Page 78 of Shadow Waltz
I smirked, slipping my jacket over bare skin, pocketing the flash drive and heading for the door, Troy at my side.
Reddick watched us go, silver hair a wild halo, lips still red, chest still marked by our teeth and hands—a man who’d just been devoured and worshipped, left panting for more.
And as the door closed behind us, I knew we’d left more than sweat and secrets on that hotel floor—we’d left a memory that would haunt us all, long after the heat faded.
As we walked toward the elevator, Troy glanced over, eyes bright with curiosity and just a little lingering heat. “What the hell was that about?” he asked, voice pitched low, equal parts amusement and admiration.
I grinned, palming the slim USB drive from my jacket and holding it up between two fingers. “Distraction,” I said simply, waggling the drive. “He left his laptop open. I needed a way to get what Luka wanted without him noticing.”
Troy huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief, lips quirking up in a genuine smile. “You are one dangerous bastard, you know that?”
“Wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t played along,” I replied, sliding the drive back into my pocket. “You’re good at improvising.”
He gave me a look—half proud, half conspiratorial. “Next time you need a distraction, warn me before you start making the silver fox scream.”
I snorted, shouldering him lightly as we reached the elevator. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He just shook his head, a real smile breaking through. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you home. The boss is going to love this.”
I pressed the elevator button, the adrenaline still humming beneath my skin, the echo of Reddick’s voice and Troy’s touch warm in my memory. “Let’s not keep him waiting,” I murmured, already plotting my next move.
The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing us in a hush broken only by the soft whir of machinery and the distant thump of my own heartbeat. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored panel—lips swollen, hair wild, pupils still blown wide from everything we’d done. Troy glanced over, giving me a look that was equal parts respect and private amusement.
Neither of us said much as we descended, but the air between us was easier—looser—like we’d just passed some kindof unspoken test together. I found myself almost smiling as the doors slid open again.
As we walked through the marble-floored lobby, I rolled my shoulders, letting tension slide away with each step. The familiar swirl of people and hushed conversations made the whole thing feel strangely ordinary, like any other high-end hotel in Manhattan. For a second, I let myself enjoy the feeling—satisfaction humming in my bones, a job well done, a plan pulled off with style.
But that ease lasted only until we crossed the threshold and stepped out into the afternoon light. It hit me at once: a wrongness in the rhythm of the city. The street was too quiet. The usual crush of taxis and office workers had thinned to a trickle. Even the ever-present hum of traffic felt muted, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Troy felt it too—I could see it in the way his posture shifted, the way his hand moved closer to his weapon. “Stay close,” he murmured, guiding me toward the waiting car.
That's when I saw them—three black SUVs converging on our position from different directions, their windows tinted dark enough to hide occupants. Professional, coordinated, the kind of operation that required serious resources and careful planning.
“Move,” Troy barked, his hand finding my arm and pulling me toward the hotel entrance. But we were already too late—armed figures were emerging from the vehicles, moving toward our position.
The first gunshot shattered the afternoon calm like breaking glass, and suddenly the world exploded into chaos. Troy shoved me behind a concrete planter, drawing his weapon in the same motion, returning fire with the controlled bursts of someone who'd been trained for exactly this situation.
“Who are they?” I shouted over the gunfire, pressing myself against the concrete as bullets chipped the stone around us.
“Don't know,” Troy replied, ejecting an empty magazine and slamming a fresh one home. “But they're good. Too good for street criminals.”
Through the chaos, I saw Detective Reddick emerge from the hotel entrance, his service weapon drawn, trying to coordinate with building security. When he saw the firefight, his expression shifted from confusion to grim determination.
“Federal agents,” he shouted, producing a badge that probably wouldn't mean much to whoever was shooting at us. “Everyone stand down!”
The gunfire paused for a moment, and in that brief silence, I heard something that made my blood run cold—the sound of more vehicles approaching, more tactical teams moving into position. This wasn't just an ambush; it was a full-scale operation.
“They're not here for me,” I realized suddenly, the pieces clicking together. “They're here for information. About Luka, about the organization.”
Troy's expression darkened as he processed the implications. “And you're the key to all of it.”
The gunfire resumed, more intense now, and I could see that our position was being systematically surrounded. Professional soldiers, government equipment, the kind of resources that meant this was bigger than criminal rivalry.
We were trapped, cut off from backup, with professional killers closing in from all sides.
For one breath, the world narrowed—gunfire, the stench of burnt rubber and cordite, the whir of helicopter blades slicing up the sky overhead. My heart hammered, fear a living thing crawling up my throat, but beside me, Troy moved with a cold efficiency that was almost beautiful. His face settled into lines of focus, all softness vanished, nothing left but calculation and violence.
“Stay behind me,” he said, tone clipped. “No heroics unless you have to.”