Page 83

Only this man was looking directly at me.

No, he can’t possibly be looking at—

I was sure of it.

I gulped and stepped back, still not taking my eyes off the masked stranger. He stood there staring back, completely immobilized. Totally unmoving and out of place, while the crowd surged and writhed and undulated around him.

Then he began walking toward me, and my heart skipped a few beats.

He doesn’t see you, the little voice in my head admonished. That’s impossible.

It sure didn’t seem impossible. Especially in that he was picking up speed. And he was still walking pointedly in my direction. Making a beeline for my exact alleyway, when he probably had a dozen others to choose from.

Dallas…

The man kept coming, and I realized my body was frozen in terror. My feet were glued to the balcony floor. All the muscles in my legs suddenly stopped working at once.

Dallas!

The masked man reached the edge of the square, then burst into the alleyway. My alleyway. He was practically running now, still coming up the sidestreet. Still headed with grim determination directly toward the door of our hotel.

He swiped at his face, and his mask flew off. My breath caught in my throat.

It was him.

By the time I recognized him he was already inside, already disappeared through the hotel’s main entrance. I could picture him sprinting, bounding his way through the lobby. Bursting into the stairwell, his long legs taking the steps three at a time.

Coming for me…

It was too late to stand there cursing my inaction. Our hotel was small, the corridors tight. Even worse, the elevator was slow and ancient. There was a chance I could make the stairs… but an equal chance he’d be coming up them, ready to take me.

Instead I locked the door, then engaged the slide-bolt. It was a flimsy piece of steel chain, but it was better than nothing. My hands betrayed me, dropping the chain three times before I finally slid it in. By the time I did, my heart was thundering out of my chest.

I had less than a minute to prepare for him.

With trembling fingers I fumbled at the nighttable drawer. Knowing, with ninety-nine percent certainty, I’d left my sidearm in the Bronco’s glovebox.

It slid open… totally empty.

SHIT!

I could hear footsteps now, pounding up the hall. I had only seconds. I ran to the bathroom, then frantically back into the main room again. My weapon of choice was pretty fucking ridiculous, but then again, it was better than nothing.

I stood behind the door, watching the doorknob, waiting for it to move. A good part of me was paralyzed by fear. But another part — the part that was growing increasingly pissed off at always having to run or hide — was just getting warmed up.

The vintage glass knob jiggled hard, but only for a moment. Then, after two seconds of silence, the door exploded inward in a shower of paint chips and splintering wood.

Forty-Six

DALLAS

The man with the stark white hair burst through the doorway leg-first, the momentum from his kick carrying him through. The noise was loud. Violent. In his haste he tripped on a few shattered pieces of the centuries old door, which threw him off balance, just for a moment.

But a moment was all I needed.

I screamed like a banshee as I brought the toilet tank cover down against the back of the intruder’s skull. It connected solidly, with a sickening, satisfying crunch. The strike practically brained him before he could recover, causing him to pinwheel across the room and slam head-first into the opposite wall.

Then he collapsed in a heap of blood and dust.