Page 37 of Her Last Escape

Two men stepped out. The first wore designer jeans and a charcoal blazer over a vintage band t-shirt—typical conference casual wear for the younger crowd. He carried a leather messenger bag slung across his chest and a coffee cup from the lobby café in one hand. But it was the second man who caught her attention. He wore khakis and a navy polo beneath a heavy wool peacoat. She saw no conference materials, no name badge. And from what she could tell, the two men did not know one another—just two men who’d happened to catch the same elevator.

"Sorry to bother you," she said, forcing a casual tone while her mind cataloged details. She was acting on instinct now, not really allowing herself time to overthink every little thing. "But would either of you happen to be Jonathan Maxwell?"

Both men shook their heads. "No, sorry," said the one in jeans, already turning toward his destination. The man in the peacoat merely shook his head, his expression neutral but eyes alert in a way that triggered Rachel's internal alarm.

"Thanks anyway." Rachel turned back to the stairwell door, but her trained eye had already cataloged several other concerning details about the man in the peacoat. Years of FBI work had taught her to trust her instincts, and right now every one of them was screaming.

The coat itself was slightly too large, the sleeves extending past his wrists—possibly borrowed or recently purchased for concealment. His right hand was curled awkwardly, the fingers bent upward as if securing something within that excess fabric. The movement wasn't natural; it spoke of conscious control rather than casual motion. He was hiding something.

His movements were too controlled, too deliberate for someone simply returning to their room. There was a practiced quality to his casualness, like an actor who had rehearsed appearing unremarkable. Most telling was the slight bulge along his right side—the kind created by a shoulder holster. Rachel had worn enough of them to recognize the subtle disruption in how fabric fell.

She watched through the closing stairwell door as the men separated, the one in jeans turning left while the man in the peacoat moved purposefully to the right…toward Room 212. Her pulse quickened as years of experience crystallized into certainty. The coat was meant to conceal both weapon and identity. The carefully casual demeanor masked predatory intent. Even the timing felt calculated—arriving just as the convention was letting out, when the hotel would be at its most chaotic.

When Maxwell would return to his room.

Rachel pulled out her phone as she stood in the isolated silence of the stairwell platform. She sent a text to Novak as quickly as she could, her fingers flying across the screen: Might have a suspect here at the hotel. A man, possibly concealing a weapon, is heading for Maxwell's room. 212. She noticed her hands were steady despite the surge of adrenaline. She took a single breath to make sure she was centered and focused before drawing her weapon.

She then eased the stairwell door open once more. The weight of her Glock was familiar in her hands, its stippled grip reassuring against her palm. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut. Rachel moved silently into the corridor, every sense alert for what might come next. And by the time she had taken two more steps out into the corridor, her gut was now all but certain: she was mere feet away from a killer.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Rachel moved through the corridor with measured steps, her breathing controlled and even. Years of training had taught her how to regulate her heart rate in situations like this, though the sound of blood rushing in her ears never quite went away. Her Glock felt familiar and reassuring in her grip, its weight a reminder of countless similar moments throughout her career. She'd been in this position hundreds of times before, but experience hadn't dulled her edge – if anything, it had sharpened it.

The empty hallway stretched before her, its soft lighting casting gentle shadows in the corners. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps and for a moment, it seemed so quiet that she thought if she tried very hard, she could probably hear the ringing of the desk phones a floor below her.

The air felt different here than it had in the lobby – cooler, with that slight metallic taste that came with industrial heating to ward off the cold outside. Rachel noticed everything, cataloging details automatically now that this was no longer just a hopeful hunt for Jonathan Maxwell. Now she noticed even the smallest of things…the flicker in one of the overhead lights, the faint smell of coffee long-ago brewed, the distant hum of the ice machine elsewhere along the hall.

Room 212 was ahead on her left. And oddly enough, though she had been standing in front of it less than three minutes ago, it felt like she was approaching it for the very first time. Perhaps it was simply the intensity and tension of the moment. The man in the peacoat had vanished, but the soft click of a closing door still echoed in her memory. He was somewhere in this hallway. Even though she doubted Richard Aldridge would have Maxwell's key card, thoroughness had saved her life more times than she could count. It was a lesson she had learned early in her career: never assume, always verify.

Of course, she also knew that Peacoat could just be another guest. Maybe the clicking of a door she’d heard had been him opening his door. She knew this was a possibility, but the sounds didn’t match up. She’d have heard two clicks…one from the keycard—maybe even the small beep if it was the electronic kind—and then the solid chunk of a door closing.

She came to 212 and pressed her ear against the door. She held her breath and listened intently for about ten seconds. Nothing. Not even the background hum of a TV. The silence was absolute, confirming her suspicion that the room was empty. She tested the handle anyway, finding it locked as expected.

Stepping back, Rachel allowed herself to slip into the mindset she'd developed over years of hunting killers. If Aldridge was the killer and knew Maxwell was in 212, he wouldn't risk standing in plain sight. He'd need a vantage point, somewhere to observe without being noticed. Her eyes scanned the hallway methodically, cataloging possible hiding spots. The layout was typical hotel design: long corridor, rooms on both sides, utility spaces scattered between.

The ambient hum of machinery caught her attention – an ice machine, punctuated by the distinct sound of fresh cubes dropping into the bin. The noise came from her right, further down the corridor. Rachel moved toward it, keeping her stance low and ready.

The ICE/SNACKS door appeared halfway down the hall, opposite her position. A rectangular window offered a glimpse inside: two vending machines casting their familiar fluorescent glow, a single Coke machine, and the bulk of an industrial ice maker partially obscured by the door. The machine was massive, nearly ceiling height, with a large sliding panel in its metal center allowing people easy access to the ice. But she couldn’t see the entirety of it through the glass.

In other words, it could be a perfect hiding spot. The kind of place she herself would choose if she needed to observe while staying hidden.

Rachel knew the next few seconds were critical. A slow entry would give anyone hiding inside time to prepare – and if Aldridge was there, she couldn't afford to give him that advantage. As soon as he saw that door handle turning downward, he could attack. She took a deep breath, feeling the familiar calm settle over her. This was one of those moments where training took over, where muscle memory and instinct merged into pure action.

Her left hand found the door handle while her right maintained a firm grip on the Glock, pointing it straight ahead. In one fluid motion, she turned the handle and pushed, using the door's momentum to carry her into the room. She moved in a practiced sweep, weapon extended.

The attack came before she could complete her scan.

A blur of motion from the narrow space between the wall and ice machine – a blind spot she hadn't been able to see from the window. Something hard and metallic crashed into the meat of her left shoulder. The impact sent a shock wave of pain down her arm, a thousand needles of electricity shooting through her nerves.

Rachel spun to face her attacker, but he was already pressing his advantage. She caught a glimpse of what he was wielding: a lead pipe, its surface dull under the fluorescent lights. A lead pipe…which was the weapon that had been suspected of taking the lives of the three victims.

He was already mid-swing for another strike, and he was too close for her to risk a shot in the confined space. A shot from this sort of space could be fatal to either of them. Besides that, as the pipe came down again, her instincts were more worried about self-preservation.

She deflected the incoming blow by striking his wrist with her right forearm, the impact jarring but effective. She followed through with a knee strike, aiming for his groin but connecting with his thigh instead due to their proximity. The attacker—presumably Richard Aldridge—stumbled back, giving her the space to land a solid right hook to his temple.

He reeled but didn't go down. The pipe whistled past her face as he swung wild, forcing her to duck. The movement brought fresh waves of pain from her injured shoulder, but Rachel pushed it aside. She'd fought through worse – much worse.

They traded blows in the cramped space, the vending machines humming their indifferent soundtrack to the violence. Rachel managed to land several solid strikes, her combat training evident in every movement. A punch to the kidneys, another to the chest. A particularly effective combination – jab, cross, elbow – drove him back against the ice machine, the impact rattling the entire unit. Bags of chips shuddered in their metal spirals in the vending machine beside it.

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