at Ripley in disgust. “You make recklessness look like a superpower.”
“Thanks,” Ripley replied cheerily.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Wiping his hands on his apron, Ripley laughed. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
More of Roman’s men burst into the otherwise empty room, filing in behind him. The ones who’d originally arrived with him had already shifted positions, creating angles that would cut off the remaining exits.
Roman turned again, this time to level his cold eyes evenly with mine. He closed the distance between us in a few quick strides, causing his men to hover their hands over their weapons.
“Are you here for the reason I’m guessing?” he muttered, keeping his voice low.
“Yes,” I told him.
His nostrils flared as he straightened his suit out, trying to regain some semblance of control.
“Alright then,” Roman said, calmly. “What do you need from me?”
“Your comms,” I told him. “They’re closed circuit?”
He nodded, briskly. “Always.”
Reaching into my suit pocket, I pulled out a thumb drive the size of a fingernail. Roman squinted as I held it up before him.
“Show me where this goes, and we’ll do the rest.”