The Plagues of Pandora

CHAPTER EIGHT

Her attackers wore suits and ties. Feeling a little ridiculous, the woman clad in leather and thigh boots struck out at them, first yanking a man by the knot of his tie so that he stumbled past her, then blasting another between the legs with an uninhibited kick. Her left hand grabbed for the door, flinging it wide, and her right jabbed clumsily at the nearest gun. Yes she had been trained, but only in a dojo where mistakes were never punished by death.

Not like this.

As she slipped toward the gap in the door, alongside the startled men, she felt an enormous impact in the center of her back. Somebody’s boot. Stone’s boot.

Unable to stop herself she flew forward, colliding headlong with the door jamb; the edge of the frame drawing blood from her forehead. A man clamped her neck before she fell completely out into the corridor, another hooked and dragged at her legs.

Still kicking, screaming, Lauren was pulled back into the hotel room. Sensing the end and more worried about imparting the information she had learned than her own welfare, she planted both feet and pushed back. The men around her staggered. Lauren wrenched free of their grip, tearing clothes and a lock of hair and ignoring the flare of pain. She was alone, she was SPEAR, she had been chosen for this.

With a kick she disarmed one man, drove an elbow into another. When a third struck at her she caught his blows on her biceps, twisting into them and then unleashing a strike of her own. A space developed, a path to freedom. Lunging, she cleared three men, already feeling the fresh air of freedom as she skipped between their flailing legs, but others remained. They couldn’t use their guns, not in this hotel, but they could use their bodies. Perhaps sensing her imminent escape and their own terrible reprimand they dived in front of her.

Unable to dodge out of the way Lauren went tumbling, entangled in a mass of arms and legs. As she lay panting, a fist drove into her ribs, another into the back of her neck. Stars exploded in front of her eyes. She slumped. Now, in front of her she could see Stone gloating, Bell appearing confused, and a man already heading purposefully toward the French windows.

“The balcony?” a voice said. “The way she’s dressed it’s almost expected.”

“Sure. I don’t care,” Stone said dismissively. “But wipe her down first. All that leather and PVC might have retained our fingerprints.”

Lauren struggled wildly, kicking shins, rolling away from uncertain grips. The men grappled with her. Bell voiced concern. Stone told him to get the hell over it, the bitch was taking a midnight dive.

Lauren swiveled once more, her face striking the room’s carpet. As she landed, almost blinded with pain, she caught a last glimpse of the rapidly closing hotel room door.

Someone stood in the gap, someone she knew.

Was she hallucinating?

Smyth raced forward, one man against seven, but this man was ex-Delta and a member of SPEAR. What men like Smyth could do was kill or incapacitate with a single strike, grab a weapon and squeeze off three kill shots out of three. He proceeded to do so now, but Stone was already radioing for backup. Smyth saw that these guards were better trained than the usual fodder, and he unleashed his anger, concentrating his attack on the men that held Lauren.

“Who’s this?” Stone said stiffly. “Her pimp?”

Smyth broke the wrist of the man holding Lauren’s waist, gliding in as she fell and taking her weight. As he moved he assaulted the rest. He could see their unease, their bewilderment. Who was this new attacker? Since he had fired first could they now return the favor?

Stone’s orders were non-existent. Smyth broke a larynx and a nose, plucked up a gun and fired off an untargeted shot. As expected, Stone and his men reacted with fear, immediately guessing all and sundry would be calling the authorities. Smyth used the added confusion to nab Lauren and disarm two more of Stone’s men.

He retained the gun, leveling it at Stone’s face. “Don’t move. Any of you.”

“You’ll regret this,” Stone said. “Whoever you are. And Nightshade too. I did wonder about you from the very beginning.”

Lauren fought to stand, but found her battered body couldn’t quite manage it. Damn, she wanted to help her rescuer. Never had she felt so inadequate. Without warning two men broke from the group and ran at them. Smyth, still supporting her, shot one in the thigh whilst ensuring the last ran into an elbow.

Smyth back toward the door. “First one to stick his head out gets it blown off.” With that the short-tempered soldier pulled Lauren out into the corridor. “Sorry about the whip,” he said. “Didn’t have time to grab it.”

“It… it’s okay. I’ll get another.”

“Do you mind if I pick you up?” he asked with more courteousness than she could have believed possible. “Over my shoulder? We’ll move faster.” He threw a guarded look back toward the hotel room.

“Whatever you have to do, Smyth. Just get me out of here!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Smyth bent at the waist, heaved Lauren over his shoulder, and sprinted forward. They raced down the hallway as one, stopping at the first bank of elevators.

“How the hell did you find me?”

“Followed you here. Used the bellhop to get Stone’s room number. Sat on the comfy seats there—” he indicated a set of deep, leather couches positioned opposite the elevator doors. “Until I heard all the commotion. I always figured if Lauren Fox were in trouble she’d put up one hell of a fight.”

Lauren let her head hang, trusting that Smyth would protect her. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“Not needed.” Smyth maneuvered them into the elevator. “You’re a part of my team, Lauren. You’re family.”

“I am?” She caught a look at herself in the highly polished walls. “Christ, I look such a fright they could hire me out as a Halloween ghost.”

Smyth, defying all that she knew about him, kept his eyes on the ground. “Maybe a kinky one.”

Lauren slipped off his back and landed on her feet, groaning. “Thank you.”

“Like I said. You’re family.”