Page 104 of The Bodyguard

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Titan had shown up in force, with the luggage to prove it. Sawyer helped unload the last duffel from Brock’s vehicle. Somewhere in the mess of bags had to be enough weapons to arm a small country.

“That’s it,” Brock said. “Let’s roll.”

Their cell phones buzzed simultaneously. Sawyer’s stomach dropped. He reached for his phone and hoped to read that law enforcement had more to share about Mylene Hathaway. It was a message from Amanda.

GET TO ANGELA

Sawyer’s heart stopped cold.

Colby Winters swore. “What floor?”

“Tenth.” Brock’s face registered all the possibilities that message could mean while his mind appeared to run scenarios simultaneously.

“We’ll get the stairs and back exits,” Cash said, pulling his cowboy hat low before he and Roman peeled off.

“I’ll man the first floor and lobby exits.” Winters nodded at the elevators. “Go.”

Sawyer and Brock ran toward the elevators. The doors opened. Sawyer yelled, “Get out,” to the businessman pulling his rolling suitcase and then rushed in.

Brock pulled a Glock from his back. “You go. I’ll clear the second elevator and get to you.”

“Tenth floor. Room 1021.” Sawyer smashed the button for the elevator door to shut.

He checked the magazine of his newly issued Glock and prayed the elevator would speed up. Years seemed to pass. The elevator chime dinged at his floor.

Weapon extended, he slid through the barely opened doors and saw no threats. Sawyer hauled toward their rooms. A housekeeping cart piled high with blankets blocked Angela’s door. He knocked it out of the way. Bullet holes pocked the door.

He swiped the card and threw himself into the room. The door thudded against someone.

Sawyer side-tackled them to the floor. Their gun skittered out of reach; his pointed at their temple. “Don’t fucking move a muscle.”

The woman pinned under him seemed to know he wasn’t a cop and didn’t care if she died. The lady didn’t struggle.

“Angela?” His guts twisted when he didn’t see her in the room.

“Sawyer,” Brock called from the other side of the door. “Open up.”

Sawyer holstered his weapon and ran his hands over the mercenary, removing a backup pistol and plastic zip-ties. A loud bang sounded from the door. Brock walked in.

“Get this piece of crap.” Sawyer threw the shooter on the bed and bounded toward the closed bathroom door. His heart hammered in his chest. Why wasn’t Angela walking out or calling for help?

Bullets had blown off the bathroom door handle. Holes and dents cratered from the handle to the floor. Behind him, Cash and Roman walked in.

Sawyer knocked gently on the door, terrified of what would be on the other side. “Angela? Open up.” He tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. But he heard a metallic clang. “Ange?”

“Call Winters,” Brock said. “Get him up here. He can get into anywhere.”

Metal clattered on the other side. “Ange?” Sawyer peered through the space where the door handle had been and saw only the far wall. Metal clanged again.

“What the hell is that noise?” Roman asked.

Finally, the door cracked. Sawyer carefully pushed it open. A shaking, tear-streaked Angela sat crouched in a ball on the floor—surrounded by forks, knives, and a baking sheet.

His heart soared. Sawyer scooped her into his arms. She cried out in pain.

“It really hurts,” she murmured against his shirt.

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