CHAPTER 22 #2
There’s no response, which is exactly what I expected.
They’re mercenaries, loyal only to the paycheck, and right now, the guy writing the checks is a hostage.
I drop the radio and let it swing loose on its clip.
As we push forward toward the elevator bank, I reach my left hand back blindly.
My palm immediately finds Ruby’s hip. I don't just touch her; my fingers dig hard into the soft flesh right above her hip bone, a bruising, fiercely possessive grip that pulls her flush against my side.
I need to feel her physical presence there.
I need to know she hasn't drifted out of my protective shadow to play hero.
In the middle of this carnage, my hand on her is a brand, signaling to whatever part of my primitive brain is currently running the show that she is mine, and I am getting us out.
Ruby doesn't pull away or complain about the heavy pressure.
Instead, she leans right into the contact, her free hand momentarily brushing against my forearm in silent acknowledgment.
As we walk, her hip bone bumps against the hard kydex of my holster in a rhythmic, grounding contact that does more to steady my pulse than any breathing exercise.
"Stay close," I mutter, keeping my eyes locked forward.
"I'm here."
"Don't let go of me, Ruby."
"I won't."
"You’re doing good. Keep your eyes up." The warmth of her body radiating through that thin, ruined slip is a massive distraction, smelling faintly of her sweat, vanilla, and the heavy sulfur of gunpowder, but I can't force myself to stop touching her.
Hemlock suddenly trips over a massive chunk of fallen drywall blown out from the panic room explosion.
His legs turn to absolute jelly, and he starts to go down, threatening to drag me with him.
I don't slow my pace for a fraction of a second. I reach up, grab a fistful of his hair, and violently yank him upward, dragging his pathetic weight across the floor for several feet before his expensive shoes finally find their footing again. He’s sobbing openly now, his face a disgusting mask of snot, tears, and blood, completely stripped of whatever god complex he had when he started this purge.
I hate his weakness. I despise him. I kick the back of his heel hard with the steel toe of my boot to force him to straighten his stride.
"Walk or I’ll use your corpse as a sled," I snarl, shoving him forward.
"I can't—my leg—"
"I’ve got five more bullets, Arthur. Don't make me use one on your kneecap."
He chokes back a sob and limps faster.
"Keep moving. The elevator is right there."
We finally reach the opulent, gold-leafed elevator bank that services the executive penthouse.
I jam the call button with my thumb, my eyes darting up to the digital floor indicator.
It’s sitting idle on the lobby level. Beside me, Ruby instantly shifts into a tight tactical stance.
She tucks the stock of the heavy SMG firmly into her bruised shoulder, her finger hovering straight over the trigger guard, and aims down the opposite end of the long hallway to cover our blind spot.
The tension is thick enough to choke on.
This is a massive bottleneck. If those guards decided their pride was worth more than Hemlock's life, the moment these doors open, we are walking into a firing squad.
I catch my own reflection in the highly polished gold surface of the elevator doors.
I look like a fucking nightmare—my face streaked with soot and blood, my suit jacket torn, a man haunting a palace of excess.
"Watch the stairwell door," I order Ruby, my voice tight.
"Watching it."
"If it opens and it’s not empty, spray the whole car. Don't hesitate."
"I won't."
"Almost out, Ruby."
The seconds stretch out into an agonizing eternity.
I keep the muzzle of the SIG buried so deep in Hemlock’s ear he’s whining continuously.
My own breathing is shallow and controlled.
I watch the muscles in Ruby’s bare back tensing and relaxing in my peripheral vision.
She is perfectly still, a predator laying in wait.
We are a mirror of each other right now, lethal, hyper-focused, entirely in sync without needing to speak a word.
She licks her dry, cracked lips, her hazel eyes never once wavering from the dark end of the hallway.
"Keep breathing, Ruby," I say softly, noticing her holding her breath.
She exhales a slow, shaky breath. "I am."
"I’ve got the hostage. You watch the doors."
"Got it."
"Ten seconds."
The elevator arrives with a soft, ironic 'ding' that sounds absolutely absurd in the middle of a warzone.
The gold doors slide open smoothly to reveal an empty, plush velvet-lined interior.
I don't wait to check the corners. I violently shove Hemlock inside, throwing him off balance so he sprawls hard onto the thick, custom carpet.
Ruby immediately backs in right behind us, her rifle still trained relentlessly on the hallway until the heavy gold doors finally hiss shut, sealing us in the box.
I slam my open hand against the 'Lobby' button, leaving a perfect, smeared bloody fingerprint right on the polished brass panel.
"Get in. Move!" I snap at Hemlock, who is trying to curl into a fetal position. I look up. "Watch the ceiling hatch."
Ruby tilts her weapon upward, aiming at the metal panel above us. "Clear."
"We’re moving."
The car gives a smooth jolt and begins its rapid descent.
As the digital numbers start ticking backward, the silence inside the small space is completely deafening.
Hemlock is nothing but a shaking, pathetic huddle of misery in the corner, holding his bruised throat.
I stand directly over him, my legs braced wide to absorb the movement, the gun still aimed squarely at his skull.
Ruby leans back against the mahogany wall for just a fraction of a second, her chest heaving heavily as the first major wave of adrenaline begins to dip, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
She adjusts her grip on the plastic stock of the rifle, her palms clearly slick with sweat, slipping slightly against the weapon.
"Thirty floors left," I announce, keeping my eyes locked on the floor indicator.
"Okay," she breathes.
"When the doors open, we don't stop. We walk straight to the street."
"Straight to the street. Got it."
I look at her, really look at her, taking in the bruises forming on her jaw and the ash in her hacked-off hair. "You okay?"
"Yeah. I’m fine."
I want to pull her against my chest and let her breathe for a minute, but I can't afford to lower my guard.
I press the transmit button on the stolen radio one last time.
I dig the hot barrel of the gun directly into Hemlock's temple, grinding it against the bone until he cries out loudly in pain, making sure the audio transmits crystal clear to the lobby.
"Open the gates. Now," I command into the mic, my voice leaving absolutely zero room for negotiation. "If I see a single muzzle pointed at us, your boss is dead before my boots hit the marble."
I release the mic.
"I'm coming out. Make sure the path is clear."