two more men in tactical gear were coming into the suite through the front door they’d taken down moments before.
Using the man’s weapon, Berg shot each man twice in the chest. They both had on body armor so he wasn’t worried he’d killed them.
With both attackers down, Berg refocused on the man he held captive. He spun him around, because he wanted to ask him a few questions about what the hell was going on. He was calmer now. He could be rational.
But when the man again faced him, Berg felt a little twinge in his side. He slowly looked down . . . and found a combat blade sticking out.
First he’d been shot. Now stabbed.
His grizzly rage soared once again and, as the intruder—quickly recognizing his error—attempted to fight his way out of Berg’s grasp, desperately begging for his life, Berg grabbed each side of his attacker’s face and squeezed with both hands . . . until the man’s head popped like a zit.
It was the blood and bone hitting him in the face that snapped Berg back into the moment, and he gazed down at his brain-covered hands.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”
The other intruders, ignoring the pain from the shots, scrambled up and out of the suite. As far away from Berg as they could get.
Someone touched his arm and he half-turned to see the woman. She raised her hands and rewarded him with a soft smile.
That’s when he calmed down. “Shit,” he said again, holding out his hands to her.
She stepped close, held his wrists, studied the blade still sticking out of his side. She then examined the wounds in his chest. Unlike the intruders, he hadn’t been wearing body armor. The bullets had hit him, had entered his body, but he was grizzly. Even as a human, you had to bring bigger weapons if you wanted to take down one of his kind with one or two shots.
Berg knew, just watching her, that she was going to help him. She was going to try. But she was in more danger than he was, and she needed to get out of here.
“Go,” he told her and she frowned. “Seriously. Go.”
He pulled away from her, went to his travel bag, paused to wipe the blood off his hands on a nearby towel, and took out a .45 Ruger, handing it to her. “Take this.”
Her eyes narrowed again as she stared up at him.
“I get the feeling you need it more than me,” he pushed. “Just go.”
She took the weapon, dropped the magazine, cleared the gun with one hand before shoving the loaded mag back in and putting a round in the chamber.
Yeah. The woman knew how to handle his .45. Maybe better than he did.
She pressed her free hand against his forearm and, with a nod, slipped out the door and out of the suite.
“Can I come out now?” Coop asked from the bathroom. But before Berg could tell him no the jackal was already standing behind him.
“Well . . .” Coop said, “that was interesting.”
“You could say that.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yes. And please stop playing with the knife.”
Coop pulled his hand away from the blade handle and attempted to look contrite. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”
Berg frowned at him and Coop nodded. “I’ll take that glare as a yes. Maybe I should call the front desk.” He started toward the phone on the side table by the bed.
“Think we’ll make our train?” the jackal asked.
Slowly, Berg faced Coop and noted, “You’re not used to real life, are you?”
“Not really. Why?”
“This is going to be big.” When Coop’s head tipped to the side like a confused schnauzer, he added, “The hotel room of some big-time penis was just violently invaded.”
“It’s pianist.”
“Yeah. I said that.” No. He hadn’t. “Anyway, we’ll have to get our stories straight. And we should leave out the girl.”
“Oh.” Coop thought a moment, the receiver held loosely in his hand. Finally, he said, “I’ll call my sister first.”
“Why?”
“If anyone can manage this, it’s Toni.” Coop winced. “But she’s going to be annoyed at you. For, you know, letting this happen.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m quite grateful. And I don’t hold you responsible for this at all. But my sister . . . she won’t be as . . . open-minded. You should prepare for that.”
“I’m sure I can handle a She-jackal.”
Using his cell phone to call his sister, Coop chuckled, “Yeah. Sure you can.”
Staring at the open bedroom door, Berg asked, “Think I’ll ever see her again?”
“The girl that was never here?” Coop asked. He shrugged while waiting for someone to answer on the other end of the phone. “If you keep an eye on the FBI’s ‘Ten Most Wanted’ list . . . sure! Because let’s face it. That’s a woman who seems to have trouble following her around like a needy puppy.”
* * *
Charlie avoided the elevator and found the stairs. She ran down until she reached the parking lot. She eased the door open, keeping the friendly giant’s gun in her hand. She peeked around the door, didn’t see anyone, so she ran toward the exit.
She dodged around the expensive cars, staying low and moving fast. She dashed past a car valet, and out of the lot.
Charlie moved down the street, cutting around the surprising number of people who were up this early. She’d just reached the corner when a man in a black tactical outfit and body armor stepped in front of her. They both raised their weapons at the same time, Charlie already pulling the trigger when a Lamborghini jumped the curb and rammed into the man. Both weapons missed their marks but now her attacker was pinned to the ground, screaming in agony as the passenger window lowered and Charlie heard the familiar—and shockingly casual, considering the circumstances—“Hey, shithead.”
The petite Asian woman with the short pixie haircut dyed blue grinned at her. They were sisters but one would never know it by looking at them.
Max MacKilligan asked, “Miss me?”
“Can you just drive?” Charlie got into the passenger seat. “But be careful. You still have human stuck to the grill.”
“I should let him shoot you? What kind of sister would I be?”
“One I don’t have to visit in an Italian prison.”
Chuckling,
