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?”
They continued to argue on what Damien assumed was a secure line. He had to focus to listen. Focus and remind himself that he had to be careful. No risks. He couldn’t fail. Nikki was in that bar—she was still in that bar—but she was in danger.
Not dead. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe that she was dead. But the danger was real, and he had to get back to her.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wanted to pull out his phone. Wanted to look at the app and check her watch for a pulse. Wanted to send her a tap to let her know that he was alive. That he would come for her.
Instead, he stayed completely still.
“Security system’s disarmed,” a new voice on the radio said. “Everything’s nice and calm out here on the perimeter. Ron’s right. Just nail whoever stands in the way. We do the job. Get the rock. Badabing, badaboom.”
“Now you listen, you two idiots.” Damien could hear the exasperation in the speaker’s voice. “Just because there’s no silent alarm that triggered some fucking guard station doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods. I swear to God, you two may be my blood, but I will kill both of you myself if you make me regret bringing you on this mission. So keep your eyes on the fucking prize, and let’s get this wrapped up. The sooner the better. And try to control your goddamn urges, boys. You kill everyone, we got no hostages. And hostages are the fall-back escape plan. You got that?”
“Got it,” Ron said, and the new voice concurred.
“Good. Clear your suite, make sure nobody’s tucked away on the shitter, and get the fuck out of there.”
Ron nodded. “Yes, sir. Over.” He moved back into view, the radio hanging in his hand. “Fucking prick.” He started to turn toward the powder room off the entrance hall, and Damien knew he would see him. Right now, the rifle was hanging, and Ron was holding the talkie in his hand on that side.
As far as opportunities went, it wasn’t bad. Besides, Damien didn’t have a choice. With only seconds before Ron would have seen him, Damien burst forward and grabbed the handgun from the back of Ron’s pants. Then he nailed him hard across the head with the butt of the gun.
Ron stumbled and fell, landing on his back. He kicked up, and it was only by a miracle that he didn’t get Damien right in the balls, which would have made him curl up defenseless for a moment. Instead, Ron scrambled for the AK-47, got his fingers on it, and started to lift the gun.
Damien fired, catching Ron in the chest. The thug howled, then started to roll. It took a moment for Damien to realize he’d fallen on the radio. If he called the others, Damien was a dead man.
He fired again, this time putting a bullet through the son of a bitch’s head.
He stood there, breathing hard as the radio buzzed back to life. “Ron, you motherfucker. What did I tell you about firing? Just finish up and meet me down here on five.”
There was a pause, and Damien utilized the time to force himself to move. To sling the rifle over his shoulder and clip the radio to his jeans. The Glock he kept in his hand.
Time to get the fuck out of there.
The thug on the radio had said he was two floors below on the fifth floor, which meant Damien was going up. He couldn’t risk bumping into any of these assholes, and he still didn’t know exactly how many there were.
He checked the hall—clear—then headed toward the stairwell. He paused, listening. No footsteps, no sound of the elevator. Good.
With luck, he’d get to the roof without incident.
But if he saw someone, at least he had the gun and the rifle keeping him company.
Chapter Ten
The stairwell opened off the end of the hall, and Damien paused halfway there, just by the vending alcove. A moment before, the floor had been silent, but now…
Well, now he thought he’d heard a creak. A bang. Something.
Thwump.
He heard it again. Footsteps in the stairwell. Shit.
With no other choice, he slid into the vending alcove and squeezed into the narrow space between the ice machine and the wall. He had the handgun at the ready. The rifle would be a better option for taking them out, but he had no way to know if the magazine was full, and he’d grabbed it without thinking that it could be empty. The handgun, thankfully, he’d checked as he’d moved down the hall. And except for the two bullets he’d fired, the clip was full.
Almost immediately, he realized it was the right decision to hesitate before taking the stairs. He heard the creak of the hinges on the stairwell door, then the pounding of footsteps in the hall. Men who knew that they were in charge and didn’t have to be quiet.
From his vantage point he could barely see the men. That meant that they could see him too if they looked in that direction, but he said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t, and when they walked right past, he breathed a silent thank you. Apparently the gods were looking out for him. Hopefully they were looking out for Nikki, too.
He’d seen two men in ski masks. Tall and lean. Black T-shirts, black cargo pants. Tattoos on their arms. One had hair long enough to stick out the back of the mask. He took a mental picture of the tats, fully intending to have a sketch artist draw them.
To do that, though, he had to get out alive.
Focus, Stark. You need to fucking focus.
He heard them enter his suite, and one must have kicked the door shut, because he heard it slam. He figured he had less than a minute as they went over to examine Ron’s body. After that, they’d burst out of the room, on the hunt for him.
They’d assume he’d try to escape, and fast, probably by racing down the stairs. And that, of course, was another reason he was going up.
He hurried to the stairwell door, then lingered once he was inside, manually closing it so that it didn’t slam. It cost him precious seconds, but better than announcing that he was there.