“Julian…”
“Move.”
We bolt to the end of the corridor and the door that has a picture of a person fleeing from fire. Regular fire. Not gun fire.
A hysterical giggle rise in my throat and I swallow it down, emitting a burp.
Julian shoots me a curious look but doesn’t comment. Instead, he opens the door, checks the other side really quickly, and then pulls me in after him.
The stairwell is dim and echoing, concrete steps ringing under our feet as we take them two at a time. My lungs burn. My heart is pounding so hard I’m half-convinced it’s audible.
“What is this?” I gasp. “A robbery? A terror attack?”
“Coup,” he says.
The word lands like a physical blow. “What?”
“Military-backed,” he continues, voice steady despite the speed we’re moving at. “Timing aligns with intelligence chatter.”
I stumble slightly, and his grip tightens, hauling me upright without breaking stride. “How do you know this?” I shout.
He glances back at me. Just once. “Iris,” he says, “you really don’t want me answering that right now.”
We burst out into a service corridor near the hotel’s back entrance. Staff are scattering. Someone is shouting into a radio. The air smells like sweat and panic.
Julian veers left, yanking open a nondescript door. Inside is a narrow storage room.
He locks the door behind us and crosses the small space to an electric panel, which he pulls straight out of the wall.
My mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He reaches inside the hole he just made and extracts a compact black backpack.
A go bag.
My stomach drops.
“You have a go bag,” I say faintly.The guy has prepared a freaking bug-out bag. I don’t even have underwear right now. Because he ripped them. Again.
“Yes.”
“In my hotel.”
“Yes.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Well, technically, it’s my hotel too. I’m also staying here.”
“Julian,” I whisper, “who the hell are you?”
He doesn’t answer. He pulls out some spare ammunition, which he stuffs into a back pocket, and then shrugs into the bag with practiced ease.
I stare.
“That is not diplomatic equipment.”
His mouth curves grimly. “You’d be surprised.”
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a breaking news alert.
SAN ISIDRO MILITARY MOVES ON PALACE. AIRPORT SHUT DOWN.
