CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Titan had shown up in force, with the luggage to prove it. Sawyer helped unload the last duffel from Brock’s vehicle. Somewhere in the mess of bags had to be enough weapons to arm a small country.
“That’s it,” Brock said. “Let’s roll.”
Their cell phones buzzed simultaneously. Sawyer’s stomach dropped. He reached for his phone and hoped to read that law enforcement had more to share about Mylene Hathaway. It was a message from Amanda.
GET TO ANGELA
Sawyer’s heart stopped cold.
Colby Winters swore. “What floor?”
“Tenth.” Brock’s face registered all the possibilities that message could mean while his mind appeared to run scenarios simultaneously.
“We’ll get the stairs and back exits,” Cash said, pulling his cowboy hat low before he and Roman peeled off.
“I’ll man the first floor and lobby exits.” Winters nodded at the elevators. “Go.”
Sawyer and Brock ran toward the elevators. The doors opened. Sawyer yelled, “Get out,” to the businessman pulling his rolling suitcase and then rushed in.
Brock pulled a Glock from his back. “You go. I’ll clear the second elevator and get to you.”
“Tenth floor. Room 1021.” Sawyer smashed the button for the elevator door to shut.
He checked the magazine of his newly issued Glock and prayed the elevator would speed up. Years seemed to pass. The elevator chime dinged at his floor.
Weapon extended, he slid through the barely opened doors and saw no threats. Sawyer hauled toward their rooms. A housekeeping cart piled high with blankets blocked Angela’s door. He knocked it out of the way. Bullet holes pocked the door.
He swiped the card and threw himself into the room. The door thudded against someone.
Sawyer side-tackled them to the floor. Their gun skittered out of reach; his pointed at their temple. “Don’t fucking move a muscle.”
The woman pinned under him seemed to know he wasn’t a cop and didn’t care if she died. The lady didn’t struggle.
“Angela?” His guts twisted when he didn’t see her in the room.
“Sawyer,” Brock called from the other side of the door. “Open up.”
Sawyer holstered his weapon and ran his hands over the mercenary, removing a backup pistol and plastic zip-ties. A loud bang sounded from the door. Brock walked in.
“Get this piece of crap.” Sawyer threw the shooter on the bed and bounded toward the closed bathroom door. His heart hammered in his chest. Why wasn’t Angela walking out or calling for help?
Bullets had blown off the bathroom door handle. Holes and dents cratered from the handle to the floor. Behind him, Cash and Roman walked in.
Sawyer knocked gently on the door, terrified of what would be on the other side. “Angela? Open up.” He tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. But he heard a metallic clang. “Ange?”
“Call Winters,” Brock said. “Get him up here. He can get into anywhere.”
Metal clattered on the other side. “Ange?” Sawyer peered through the space where the door handle had been and saw only the far wall. Metal clanged again.
“What the hell is that noise?” Roman asked.
Finally, the door cracked. Sawyer carefully pushed it open. A shaking, tear-streaked Angela sat crouched in a ball on the floor—surrounded by forks, knives, and a baking sheet.
His heart soared. Sawyer scooped her into his arms. She cried out in pain.
“It really hurts,” she murmured against his shirt.
“You’re okay.” Carefully, Sawyer set her on the bathroom counter. His hands ran down her neck and over her arms. “Everything’s okay now.”
“We have to loop law enforcement in on this,” Brock said from behind him. “What the hell happened in here?” Then he whistled. “Smart girl, Angela Sorenson. Smart.”
Sawyer didn’t know what Brock saw that was so smart but agreed they needed law enforcement and a hospital.
“I’m getting this piece of shit out of here,” Winters called.
“Good riddance,” Sawyer muttered. It would probably be best for everyone involved if he didn’t set eyes on that woman again.
After a minute, Sawyer brought Angela to lie on the bed. Brock, Roman, and Cash milled around in Sawyer’s periphery. He wouldn’t take his eyes off Angela. How in the hell had this almost happened again? How had they found her? How—he stopped himself, emotion caught in his throat. If he started popping off questions, Sawyer wasn’t sure he could stop. His judgment would be more clouded than it was already.
Cash sidled over and squatted eye level to the bed. “Brock’s pretty impressed with you.” Angela’s tears had stopped, but she hadn’t had much to say. Cash stood and eyed Sawyer. “But someone’s gotta clue me in. What’s up with the forks and knives?”
Somewhat embarrassed, Sawyer ran a hand through his hair. “A little improvisation.”
The DIY vest might’ve absorbed some of the blow, but that didn’t explain why Angela had torn the thing apart—or how she used it to keep the door shut.
Brock joined them. “She wedged the door in by the hinges. Didn’t you?”
Angela nodded, slowly sitting up. She leaned against the headboard, wincing. “Yeah.”
Sawyer marveled at Angela. Every time she was put into danger, from slapping her would-be assassin to barricading the bathroom door, her mind remained crystal clear.
“How in the hell did you think of that?” Roman asked.
As though the attention on her was too much, she downplayed the situation with a quiet laugh but winced again. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Cash eyeballed the door to the hotel room as though doing calculations. “How far from the door were you when she fired?”
“Apparently not far enough.” Her eyes rose to Sawyer’s. “Sorry I gave you grief before you went downstairs.”
His lips curved. Sawyer wanted to stomp around the room about all that had gone wrong but couldn’t when she gave him that look.
“And,” she added, “thanks for the silverware.”
He laughed. Brock slapped him on the back. Roman and Cash rehashed the shot trajectory and circumstances, all agreeing that Angela was a genius.
Angela stood up. “I want to take a shower.” She touched her arms. “I’m sticky and smell like soda and gunpowder.”
“After the Feds talk to you,” Brock said.
Sawyer understood this wasn’t something a clean-up or black-ops team needed to handle. This had been the third attempted assassination of a federal witness. The realization hit as hard as a bullet to the chest. Angela needed to disappear into the Federal Marshal’s Witness Protection program until, at the very least, she testified against Pham.
He hadn’t met her when that suggestion had been made years ago, before Boss Man gave her a job and moved her to Abu Dhabi. Sawyer couldn’t imagine the conversation would be any more successful today. He’d do anything to keep her safe. Hell, if she wanted, he’d disappear alongside her.
Witness Protection…? That would blow. New identities. Boring-ass jobs. But he might have a home to call his own again. A home with her. They could end up anywhere. The Pacific Northwest? A southwest desert town? They’d have regular jobs. They could do everyday things. They could get a dog.
“Thank you for not taking off that vest.” Other than the impact contusions and maybe cracked ribs, she didn’t have any wounds. Physical ones, at least.
“You told me not to,” she whispered hoarsely.
His smile broke. “Yeah, and you told me I was crazy and that smelling like a Jersey Shore arcade wouldn’t keep you alive.”
Angela snorted. “Turns out I’m wrong every now and then.”
Brock gave Sawyer a thumbs-up. “Cops are here. There’s an ambulance downstairs, waiting. Feds will meet us at the hospital.”
“I don’t need an ambulance or doctors,” she protested.
Sawyer shook his head. As much as he hated hospitals, Angela wouldn’t wriggle her way out of a thorough checkup. “You have to get checked out. We’ll drive you.”
Her eyebrows arched. “But I only need someone with a little bit of medical knowledge.”
God, she was killing him. He took her hand and led her into the hall. Police hustled toward them. Brock appeared behind Sawyer, ideally ready to run interference if anyone tried to separate him from Angela.
It only took a moment for Brock to work his magic, and they were able to leave.
The team took positions around them. Sawyer kept Angela under his arm until they reached the lobby, which was filled with the prying eyes of unsuspecting onlookers who wanted to watch. Some people even held up cell phones and took videos as if the spectacle was made for their social media feeds.
“Hang tight.” Sawyer left Angela with Brock. Cash and Roman blocked the view from onlookers. Sawyer found the manager who was good for her word and willing to get Sawyer whatever he needed.
The manager had boxes stacked on luggage carts, and then, surrounded by bellhops and boxes, Angela was led to the back of the oversize SUV with blacked-out windows. Colby Winters was waiting behind the wheel.
Damn, Sawyer loved Titan, no matter what team or where they were. They always had one another’s backs.