Page 65 of Ruthless Creatures

I pull the .45 from the Velcro holster strapped around my ankle and step carefully into the hallway, weapon at the ready. People stream past the end of the corridor, headed toward the front doors, pushing each other in panic.

Sloane isn’t among them.

At the end of the hall, I duck my head out and scan the dining room.

Chairs are overturned. Tables are upended. Beside one of them, several bodies lie still on the floor.

I recognize the two who were with Stavros. Alexei and Nickolai.

Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the carpeting around their bodies, neither one of them will be getting up.

Near them are another two unmoving bodies, facedown on the floor. Both are men in suits. I can’t tell from here if they’re civilians caught in the crossfire, but I have a gut feeling that if I turned them over, I’d be looking at two dead Irishmen.

I curse under my breath. The timing couldn’t be worse for a gunfight that will no doubt make the news.

I shouldn’t be here.

Here, with Natalie, who’s supposed to be at the bottom of Lake Tahoe with a bullet in her head.

If Max somehow gets wind of this, we’re both fucked.

I spot Stavros and Sloane. They’re behind a large stand of potted palms against the wall across the room.

He’s protecting her, at least. Crouched in front of her with a gun drawn as she cowers on the floor behind him.

No—not cowers. Her legs are curled under her and she’s bent close to the floor, but she’s looking around, her expression alert and watchful, not terrified.

She catches my eye. Then she tilts her head to the left and lifts two fingers, indicating how many armed men we’re dealing with and where they are.

She’s got balls on her, this one.

No wonder she and Natalie are friends.

I nod, letting her know I understand. Then I turn back and go the other way down the hallway.

Across from the restrooms, there’s an exit to the outside. It leads to a patio, deserted except for a scattering of dry leaves over a thin layer of snow. I run across the patio to the other side of the restaurant, enter through another back door into the kitchen, and lift a finger to my lips to the three frightened employees huddled together under a stainless steel prep table.

One of them clutches her cross necklace. All of them stare silently at me with wide, horrified eyes.

Moving past them, I head to the swinging kitchen doors. They’re the kind with round glass windows at eye level so waitstaff can see as they exit with hands full of plated food. I lean my shoulder against the wall and look out into the dining room.

The two Irishmen crouch just outside the doors.

They’re concealed from the dining room by a low wall that runs around the perimeter of the restaurant, the top of which is decorated with dozens of fake ferns. Gripping weapons, they’re in intense discussions about what to do next, arguing back and forth in hissed Gaelic.

I’ve spent some time learning the language, so I get that they’re soldiers. Not high-ranking. Not used to calling the shots.

They need someone to do it for them, so I oblige.

I push through the doors, point my gun at the one closest, and say, “Hey.”

He whips around, spitting mad, swinging his gun toward me.

My bullet catches him square between his eyes.

I wait a split second for his companion to turn and face me, then shoot him in the chest.

I never shoot a man in the back. It’s unsportsmanlike.