Chapter 5 Aran
Aran
For the first time in my life, I’m not early. It serves no purpose to be hanging around with a terrorist threat in a hotel full of people. I look up at the building from the alley that runs down the side of it and check my watch.
“Whoever this woman is, she had better be worth it,” I mutter as I climb out of the front seat and shut the door.
I do a quick sweep as I move around the trunk, and I open it.
I reach down and clip the zip ties around his ankles.
The fucker is going to have to walk. “Get up,” I say, gripping Granville by his upper arm. “Time to move.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me who has arranged this exchange?” he asks, his pale green eyes searching mine as he climbs out of the trunk with more grace than he should for someone with their wrists zip tied.
“Don’t care,” I say, closing the lid and moving swiftly, but not too much that we draw attention. As we round the front of the building, I stop. “If you so much as flinch after I’ve cut these ties, I will put a bullet in your head and fuck the consequences,” I growl.
“I have no reason to run. I’m getting what I want. Freedom.”
“Not for long. I will track you back down if it’s the last fucking thing I do.”
“You are welcome to try,” he murmurs, holding his wrists up as I clip the ties.
I’m poised, ready for him to run. He doesn’t.
He simply rubs his wrists once and then drops his arms to his sides.
That tells me that this is a mistake, but it’s not my call to make. I’m here to do a job, not question it.
“Move,” I say, stepping as close to him as I can, my right hand ready to grab him, my left ready to draw. I hope I don’t have to do either.
We walk through the lobby like two guests, avoiding eye contact with everyone until we reach the elevator.
The doors slide open. It’s empty. I guide Granville inside with a firm hand between his shoulder blades and hit four.
The doors close, and the mirrored walls give me a view of every angle.
Granville stands still, hands at his sides, breathing like a man on his way to a spa day rather than a hostage exchange.
That calm bothers me more than panic would.
The elevator rises. Second floor. Third. I watch the numbers tick over, keeping my breathing steady and my hands ready.
Fourth floor. The doors open.
The corridor is quiet. Hotel quiet. Two men stand near an ice machine near room 410. Dark suits, hands visible, trying to look bored. They’re not bored. They’re waiting. One of them gives a slight nod, not to me, to Granville.
I check the exits. Stairwell door at the far end. Service elevator to the left. Room 412 is halfway down on the right.
“Walk,” I say.
Granville does. Easy. No hesitation. No last look back. That calm is starting to annoy the fuck out of me.
The two by the ice machine straighten when we get close. Not much. Just enough to show they’ve stopped pretending.
He doesn’t smile. None of them does.
I keep Granville in front of me and angle us toward 412. The door is cracked open three inches. I notice that first. Then the silence behind it.
I put my hand on Granville’s neck and squeeze, just enough to remind him what reality is. “You go stupid, you die first.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “Always so warm, Aran. I’ve missed our conversations.”
I shove him through the door.
The room is standard enough at first glance. Bed made. Curtains half drawn. Air con humming. Then the details land.
I’ve got two more guys and no woman. “Where is she?” I say without pleasantries, gripping Granville’s neck tighter, ready to snap it if this goes sideways.
One of them takes in my size, and I see the hesitation. “She’s here. Just not here,” he says after a beat.
“That wasn’t the deal,” I say, stepping back, ready to abort.
Granville goes still under my hand. Not scared. Interested. That alone tells me this whole thing is rotten.
The taller of the two in the room lifts one palm. “Relax.”
I look at him. “That’s not happening.”
He shifts his eyes to Granville. “Release him first.”
I laugh once. No humor in it. “You’ve clearly mistaken me for someone much stupider.”
The room stays tight and ugly for a beat. Air con humming. No one moving. My pulse stays level. This is the part where men usually fuck up because they mistake stillness for safety.
I don’t.
The shorter one reaches behind his back. I’m already drawing before his fingers close on anything. My gun clears and points at his chest.
“I’ll put a bullet through you before you can grip your weapon.”
He stops.
“Where is she?”
“A room down the hall.”
“Then let’s go,” I state, not making a suggestion. I take a step back and then spin at the noise behind me, keeping Granville in my grip. He stumbles, but I don’t let him go. The two men from the ice machine enter, one already wearing knuckle dusters.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I growl as he goes for me.
Keeping one hand on Granville, I swing my left fist, still gripping the gun, and catch the knuckle-duster square on the jaw. Glancing. Not enough. I could fire, but a gunshot in a hotel turns this into a siege, and none of us want that.
The second ice machine guy barrels past me into the room. One of the exchange men meets him with a fist to the throat, and suddenly they’re brawling, knocking into the bed frame. The other exchange man grabs a chair.
They’ve realized what I have. This isn’t the deal anymore. Someone else has crashed it.
More men flood through the door. Two. Three. The exchange guys are fighting them too, which means this ambush isn’t theirs. Small comfort when I take a punch to the ribs, and Granville twists free in the half-second my focus splits.
Ambush. Three-way shitstorm in a hotel room.
I’m going to rip Connor a new one when I see him next.
I dodge a fist and drive my elbow into the nearest face. Cartilage pops under the impact, and he drops, both hands to his nose. The knuckle-duster comes back for more. I catch him in the throat, ram him into the dresser, and the lamp hits the carpet with a crack.
No gunshots yet. Either a good sign or a very bad one.
Granville slips left. I grab a fistful of his jacket and yank him back just as someone swings for my head. I duck. The punch skims my temple and connects with Granville instead. He drops like a bag of sand, and the punch-thrower stares at his own fist like it betrayed him.
Another one comes in low, grabbing for my waist. Knee to the chest. Shove. Gone. The room’s too tight for this many bodies, and that’s the only thing working in my favor. They can’t all come at me at once.
Someone lunges for my gun arm. I crack the butt of the pistol across his cheekbone, and he folds. The next one grabs my wrist with both hands. Strong enough to be annoying. Not strong enough to matter. I twist, break his grip, and put my boot through his kneecap. He goes down screaming.
Granville is already on his feet again and lunging for the door.
I drive through what’s left of them, shouldering bodies aside, and burst into the corridor. I look right and see a blonde woman standing stock-still by a cleaning cart. I look left and see Granville heading for the stairs.
My mission is simple.
Retrieve the woman.
With a curse to Connor that will burn his ears for the rest of the day, I let Granville go and lunge towards the woman. I loom over her, grabbing her arm as I search her face. Green eyes. Petite. Blonde. That’s enough. “Move,” I say, dragging her down the corridor.
She yanks against my grip. “Get your hands off me.” Not a scream. A command. Low, furious, controlled. Connor said violent. Connor said competent. This tracks.
“We’re leaving,” I grit out, hauling her toward the stairs where Granville made his escape. She digs her heels in, and I growl. Scooping her up and slinging her over my shoulder, I kick the stair door open. The latch breaks, and it bounces off the wall, nearly losing a hinge.
“Put me down, you fucking asshole,” she hisses, driving her elbow into my back. I almost smile. Four days in captivity and she’s still swinging. Impressive.
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, as I hear footsteps thundering behind us.
A bullet whizzes past my head.
She goes rigid, fingers clenching fistfuls of my jacket. “Fuck!” she breathes.
“Welcome to the party,” I mutter, turning on the landing and firing up the stairs. “So we’re doing this now, are we?” I hit a shoulder and move, taking the stairs, two at a time, while carrying a woman over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She is still. Quiet.
I head for the Service Door. It’s swinging open, and I know Granville is gone. The city has swallowed him, and I won’t find him again. Probably not ever.
“Fuck,” I roar, aiming straight for my car. I open the trunk and drop her in. She hits the lining and stares up at me, chest heaving. “You’re putting me in the fucking trunk?”
“Temporarily.” I notice the gray tunic and black pants.
Hotel uniform. They must have changed her clothes.
Smart. Hides her in plain sight. A bullet cracks off the wall behind me.
“Stay down,” I say, and slam the lid. Moving to the driver’s side, I get in and fire up the engine.
I reverse hard, nearly knocking down the shooter and blast backwards into the middle of the main road to a series of car horns blaring.
“This had better be worth it,” I mutter again as I slam my foot on the gas, leaving the ambush, and Granville, in my rearview mirror.