Sean stumbled back for a moment but immediately recovered and raised the weapon again. He fired. The bullet zipped by the target as the man ducked to the left and snapped his foot up. The boot struck Sean's hand with such force that it jarred the gun from his fingers and sent it tumbling through the air until it landed two doors away.
Another man stepped out of the room with his weapon drawn. He tried to get a clean shot, but his partner was in the way, launching another assault at the American with a flurry of jabs.
Their faces were covered with masks, but Sean could see from the pallor of their skin they were likely from Eastern Europe. The cold, lifeless eyes were another giveaway. He'd encountered men like that before, men who'd been mercenaries in conflicts all over the world. They bounced around in various uprisings and then disappeared again, only to resurface when they needed more money.
Sean deflected the repeated punches, left, right, and back again. Even as tired as he was, he moved with lightning precision. The attacker twisted his hips slightly, a dead giveaway that he was about to kick. Sean finished the last block and stabbed his hand down to catch the man's boot as it swung at Sean's midsection. The assassin's eyes went wide for a split second, surprised at the American's counter. He quickly adjusted and jumped into the air, swinging the other foot around hard at Sean's face.
Sean knew that would be the guy's only play. Anticipating the desperate kick, Sean lifted the foot in his hand with all his might. The attacker's jump did most of the work. Sean just helped him over the top.
The guy flipped into the air. He went head over heels so fast that he made it a full turn and a half. While impressive, it was also fatal. The attacker landed squarely on his head. A snapping sound cracked from inside his neck. For a moment, it seemed like everything was happening in slow motion. The assassin wavered and then fell hard onto the floor in front of the other gunman.
Sean took two fast steps toward the wall as the remaining assassin fired his weapon in rapid succession. He'd reacted too slow. Sean jumped at the wall, took another running step off it, and launched at the attacker. The man tried to raise his weapon to get a point-blank kill shot, but Sean kicked the gun loose and then planted a hard punch on the guy's jaw that ended with a whap! four inches behind the target.
The man tripped and stumbled back. Sean didn't let up. He grabbed the man's shirt before he could fall away. Between yanking him forward and the power behind Sean's fist, the next blow was a little more than even Sean expected. His fist smashed into the man's face and sent the nose bone into his brain. Blood gushed out of the nostrils for a moment before Sean realized fully what he'd done.
He let the man's shirt go, and the body dropped to the floor. The attacker's eyes rolled into the back of his head, showing nothing but white.
Sean felt his body trembling, still pumping adrenaline through his veins. He swallowed hard. His right hand involuntarily wiped his forehead. It was then he saw the blood on his hand.
The man with the broken neck gurgled something from behind. Sean spun around and looked down at him. "Who do you work for?" Sean asked.
The attacker's breaths came in short bursts mingled with the sound of fluid in his lungs. All he could muster was a low groan.
"You're not going to say anything, are you?"
The guy wheezed but said nothing. His neck was bent at a grotesque angle. He was surely paralyzed. From the lack of movement, Sean guessed from the neck down.
Sean knelt down next to him and grabbed the guy's hair. "You tell me who you work for, and I'll put you out of your misery. Or you keep quiet, and I let you live like this for the rest of your life. Is that what you want? Forty years of life like this?"
Saliva and blood oozed out of the corner of the man's lips. He said nothing, not anything Sean could understand at least. The guy wasn't going to give up the goods. Maybe he couldn't speak. Or maybe the pain was too much. Either way, there was no reason to keep him alive. The last thing Sean needed was this guy to live and talk to the authorities. Who knew what crazy stories he would concoct?
Sean held the man's hair tight and then jerked the head upward. Something crunched in the man's neck, and Sean let the head drop to the floor. It was a sickening sound. Sean never cared for that part of his former job. Killing up close was something only weirdoes enjoyed. Well, killing in general. He never cared for it, but he knew if he didn't use that talent to his utmost ability, the bad guys he went after would use theirs. Innocent lives depended on Sean.
That thought was interrupted by his hotel room door opening. Tommy rushed out first with his pistol in the air. He was followed by Adriana. She held her weapon at the ready and swept the corridor to make sure all the threats were neutralized.
When Tommy realized no one else was left, he lowered his weapon and passed his gaze between the two bodies.
"What did you do?" he asked.
Sean's breath slowed. "These two went into our other room. From the looks of it, they were here to kill us."
"Sound suppressors," Tommy said, seeing the attackers' weapons. "I thought I heard something out here."
"Yeah. Just the sound of gunfire. Totally normal," Sean said.
"I'm glad you're okay," Adriana said and put her arm around Sean's back. He squeezed her for a second, and then she let go.
"Me, too. I'm glad you're okay."
"Hello, I'm okay, too," Tommy said, waving a hand around.
Sean sighed. "I guess we need to call the police. We'll need to hide our guns first. Somehow I doubt they'd like the fact that we brought them into the country."
Reece stepped into the hallway and looked at the two dead bodies. "Whoa, mate. Did you just do this?"
"Afraid so."
"Wow. Thanks for inviting me to the party."
"You needed the sleep. But I'll tell you what. You get first shift next time."
Chapter 21
Bernard Holmes walked into his kitchen and opened the stainless steel refrigerator door. He'd known it would be a long night when he planned the mass execution of his board of directors. He must have spoken with at least a dozen investigators, not including normal cops. Then there was the media. He did one television interview with the reporter, two with the local papers, and one with a guy Holmes was pretty sure just had a blog.
It didn't matter. The more people seeing him devastated by the tragedy, the better. He pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and unscrewed the lid. He finished half of it in less than four seconds.
Holmes set the bottle down on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't have as much as he used to. Seemed like he was losing more every day. He needed a drink. It was late, though, and the last thing he wanted was his buzz to wear off in the middle of the night and wake up at 3 a.m.
"I should have been an actor," he said to himself.
His head ached, and his reddened eyes were sore. Forcing himself to cry during most of the interviews had taken an extraordinary effort. He found it useful to put his mind in a place where he actually cared about something, and then imagine that something being ripped away. For Holmes, it was easy.
When he was twenty-six, his wife had been ripped away from him in a car accident. The driver wasn't drunk. He'd fallen asleep at the wheel. It could have happened to anyone. Then there was the irony of where Holmes now worked, as chairman of a company that produced the very thing that propelled automobiles.
Holmes never recovered from the accident. He threw himself into work, into making himself into something untouchable. To numb the pain in his heart, he dabbled with drugs, but that never touched it. Buying companionship helped him forget things for a little while, but his guests always left in the middle of the night, taking their compensation with them and never looking back.