by J. Kenner
“I know. I know. We’ve got this. Like I said, I’m going to let you get back to your evening. Oh, I almost forgot. Sylvia said to tell you that she had some more thoughts about the management software we’re designing for the Resort at Cortez. She also wanted to know how Damien took the news.”
I wince, expecting the other shoe to drop. So I’m not surprised when Abby asks, “What news is she talking about?”
I hesitate, wishing that Sylvia had remembered that this news was not a public announcement. But at the same time, I’m about to tell Damien anyway. I might as well share the good news with another one of my friends. “All right, but you have to promise not to say anything until I text you that it’s okay. I’m planning to tell Damien tonight, but if for some reason I get delayed, I don’t want him finding out from someone else.”
“Finding out what?”
“That I—” I drop the phone, at first startled and then terrified by the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapon fire. I leap to my feet, intending to bolt toward Damien. And now I can see it—I have a full view of the men’s restroom. The door open.
And a man in head-to-toe black spraying the inside with bullets.
“No!” I scream. Or at least I try to. The words don’t leave my throat. Instead, a hand claps hard over my mouth and forces me back down into the booth. The world is spinning. Everything going to gray. And right then, all I know is that someone is beside me, their hand on my leg, their voice in my ear.
Damien, I think. Oh, dear God, Damien.
“Don’t move,” says the voice at my ear. “For God’s sake, Nikki. Don’t even breathe.”
Chapter Seven
If Damien weren’t so damn proud of Nikki, he would have to be frustrated with Abby for interrupting the evening. But considering how many times they’d been interrupted because of a crisis at his work, he really couldn’t complain.
On the contrary, he was incredibly proud of his wife. She’d moved to Los Angeles determined to make it in the world of software development, and she’d done so faster than she had ever anticipated.
If asked, she would probably say that she owed a lot of her success to her husband’s name, but Damien knew better. Nikki would have gotten exactly where she was on her own. More than that, she really had done it on her own. She’d started small with iPhone apps, and now she was heading up a business with a substantial client base and a nicely black balance sheet. Definitely something to celebrate.
So, no, he couldn’t be too frustrated with Abby. Especially since she’d handed him just the distraction he needed. Nikki might have planned this weekend, but he wanted to add a few special touches. Like making sure room service had brought in the champagne he’d requested. And spreading the rose petals he had tucked away all over the bedspread.
Nikki had conceived of this one-night getaway, and he wanted to make it as memorable as possible. As he’d come to learn over the last few years, celebrating the good things was important.
All of which was why he’d dodged the men’s room, snuck out of the bar, and was now taking the service stairwell up to their room. The stairs, of course, had nothing to do with the celebration. But Damien had shortened his morning workout today to play a lazy game of tennis with Dallas. The man wasn’t bad, but the truth was that Damien could have won blindfolded. And the game wasn’t nearly as much of a workout as his usual seven-mile run.
He jogged up the two flights, then stepped out of the stairwell onto their floor, surprised once again by how silence permeated this hotel. In part because Jackson had insulated the rooms well, but also because there just weren’t that many people. It was an interesting concept, a high-end hotel with so few rooms, and Red was right—in order to make a profit, the rooms would have to come with a hefty price tag.
It was going to take a unique marketing campaign to make this space popular, and from what Damien had seen, that wasn’t yet in place. Already, he was making a mental note to keep an eye on it. If it came available, he might snatch it up. Not as a hotel, but as a luxury living space with concierge service.
Not a bad idea, and he turned over the possibilities as he moved through the hall, wondering if maybe he should pull Aubert aside and suggest that Stark Real Estate buy him out.
He didn’t wonder much, though. Business wasn’t his priority tonight. Instead, he was much more intrigued by the woman he’d left downstairs. He hurried to their door, used the magnetic key, and entered. He frowned, realizing the door had stayed open. Most hotel doors were designed to fall back and latch, and he made another note to ask Jackson why he’d chosen such an odd design. A touch that Aubert insisted on, maybe? To make the suites seem that much more like a home?
He shut the door himself, pleased to see that at least it locked automatically.
Then he checked the bedroom and saw that the staff had not only left the champagne on ice, but had left a box of chocolates, too. A nice touch.
He took the petals from his overnight bag and scattered them on the bedspread. For an extra touch, he took the few remaining and arranged them around the chilling champagne.
Only then did he realize that Nikki hadn’t touched her whiskey downstairs. He frowned, remembering that she’d also declined a mimosa that morning at breakfast. She said she preferred simple orange juice. Odd, because mimosas were one of her favorite drinks.
He hoped she wasn’t getting sick. She’d planned every aspect of this trip, and he didn’t want her disappointed. But her heavy workload before their departure and the strange weather might have taken a toll on her.
And though he hadn’t mentioned it to her, he couldn’t help but notice that she’d been a little pale lately. Not to mention that she’d been queasy on the flight. She hadn’t been airsick in ages.
She’d said nothing, and he hadn’t wanted to bring it up himself. But he’d silently worried.
For that matter, he was still silently worrying.
He debated putting the champagne back—he didn’t want to pressure her—when he heard the click at the door. He had to grin. She’d come up, obviously planning on surprising him, but he was more than happy to turn the tables on her. And even more happy to finish what they’d started downstairs in the bar. He hurried to the door and stepped behind it, intending to reveal himself when she closed it.
Except it wasn’t Nikki.
Instead it was a blonde-haired man with an automatic weapon. And Damien stood in shock and horror as the son-of-a-bitch opened fire, laying out a spray of bullets across the whole goddamn suite.
Chapter Eight
The room is in chaos, but one scream stands out of all the rest, sharp and clear.
It’s mine, and I have to force myself to stop. To realize that my throat is raw and that I need to stay still. To stay quiet. To fade away from the sight of the man with the gun and the man beside me, holding me still.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. He’s dead.
Damien is dead.
I can’t think. I can’t process. I can’t understand anything that is going on around me.
All I know is that the tall man in the mask opened fire into the men’s room.
All I know is that my husband was in there.
All I know is that my muscles are straining to run for him—to find him, to help him—but that the man beside me is holding me down.
Damien. Please, God, no. Not Damien.
“Let me go!” My voice is a both a cry and a snarl, but the man keeps me firmly in place. I look up, registering finally what I saw moments ago. Red.
“You.” I recoil back, then yank free of his grasp. “Let me go. I need to—”
“To what?” His voice is low. Harsh. “To go to him? They’ll shoot you the moment you stand up.”
“I have to know if he’s—”
“Nikki,” he says gently. “If he was in that bathroom, then Damien is dead.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to convince myself that he’s right. I want to scream. I want to cry.
“Stay here. Stay calm.�
�� His voice is low. His lips barely moving. “We can get through this, but not if you fly off the handle. And right now, that means if you want to stay alive, I’m your husband.”
“What?”
“If they see you alone with two drinks, they’ll know you’re with someone who’s missing. Probably a man. If he’s dead—and we don’t know that he is—you could be a problem. Easier for them to just get rid of you. If he’s alive, then they’ll know you’re his weakness.”
He turns to look at me. “So you tell me. Who am I?”
My gut twists into knots as I whisper my reply. “Right now, I guess you’re my husband.”
He nods. “Hush now. He’s coming.”
I watch as one of the two men collects the phones from Aubert and his two companions. Then he snaps at the cowering date couple at the two-top, taking their phones and ordering them into the booth next to ours, putting all of us in the same section of the restaurant. He demands the anniversary couple’s phones, too, then heads toward us.
I start to tremble. A bone-deep shivering that consumes my whole body.
“Deep breaths,” Red whispers. “You need to stay calm.”
I know. Of course I know.
I nod, then dig deep inside myself, finding the well of strength that Damien always says I have in me.
But do I? Can I really get through this?
“Phones. Now.” The man in black stands right in front of us, then nods at the table. I put my phone down, grateful there’s nothing identifying on the lock screen. Beside me, Red does the same.
The man in black tosses them in a to-go bag along with all the others.
“Name?”
“Nina Stanfield,” I say as he glances at something on his own phone, presumably a guest registry.
“You Dennis Stanfield?”
“That’s right,” Red says. “Her husband.”
“Now be good boys and girls, and when this is over, you’ll get out of here. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
I want to scream that they already hurt my husband, but Red’s hand tightening on my arm shuts me up.
Then the man in black turns his back on us, as if hammering in the point of who has the power here, and walks slowly away.
I yank my arm free from Red, then force myself not to cry.
Images of blood and flesh flash through my mind. The memory of cutting when I’d been certain that the rescue had fallen apart and that Anne was dead. I glance at the table and see the knife. And somehow that strengthens me.
Because I won’t use it. Not now. Not even if—oh, God, no—I never see him again. I know that Damien wouldn’t want me to cut. He’d want me to be strong. He’d want me to believe that he’s safe. He has to be safe.
Right now, I have to believe. I have to stay alive and believe that Damien is well, too. Because I can’t go on without that belief. Except, of course, I have to. He’d want me to be there to be strong for the girls.
I draw another breath and try to feel him. Try to feel that empty void that would be left in the universe if he were truly gone.
I don’t, though.
Instead, I feel a tiny bit of hope.
“Could he have survived?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I think we should both believe it.”
I nod, appreciating his honesty even as I hate the uncertainty. But it doesn’t matter.
The thoughts whip through my head at the speed of light, and now I glance around the room. Still full of fear and chaos. The second gunman has pushed Aubert up against the wall, a gun in his face. The blonde looks around frantically, her eyes wild.
“We’re going to be having a little chat with each of you,” the gunman with the phones says. “Nothing to fear if you tell us the truth. You lie, things won’t be good for you. You first.” He points to Aubert. “Then you,” he adds to the blonde. “After that, who knows? Guess it depends on who all are good little boys and girls.”
He signals to the other gunman, who drags Aubert into the alcove with the restrooms. I catch a glimpse of his face—fearful but determined—and hope when it’s my turn I can stay as calm.
Eight people who’d decided to come for a drink, held captive by gunmen, and I don’t even know if anyone outside this hotel has a clue. Are the police on the way? Do the hotel staff realize what’s going on? Had Red managed to hit a panic button?
I frown, thinking about the last question as I shift and look at him.
Red. The man who’d been behind the bar. The man who’d made a point of talking to us, and is now sitting next to me, acting like my protector. If I were anybody but Damien Stark’s wife, I might believe that he was doing this out of concern for a woman alone. But I am Damien’s wife, and I know this might be about him. Even though we hadn’t checked into the hotel under our real names, somebody would know. Somebody always seems to know.
Oh, God.
Red knew.
Instinctively, I inch away as an all-new fear starts to cut through me. “Who the hell are you really?”
“I told you. Red Cooper. Charles on my birth certificate.”
“The bartender,” I scoff, and feel fresh panic bloom as he flashes an enigmatic smile.
“Today, anyway. Guess I picked a bad one. Then again, my dad sure as hell couldn’t have handled this. Not with his heart. Fate, right?”
The words are only so much noise, and before I can reply, the second gunman returns, shoving a limp Aubert onto his knees. The jeweler simply lies there, his body shaking, as the gunman orders the girlfriend to her feet and shoves her down the hall with the butt of his gun.
The first gunman keeps a post near the front, his eyes scanning the room.
“You knew my name,” I accuse, my voice a barely audible whisper. “My real name. So tell me—what the hell is this about?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Do not lie to me. You’re with them.”
He faces me straight on, and I see the fury and disgust in his face. “I meant what I said. My father wouldn’t have survived this. I consider it a supremely good act of the universe that I ended up here in his place. But I am not—repeat not—part of this little charade. My role is the same as yours. I’m a fucking hostage. And frankly, I don’t much like it.”
“Then how the hell do you know who I am?”
His eyes narrow as if to say really? And, honestly, I have to concede the point. Damien and I don’t exactly move under the radar. Even so, I want to hear it from him. “Tell me.”
“My dad owns the bar, like I said. I own a distillery in Los Angeles. Whiskey and gin. Same town, so I see you around. Same charity events, that kind of thing. Plus, I live and breathe on this planet. Of course I know what the fuck you look like.”
I close my eyes and take a breath. “Do you think they know?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “They have a name to match the register. And right now they have other things on their mind than celebrity watching.”
I nod, somewhat appeased.
“Nikki,” he says gently. “I’m not one of them. I’m not a plant. I promise you.”
“Why the hell should I believe you?”
“No reason,” he says. “But I swear it’s the truth.”
Chapter Nine
Damien stayed tense behind the door. The thug still had his back to him, thank God. Damien needed to get a jump on him, but the guy still held the AK-47 tightly in his hands. If he caught even the slightest hint of movement behind him, he’d whirl around, and Damien would be a dead man.
Think. Goddammit, think.
The guy shifted his weight, and Damien readied himself to lunge, fearing he was going to have to go up against the gun anyway. Low, he thought. Dive low, get his legs, knock him down.
His thoughts cleared, focusing only on this moment. This crisis.
Time seemed to stand still, and he said a silent thank you that he was still working out. That the training regimen embedded into him as a child had never completely gone away. He was in solid
shape. He could do this. He had to do it.
He had to get back to Nikki.
The thug’s radio buzzed, a crackling voice coming through. “Ron, you shit. We’re taking hostages, not killing anybody.”
Ron. Damien made a mental note, wishing he had a pen so he could write on his arm. Ron and Radio Guy.
Ron released a beleaguered groan, like a fast food employee being scolded. Then he let go of the rifle, allowing it to hang from his shoulder as he reached for the radio. Damien tensed, his eye on the rifle and the handgun tucked into the back of Ron’s cargo pants. If Ron turned, he’d go for the gun, hoping that Ron couldn’t ready the Kalashnikov in time.
But Ron didn’t turn, and Damien forced himself not to go slack with relief, even as he calculated the odds of surviving if he jumped Ron now.
Not terrible. But not good. Ron had the weapons. And this wasn’t an action movie.
He stayed in place as Ron moved farther into the room, the radio in his hand.
“Get off my ass, Barclay. There’s only twelve rooms in this whole hotel, and we rented them all except for three. Might as well clear them out. Besides, there wasn’t anybody in here anyway. Must’ve gone out.”
“You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”
Ron snorted. “Don’t know why we’re being so careful anyway. You heard Chuck. The rich bitch in the bar tried to get clever. Now she’s dead.”
Nikki!
Icy fear surged through Damien’s veins, and it took all of his strength not to leap right then. No plan, just fury to guide him.
No. Oh, God, no. It couldn’t be true. He had to believe it wasn’t true.
“Once we got one dead body we may as well have more,” Ron continued. “Our asses are on the hook if we get nailed for this thing. So we make it easy. We leave no witnesses. Take out the rest of the people in the bar, get the stuff, get the fuck out of here.”
He’d been moving forward and a bit to the left, leaving Damien with only a view of his side.
“You are as dumb as dirt, my friend. We kill them all, then what the fuck do we have to negotiate with if we get trapped?”
