Chapter 9 #5
He deposited his tray and moved toward the elevators.
The service elevator was at the far end of the ballroom, past the bar, through a door marked Staff Only. Alan kept his pace unhurried, his expression blank. Just another server running an errand.
A man was standing near the east exit, talking to a woman—dark-haired, pretty. His gaze swept the room the way a soldier’s did, cataloging threats, and when it landed on Alan, it stopped.
Recognition.
Of course one of the Jones, Inc., men—one of the guys from Italy—was here. Alan’s gut tightened.
He didn’t run. Running attracted attention. Instead, he turned smoothly, walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and watched the man’s reflection in the polished brass doors as the man started toward him.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Alan stepped inside, hit the button for eleven, and let the doors close on the man’s approaching form.
He’ll take the stairs. Or the other elevator. He’ll be waiting.
Good.
Alan was tired of running.
The eleventh floor was quiet. Executive suites. Thick carpet that swallowed footsteps. Alan stepped out—
—and found the man waiting for him.
Fast, Alan thought. The man had taken the other elevator, beaten him here, and positioned himself perfectly.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the man smiled. “Miss me?” And right then, he launched himself at Alan.
Alan sidestepped, sent a punch at the man’s head. But the guy was ready—he ducked, grabbed Alan’s hand, twisted. Alan’s arm wrenched back, and before he could counter, the man fist slammed into his ribs.
Air left his lungs in a rush. He bounced off the wall, grunting, turned. “I see we’re still angry about Italy.”
I man came at him again.
Alan threw a punch—deflected. Tried a cross punch—slapped away. And then the guy had his arm, swinging it back, locking his elbow in an arm bar that sent pain screaming up to his shoulder.
A chopping blow to the back of Alan’s neck drove him forward, bending him over in submission.
The arm bar tightened. One more inch and his elbow would snap.
Alan did the only thing he could.
He slammed his fist into the man’s bad knee.
The same knee Alan had destroyed in Italy. It was a cheap shot—the kind of move that got you killed in what was supposed to be a fair fight.
His attacker’s grip loosened for a half second. Just long enough.
Alan twisted free, spun, kicked the man square in the chest. He flew backward, hit the wall, and Alan ran.
He burst into the stairwell at a sprint, taking the steps three at a time. Behind him, the door banged open—wow, the guy somehow already recovering, somehow still coming.
Alan made it to the ground floor, burst through the door into the hallway outside the ballroom. People scattered—guests, security, a woman in pearls who shrieked.
Behind him, the man shouted, “Jake!”
He was shouting at a man in front of them, down the hall.
Aw, now there were two of them.
“Don’t let him leave the hotel!” his pursuer shouted.
The other man—Jake—broke into a sprint, heading for the stairwell at the far end of the hall. Cutting off Alan’s escape to the loading dock.
Alan changed direction. Shoulder-checked a security officer who tried to stop him. Took the other stairwell, the one Jake was now racing toward from the opposite side.
He hit the door, plunged into the concrete-and-echoes darkness, and came face-to-face with Jake on the landing.
The man was reaching for his weapon. Fast, but not fast enough.
Alan grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and swung.
The blow caught Jake across the temple with a sickening crack. He crumpled against the railing, blood already sheeting down his face, and slid to the floor.
Alan dropped the extinguisher and kept moving. Down. The service floor. Housekeeping carts, linen baskets, a long supply closet. The catering kitchen was ahead—and beyond that, the loading dock. Freedom.
If he could just—
Footsteps behind him. Wow, the guy was impossibly fast despite the knee. Gaining.
The kitchen door was right there. Alan shoved through it and found himself in chaos—line cooks plating hors d’oeuvres, the clang of pots, the shouts of chefs, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread.
Too many witnesses. Too many obstacles.
He ducked behind a prep station, crouched low, and waited.
The door banged open. “C’mon, Martin. Don’t run away.”
Alan watched through the gap between two shelving units as the man moved into the kitchen. Limping now, favoring the knee, but his eyes were hunter sharp. Scanning.
The staff had gone quiet. A line cook frozen over his station. A waitress with an empty tray, staring.
The attacker walked deeper into the kitchen, checking corners, moving toward the hallway that led to the loading dock.
His back turned to Alan.
Now.
Alan drew his blade—the small knife from his ankle holster—and moved.
The waitress’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened—
“Look out!”
The man spun just as Alan’s knife came down. He threw up an arm, and the blade sliced through the flesh of his outer lower arm instead of his throat.
Blood sprayed across the stainless-steel counter.
The guy didn’t even flinch. He grabbed Alan’s wrist, wrenched him forward, and sent a punch across his jaw that made the world go white.
Alan ripped himself away, tasting blood, breathing hard.
Around them, staff pressed against walls, watching with wide eyes.
“Run,” he said to them, his gaze never leaving Alan. “Get out of here. Now.”
They scattered. Doors banged. And then it was just the two of them, circling each other between the prep tables, blood dripping onto the tile floor.
“You’re not getting out of here.”
“And you think you’re going to stop me?” Alan lunged.