I wander into the bathroom and stare into the mirror. I run my hand up and down my throat, assessing how desperately I need a shave. Yeah, it’ll be fine for another day. Maybe two.
I lean over the basin and splash some cold water on my face to help wake me up. I pause for a moment, staring absently at nothing in particular as the water drips off me.
Wait.
Something’s caught my eye. I must have registered it subconsciously at first, because I wasn’t immediately aware of it, but it must be important, because it’s been fast-tracked to my conscious brain.
Kaitlyn would be so proud of me.
There’s a small bruise on my right arm, in the crook near the elbow. It’s no larger than a dime, with a tiny red dot in the middle.
I frown and examine it more closely.
Yeah… that’s a puncture wound. I’ve been injected with something. Recently.
All the deep breaths in the world aren’t going to stop my spider sense now.
“Kaitlyn?”
I’ve missed something. I don’t know what’s happened, but I know she’s not out getting breakfast. I’ve had a needle stuck in my arm at some point between me and Kaitlyn… y’know… and me waking up just now. Which means…
“Oh, fuck!”
I dash back into the bedroom and look around. I don’t see anything.
Goddammit! Come on, Adrian…
I close my eyes, take one deep breath, and subdue the mixture of panic and anger that I’m feeling right now. I open my eyes again. This time, I look around the room properly, calmly, like I’ve been trained to.
Her underwear drawer, just inside the door on the right, is slightly open. It wasn’t last night. I open the closet next to it. A hanger falls out as I do. It mustn’t have been put on the rail properly. That means she got dressed quickly, like maybe she was in a hurry.
I look at the bed. The cover is messed up on her side, hanging off one edge more than the other. It doesn’t look natural, like when it’s moved around during the throes of passion or sleep. It’s more like she was dragged out of bed by her feet, and she was holding on to the duvet in an effort to resist.
Sonofabitch. They’ve taken her.
I throw my T-shirt on and step into my shoes. No sign of my gun. I definitely left it on the bedside table last night. I screw my face up with frustration.
Shit.
I quickly walk out into the small reception area and look at the front door. The chain is still in the latch, but it’s been cut, presumably through the narrow gap between the door and the frame. I move over to inspect it. The edges are smooth. It’s a pretty thick metal chain, so maybe some kind of laser cutting tool was used… That’s some high-end tech.
Double shit.
I hear a beep in my pocket.
Huh?
I take out my cell phone. There’s a message from Horizon. I open it.
It doesn’t have to be like this, Adrian. We should meet to discuss your future. I’m in my suite when you’re ready to talk. No rush…
Triple shit!
Goddamn… fucking… sonofa… asshole… bastard!
I don’t hesitate. Hell, I don’t even think. I yank open the door and run out, down the hall and down the stairs. At the bottom, I head straight for the entrance, but skid to a halt as I reach the door.
I’ve just had a thought. A really unpleasant thought.
If they found me and Kaitlyn here, maybe they…
I glance over my shoulder, down the hall to where Yaz disappeared last night.
Oh, please don’t tell me…!
I spin around and run along the hall. I turn right at the end. There are two apartments down here. I’m assuming Yaz lives in the one on the right, because the door’s standing open, and there’s a pool of blood slowly expanding out into the hall.
“No… no… no…”
I step toward the doorway cautiously. I press myself against the wall and peer inside.
“Oh, fuck me…”
There’s a woman lying in the middle of the floor, face down, surrounded by blood. I’m guessing that’s Yaz’s mom.
I move in, careful not to step in anything and leave a print. “Yaz? It’s Adrian. Are you in here?”
Nothing.
Don’t tell me they’ve taken him, too.
Bastards.
I sprint back down the hall, out the main entrance, and onto the street. The Suburban’s still parked out front, seemingly untouched. I look inside. The key’s in the ignition. I check the trunk.
Empty.
All the weapons are gone.
I slam my hand on the roof.
“Fuck!”
That’s it.
I climb in and start the engine. Thankfully, it’s an automatic. It’ll be hard enough as it is driving with one hand all the way to Dubai, without having to try working a stick, too.
I step on the gas, spin it around, and speed away, leaving tire marks on the road behind me.
I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get there, but one thing I know for sure… this ends today.
I’m doing sixty along the stretch of road that takes you out over the water and onto the island home of the Burj Al Arab Hotel. I circle around the huge water feature and slam on the brakes, screeching to a halt outside the entrance. I grip the wheel tightly in my hand. I’ve worked myself up into such a fury on the ride here, I can barely see straight now I’ve arrived.
I do a quick mental assessment. My back’s fine. Kaitlyn removed all the Band-Aids last night, and despite the sheer number of lacerations I sustained, they were mostly superficial and have already begun to heal.
I glance down at my right hand. After the amazing job Kaitlyn did changing the bandages and tightening the cast last night, my hand is as protected as it’s ever going to be. It’s still mostly useless — I have no grip and no strength — but I guess I can use the cast as a weapon if I need to. It’ll probably hurt like hell, but without a gun, I’ll take what I can get.
I pull the sun visor down and slide back the cover on the mirror. The little light flicks on automatically and I examine my head wound. Again, Kaitlyn did a good job of taping me up, and a lot of the bleeding has stopped now. But that doesn’t take away from how bad the cut was to begin with, and without stitches, the slightest knock is going to open it up again, which I could really do without.
So, I’m far from a hundred percent, but I could be worse, I guess. I’m not armed, but I’m really pissed off, and with one good hand and two good legs, I’m three times the fighter most men are — armed or otherwise.
Don’t forget you’ve got me, you crazy bastard!
Oh yeah… and my Inner Satan is going to be putting in a shift today, I can promise you that.
I step out of the car and look up to the heavens, squinting against the glare of the scorching sun as I stare at the helipad jutting out from the roof of the hotel. Damn… that’s a whole lot of real estate standing between me and Horizon.
I grind my teeth, clenching my jaw muscles as I feel the rage building inside me. Violence seething through my veins. I don’t care how many floors there are… how many men… how many guns… I’ll burn this whole fucking place to the ground if I have to. I’m going to—
“Adrian Hell?”
Huh?
I lower my gaze and see four men standing maybe ten feet from me, forming a neat line in front of the extravagantly-decorated glass doors. They’re all dressed the same, in fitted white shirts, suit pants, and shoulder holsters. They’re all big guys, with tanned complexions and various styles of facial hair. Their weapons aren’t drawn — they’re standing with their hands clasped in front of them.
The guy second from the left steps forward. “Horizon’s been expecting you. Come with us and we’ll take you to him. There’s no need to cause a scene.”