Page 98 of Zorro

Bailee was moving, her Glock already in her hand, returning fire before the bodies hit the floor in two sickening thuds. She dove, hit the floor, and rolled, fast and tight. Blood spattered across the edge of the consoles.

Carlos took cover, the gunfire precise as he clocked her movement. In a burst of successive shots to keep him pinned, she ran, slipping through the connecting door into the next room. She closed and locked the door, just before he sent his shoulder into it with a thud. Then she heard him swear.

Shit.

Her only chance was getting to her people in the hall. Where the hell were they? They had to hear her shots. She bolted toward the door as his shots splintered the wood behind her.

She had already thoroughly studied this floor, knew all the room layouts, where every exit led. The door crashed open, and his next round punched into the doorframe as she shoulder-checked it open. Then stopped dead, her aim set, both hands on the gun for stability. The moment he showed his fucking face, she sent a volley of shots, and one of them hit as he cried out and clutched his arm.

The sound of her boots pounded on the rug as she sprinted through the narrow passage, sweat breaking cold along her spine.

What the hell just happened?

Carlos? The man who had eaten breakfast two feet from her. Who had watched security feeds beside her shoulder was now trying to kill her.

She reached the main hallway, slammed into it in a blur, and froze with horror.

Bodies.

Two DS agents slumped near the stairwell. Five BOPE officers scattered along the corridor, one against the wall, blood pooling at his hip. They hadn’t been disarmed. They’d been executed.

Not an opportunistic strike. Targeted. Bailee’s stomach turned cold. They’re going after the principals.

She pivoted hard, sprinting for the State Department suite three doors down. Her diplomats. She needed to get them out. But just as she hit the bend in the corridor, she heard it. Footsteps. Not running. Hunting. The smell of blood was gagging her.

Her heart stilled.

A voice echoed behind her, accent smooth. “Bailee.” It was him. Carlos. Walking. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world. Like she was already dead. She turned and ran in the other direction.

Just one command in her head, pulsing like blood in her ears?—

Hide.

She ducked into an alcove beside a linen cabinet and pressed her back to the wall, heart pounding. She tilted her head, tracking his approach through reflection in a framed emergency map.

Too slow, asshole.

When he cleared the bend, she moved?—

One foot pivoted out. Pistol up. She fired. Twice.

Carlos ducked, but not fast enough. Her first shot grazed his shoulder, sending him stumbling sideways behind a column. His answering fire cracked off the wall near her head. Dust exploded from plaster.

“Fuck,” she hissed, retreating low, crossing the hall to the next door. She pulled out her master keycard that opened every door on this floor, including the elevator. Green light and the door gave way. She slipped through, breathing hard, boots whispering over tile. He was following. Slower now. Cautious. Wounded…twice. But alive.

She moved through connecting doors. Tapping her earbud, she said, “Anyone? I need help. We’ve been compromised,” but there was nothing but static. She continued to move. Just breath. Just instinct. Her sidearm.

Zorro tracked the man from a distance, ten paces behind, head down like any other conference attendee stretching his legs between panels. The guy now moved fast, eyes sweeping left and right, always calculating.

They reached the elevator banks just as the one of elevator doors slid open.

Zorro’s gut twisted. Wasn’t that to the secured floor? Fuck.

Out of the corner of his eye, two other men moved toward that elevator, each wheeling the same unmarked black case. Coming up on them fast were two dark-suited men. Diplomatic Security most likely.

His attention was diverted when two BOPE officers materialized around the corner. Zorro clocked them immediately; Captain Leite’s call had landed fast. Migs scanned the lobby like a man born to take bullets and give orders. His partner, Sanchez, was taller, built like a riot shield with eyes that didn’t blink.

They approached quietly, splitting to box the suspect in.

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