Tristan was running before he knew he’d made the decision.
The field where Rogue Security had set up their base of operations was near the back side of the resort where there were many more fields and much less reflected light.
Running around to the front of the hotel would take too much time, and Tristan didn’t have a key card to operate the elevator to take him to the top floor or a nifty device that would electronically unlock the stairwell door.
There was another way into the presidential suite, though.
Tristan ran to the ropes that were dangling under the balcony, grabbed one, wound his leg in the tail of it, and started climbing.
41
Anjali
Colleen
Colleen stood in the main bedroom of the presidential suite, her hands shaking because she could not find her best friend.
Jian Laio was sitting on the side of the bed, his shoulders slumped. He tried to say something to her, but only a hoarse croak came from his throat. Rags and a sock lay on the pillow.
One of Rogue Security’s commandos stood in front of him, bending at the waist and trying to look at his face. The guy unclipped a canteen from his belt and offered it to Jian.
Jian was waving his hand like he was trying to point, but he grabbed the canteen from the man and swallowed greedily. After his throat worked, he took the canteen away from his lips and panted for a moment before he rasped, “Anjali locked herself in the bathroom. She’s right there.”
Colleen sprinted the few steps to the door and pounded on it. “Anjali!Anjali!It’s me, Colleen! Come on, open the door and let us in. I swear to God, it’s me, and we’re here to get you out. Open the door!”
Under her hands, Colleen felt the door rattle from the inside.
“Anjali!It’s Colleen! Unlock the door and let us in!”
“No. It’s not you. It’s them,” Anjali’s voice whimpered through the door.
Colleen fell to her knees beside it and pressed her palms and cheek to the cold wood. “Anjali, it’s me! I swear to God. I can prove it. I know everything about you.” Colleen recited the few lines of Tamil that Anjali had taught her.
The door didn’t move.
“You brought back my monitor a few days ago after I lent it to you because Tristan King had hired me as a coding consultant,” Colleen ventured. “You like samosas better than pakoras, but you like onion rings the best. You still have to teach me how to make Kashmiri dum aloo so your aunties can arrange me so I can marry an Indian guy.Please,Anjali,open the door.”
And then Tristan was beside Colleen, his arms around her.
His arms and warmth steadied her.
Those bastards had hurt Anjali, Colleen could just feel it. Anjali didn’t shut people out. She was a hundred percent about community. If she had a problem, everyone else had a problem, too.
Knowing that Anjali was behind that door and hurt was flaying Colleen’s heart. Anjali had beentherefor her.
Tristan’s strong arms enveloped Colleen, and she leaned against his chest while she tried to talk to Anjali. The parts of her soul that had been in danger of flying to pieces steadied, and her voice shook less while she tried to talk Anjali into coming out.
Anjali whispered, and Colleen had her ear jammed against the door so she barely heard her. “Just Colleen can come in.”
Something heavy scraped the tile floor, and the doorknob clicked.
Colleen was kneeling on the floor, so she crawled inside because she didn’t want to waste a second, fearful that Anjali might change her mind and shut the door again.
When she scooted through, Anjali slammed the door behind her. Sitting with her butt on the tile and using her legs, Anjali pushed the porcelain toilet back behind the door to barricade it.
The bathroom was wrecked, and it smelled.
Wet towels stuffed the pipe coming up from the floor where the toilet had been, and the cover for the air conditioning vent lay in the tub. The duct leading out of the room was only six inches square.
