Three raps sent his heart into overdrive and pulled him from the bed. The person on the other side of the door announced, “Room service.”
I don’t believe it—the plan worked! He hesitated, then headed to the door. Since he wasn’t supposed to be an operator but an average American who had interrupted an attack, he peered through the peephole, half expecting to get shot in the eye. Instead, he saw a guy with a dome-covered plate in hand. The guy might have a tray, but he could’ve picked that up from outside any door.
Was this it? Would the Saudis hit him here? What choice did he have? This part was crucial to the endgame. He flicked the lock and opened the door.
The man rushed into him. “Inside, inside,” he husked, forcing Owen backwards. The tray of food clattered onto the small entry table even as the guy kicked the door shut and locked it.
“What is?—”
Dark eyes met his.
Owen gaped. “Dillon?”
Black hair shorn, frame a little lighter than usual, Dillon gave a dull nod. “Hey.”
“What are you doing here?” Owen balked, his mind clamoring over what it’d look like if the Saudis found them both here. “You have to get out. Leave! You could blow everything.”
Dillon’s brow furrowed. “Blow what?”
“I’m on an op.”
Something ominous flashed in Dillon’s eyes as he looked around the hotel room and frowned. “Omen. Are you freaking kidding me? You know they’re connected to what happened to my dad!”
Chagrined that he was working with Omen after the Scions had decided they were bad news, Owen faltered, but more at the venom in his Scion brother’s tone. “I’m?—”
“Forget it.” Dillon went to the backpack on the chair. Tore into it.
“What’re you doing?” Owen reached him in two long strides. “Aren’t you listening? You can’t be here. You have to?—”
“You have a phone on you? Credit card?”
“No. I?—”
“Bullspit. They wouldn’t put you on an op?—”
“I don’t,” Owen ground out. “I’m here, waiting for Saudis to come kidnap me.”
Dillon slowed, his gaze rising to him, then sliding toward the door with more than a little anger. “You serious—No, you’re flippin’ stupid! Saudis? They’ll gut you, Apollo. They aren’t anything to play around with. What’s the op?”
“I’m not telling you anything until I know what you are doing here!”
“Chasing leads. This guy I’m tracking, who was the last person to see my dad alive, is here.” He gave Owen a look. “You seriously working for Omen? Thought you hated contract?—”
“Dillon,” Owen said, weary with arguing. “Get out of here. You cannot screw this up.”
Two knocks stilled them both. “Room service for Mr. Apollo.”
“Food’s already here,” Dillon said, indicating to the tray he’d brought in, then he darted to the door.
“What are?—”
“It’s one guy,” Dillon said. “We can take him.”
“No!” Owen hissed. “If that’s the Saudis, you cannot intervene.” He gripped his head “You can’t be here. You’re going to screw everything up. Whatever you need, take it and go—out the window!”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Says the guy foraging for a credit card.”
