“Ms. Desta, I’m sure you understand that with the level of security—”
A smashing noise. Samira gasped.
“Ah, sounds like my head of security has located you,” Hyland said. “He will take it from here. Good talking to you.” A click. He’d hung up?
Several clonks, and the earpiece squealed. Jamie upped his pace.
“Lovely to see you again, Ms. Desta.” An Irish accent, distant and muffled. Fuck.
Jamie reached the elevators and pressed the call button. It lit up then went dark.
“You have to swipe it with your keycard,” a white-haired woman said, walking past. “It’s all very involved security around here this week. That senator from America is staying—the handsome one—but I guess you’d know that.” Her elderly companion rolled his eyes. “Not that he’shandsome, I mean. Just that he’s here.”
In Jamie’s ear, Samira cried out faintly, the weak connection making her sound like she was underwater. Shit.
He made a show of patting his pockets. “Oh no, I must have left my card in my room.”
“Are you—what’s it called—Secret Security Service?” The woman’s eyes widened.
“Something like that, ma’am. And, wow, will I be in trouble with the senator for this.”
“Oh, we can’t have that. Allow me.”
She shuffled forward, pulled a keycard from her purse, held it against the scanner and pressed the call button. It lit up—and stayed lit. Jamie held a hand to his ear, cradling his earpiece. Nothing but a faint hum. Seemed like he was the last one standing.
“Appreciate it, ma’am,” Jamie said, checking his breath. He’d be the one having a panic attack, in a minute. In what he hoped was a salute befitting the Secret Security Service, he touched two fingertips to his temple. “You two have a nice day.”
Once in the elevator, he chose the third floor and hammered the door-close button. What the hell would he do when he got to the room? The doors opened and he peeped out—a quick left and right. The corridor was empty except for a woman in gym gear talking on a phone, her wet hair plastered to her neck. He began walking, checking the room numbers.
“...so embarrassing,” the woman was saying as she slotted her card into a lock. “I had to go down to the front desk and get a new key—wet hair, goggle marks, no makeup and this huge zit on my cheek.”
Jamie strode faster, counting down the room numbers. He caught up to the woman as she pushed the door open. Room 327.
“Seriously, I look like a zombie with its flesh—Jesus Christ.” She held the phone to her chest.
Jamie pulled up behind her. The room looked deserted.
She turned to him. “I think I’ve been robbed.”
He grabbed her shoulders and planted her against the corridor wall. “Wait here.” He shouldered open the door as it went to latch, the contact burning into his wound, and reached for a gun that wasn’t there. An overturned chair, a spilled suitcase, strewn bedcoverings... Drawers had been pulled out and emptied. The minibar swung open. Jamie crouched and pulled at a corner of dark purple fabric. It snaked out from under a sheet. Samira’s scarf.
“Jesus Christ,” the woman said again, holding the door open. “Should I report it?” From her phone, a tinny voice squealed.
“No,” Jamie said, adopting an authoritative voice. “No, I’ll take care of it, ma’am. Go back to the gym and wait there. Speak to nobody.”
As she spun, a large figure covered the doorway. She jumped, screeching. The sound echoed in Jamie’s ear. Samira’s mic had to be still in the room. A guy in a black suit stepped in, holding a Beretta. Laura’s security detail. Blood seeped from a wound beside his eye. The woman backed into the room.
“Where is she?” Jamie demanded.
“I swear, man,” said the guy, advancing, the woman almost pirouetting in his wake, “I’m not even sure what’s going on but your best chance is to come quietly. Your buddy already gave me enough trouble.”
The woman tripped and fell backward onto the floor. She scrambled, grabbed a high-heeled boot from a pile of clothing and smashed it into the guy’s shin. He flinched. Jamie leaped into a disarming maneuver. The guy swiveled and his fist connected with Jamie’s wounded shoulder. Another black-suited goon ran into the room, identical Beretta trained on Jamie’s chest.
“Sorry, man,” the first guy said. “I did suggest you come quietly.”
* * *
FITZSHOVEDSAMIRAonto a chair in a windowless meeting room. She didn’t even know what floor they were on. The Peugeot driver followed him in and closed the door, Samira’s laptop under her arm. They weren’t taking her to Hyland?
