“Problems, I know,” Theo interjected quickly. “Ripley’s been made. They’re chasing him into the cocktail lounge.”
I was already racing forward, my feet digging hard into the carpeted hallway.
“How many?”
“Four at least. Hard to see. They’re moving fast.”
I clenched my teeth as I picked up speed, running full-tilt through a pair of open doors. I was flung into a beautifully-decorated lounge area, all set up for the after party. Ripley was on the far side of the room, legs spread in a fighting stance. He was busy swinging bottles of liquor at two different attackers who were trying to flank him.
Luckily the other two spectators were hanging back, to see what happened. One brought his arm up, presumably tospeak into his watch, so I swept his leg and slammed him face-first into the marble floor.
There was a sickening crunch, followed by a gush of blood and scattered teeth. The second man looked horrified, especially at the eerie, otherworldly sounds his broken companion was suddenly making.
“Colson!”
Ripley laughed my name aloud, to purposely distract his attackers. It worked like a charm. They both turned to see what he was looking at, and he smashed his bottle directly into the nearest guy’s face.
In a testament to its construction, the bottle didn’t break. The guy’s face did. He fell straight down, like a switch in his brain flipped, which it probably did.
Before the other guy knew what was happening, Ripley already had him wrapped up in a rear naked choke.
That left the one remaining pursuer who’d apparently drawn a wicked-looking Beretta. He held the weapon level with my face now, causing me to take two steps back.
“Easy,” I told him, in a calm, even tone.
The arm holding the weapon was shaking violently. I hated that part most of all.
“Listen,” I said, holding my hands up. “You don’t want to—”
“STOP!” a voice barked, somewhere behind me. “Put that away!”
For the first time in my life, I was relieved to see Roman burst into the room. He was flanked by another three of Donovan’s men, all of whom I recognized.
“But…” the man with the gun stammered. Using his free hand, he pointed awkwardly to his fallen companions. “T—They just—”
“Who do you work for!” Roman blurted loudly.
The man didn’t answer right away. The arm holding the Beretta shook more violently, however.
“You work for your company, which was hired by Donovan for this event. And that means you work for me.”
The poor, crumpled mess on the floor moaned again. To the man holding the gun, the sound was like nails on a chalkboard.
“Five hundred of the most important people on this planet are two rooms away,” Roman snarled, in a tone that told everyone he wouldn’t be saying it again. “You fire that weapon and I’ll put it straight up your ass!”
The shaking arm slowly lowered. Which meant I could finally breathe.
“Let go of him,” Roman barked, turning his attention to Ripley. “NOW.”
I’d completely forgotten Ripley was still choking someone. Apparently, he did too. The guy he was holding was out cold.
“Jesus fuck,” Roman swore, looking around at the blood, broken glass, and scattered teeth. He sneered at Ripley in disgust. “You make recklessness look like a superpower.”
“Thanks,” Ripley replied cheerily.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Wiping his hands on his apron, Ripley laughed. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
