Page 68 of Sexting the Bikers
“Lost my regular vest in the dryer,” I say, puffing out my chest like I believe it. “Shrank three sizes.”
An empty room-service cart rattles out of a side door. The kid pushing it is skinny, earbuds in, humming to generic pop. I stepin front of him, grin, and point at something behind him. He turns. I wheel the cart away before he can blink. He pulls a bud out, confused.
“Management needs this,” I say, puffing out my chest. Buttons groan. He shrugs and wanders back for another cart, never missing a beat of his song.
I cruise down the hall, trying to look bored. Around the corner, two housekeepers gossip while loading linen bags. I slow the cart, pretend to inspect a stack of plates, and listen.
“VIP on the east wing, fifth floor,” one woman says, knotting a bag. “Extra towels again.”
“Important guest,” the other agrees. “Security everywhere. Room five-fourteen.”
Bingo. That’s it, that’s the room I’m looking for.
Elevator mirrors show me the full effect—sleeves short on my wrists, collar choking my neck, vest misaligned. I look ridiculous. Good. Hotel staff blend in when they look ridiculous.
The elevator spits me out on five. Carpeting muffles the squeaky wheel just enough. I glide past a pair of guards outside a side room. They give me a quick once-over, decide Earl is harmless in his suffocating vest, and ignore me.
A pair of Russians rounds the bend. One glances at me, then at my tray of half-eaten cheesecake. He wrinkles his nose and waves me off. I nod, lips pressed in my best harried-waiter apology, and keep moving.
Fifth-floor air feels too thin, like every breath knows trouble is close. I roll the cart past one side corridor, then another, counting heads. Two by the elevator, three near the ice machine, another pair prowling the far end. More voices leak from a stairwell. Fifteen men, maybe more, scattered but alert. This is not a private dinner. Zaika either brought an army, or he’s nervous enough to act like it.
My right hand dips beneath the towel stack, fingers closing around the compact pistol taped under the top tray. I tuck it up my sleeve, let the cart glide to a stop outside suite 514, and straighten Earl’s ridiculous vest.
One knock. The door cracks open, guard peering out. His eyes flick from my face to the empty cart.
“Housekeeping,” I whisper.
He starts to shake his head. Too late. I jam the muzzle to his temple, shove him back into the suite, and kick the door shut with my heel.
“Where is she?” I say. “Where are they?”
The guard stammers in Russian, hands half-raised. Another man in the sitting area spins, shock widening his eyes as he reaches for a weapon. I flick the gun toward him. “Try it and you drop.”
I push the barrel harder against the first man’s skull. “Talk. Now.”
Adrenaline hammers in my ears, steady as the trigger under my finger.
A side door at the back of the suite flies open. A mountain of a man steps through, fist twisted in Bishop’s collar. Bishop’s face is bruised, one eye already swelling, but he’s conscious, struggling against a grip like iron. The enforcer drags him forward and slams him against a column. The thud rattles glassware on the bar cart.
I swing my pistol toward the brute’s chest. “Let him go.”
Three slides rack at once. Cold metal kisses the back of my neck, another barrel presses into my ribs, a third hovers near my temple. Every instinct screams to shoot, yet my finger freezes. One twitch and they’ll punch three holes through me before I drop the first target.
Bishop’s captor snorts, then shoves him face-first to the carpet. Bishop coughs, pushing up on one elbow, glaring at me as if to saytook you long enough.
A slow clap drifts from the sitting area. Mikhail Zaika stands beside a marble coffee table, suit immaculate, eyes reptilian. He studies me like a curio. “Bold entrance,” he says in accented English. “But very poor math.”
My pulse pounds so hard I taste copper. Sweat rolls down my spine, pistol suddenly leaden in my grip. I keep it raised, though my hands tremble. One wrong breath and these men paint the walls with us.
Zaika lifts a brow, amused. “Perhaps you put away the toy before someone is forced to redecorate? We were having a civil conversation.”
I swallow, throat dry as desert sand.
Slow, careful, I ease the pistol away from the man’s skull and lower it until the muzzle points at the carpet. A hand the size of a cinder block snatches the weapon from my grip, another pats me down fast—under arms, at the small of my back, around my ankles. Cold fingers lift my wallet, my spare magazine, everything. I’m naked without the gun, pulse hammering in my throat.
Zaika’s smirk widens by a fraction. “Better. Now we speak like gentlemen.”
“Where’s Katya?” I force the words out, trying to sound tough, but I hear the edge of panic underneath. Bishop pushes to his knees beside me, blood trickling from his mouth, and even he looks rattled.
