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“In that case, we’ll need to wait here for an hour or so until she gets back.”
“If she gets back…”
“Her passport is still here. She has to come back.”
I swallow, recognizing that voice.
“She may not have been lying about being here with her husband, Boss.”
“Doubtful,” he says. “Front desk says she checked in alone, and I’ll make sure she leaves alone. Give me her passport.”
“That ring can’t be worth that much,” another guy says.
“In that case, give me five million from your own account,” he says, scoffing. “Just try not to be too rough with her after I take it.”
“What does it matter how rough I am when I fuck these foreign, tourist girls?” he asks. “It’s not like they can report the shit from their graves.”
“Just not too fucking rough, okay?” He hisses. “Because I said so.” He pauses, and the footsteps move to the bedroom. “Put your silencer on.”
Michael’s body stiffens against mine, and I can feel anger rolling off him in waves.
Letting out a slow sigh, he grips my waist and stills me. Even in the darkness, I can tell that he’s looking into my eyes.
“Ignore whatever the hell you hear,” he whispers. “And don’t make a sound. Can you follow those instructions?”
I nod, but he must not believe me. He grabs my hands and slowly positions them over my mouth. Whispering, he repeats his directions and then he slowly moves the panel to step into the bathroom.
Loud laughter erupts from the bedroom, and then there’s a sudden silence.
“What the—” One of the men says. “Who the fuck are you? Where did you come from?”
His sentence is answered by a series of gunshots. The sound of shattered glass and pained screaming follow.
Oh, my fucking God…
I hear what sounds like a wall collapsing, like its falling right over me.
I hold back screams as bullets begin to fly through the utility closet, right into the drywall next to me.
Crouching onto the floor, I bite down hard on my lip, struggling to stay quiet.
The next several seconds sound like utter war.
The gunfire is nonstop; the bullets rain down like a storm, and every now and then the sound of destruction—shattering glass, moving furniture, falling walls, gives way.
I hear moans.
A few more shots.
Then silence.
Sucking in a deep breath, I can feel fresh tears streaming down my face. My heart is aching inside my chest, unsure of who’s still standing on the other side of that door. Before I can think about it, the door swings open, revealing a completely stoic Michael.
Without saying a word, he helps me to my feet. As if he knows I’m distraught as hell, he lifts me up and tosses me over his shoulder.
He carries me past the carnage in the bedroom, and I damn near pass out as I look over what he’s done.
There are four men, not three, and none of them will ever leave this room alive.
A knife is embedded in the skull of one man; blood oozes down what’s left of his face. Bullets are riddled through the chest of two others. The fourth guy is slumped against a metal chair near the door—struggling to breathe, as his legs lay mangled beneath him.
Michael opens the door and fires a shot, putting him out of his misery.
I open my mouth and scream as the blood splatters against the wall, but no sound leaves my throat.
Within seconds, Michael is opening a car door and placing me in familiar territory: the floor of his backseat.
“Stay down, Meredith.” He commands, before steering the car down a rocky road.
Seconds later, amidst a chorus of police sirens in the distance, he brings the car to an abrupt stop.
“I need to have a conversation with the front desk,” he says, stepping outside. “Keep your head down.” He slams the door shut.
He returns seconds later flexing his fingers before speeding onto the road again.
I remain on the floor as more tears stream down my face, as my breaths come in haggardly.
Somehow witnessing him at work has made his profession far clearer than any of the words he said to me weeks ago, any of the thoughts he’s attempted to convey. And for whatever reason, despite the fact that this makes him far more dangerous than I thought he was, I don’t attempt to get out of the car at any of the stoplights. I don’t take my chances at getting away when he stops at gas stations and offers me the chance to sit up front with him.
It’s not until we reach a long, vacant strip of highway that he pulls over and makes me move to the front seat.
Reality slowly settles in, and I’m no longer sure if that’s a good thing.
“You shouldn’t be crying over any of those people.” He leans over and wipes a few of my tears away with his glove. “They would’ve killed you, if I didn’t kill them first.”
