by J. D. Tyler
“Oh, it’s not that, exactly,” he said, his tone becoming conciliatory. “It’s just that in the past few decades, my generation has seen the slow disintegration of the American family that your generation can’t possibly comprehend. Women used to be the stable, guiding hand in the home, providing care for the children, love, meals and such. Men provided the money and protection for their families. It was all about balance, you see.”
Okay. Jolie stared at him, reminding herself that Blevins was obviously a relic from a different decade. No harm, no foul. Right? “While that might have worked for Americans for a while, in theory, the reality is not all men hang around to provide money and protection for their families, Senator. Some take off, leaving their families high and dry, and their women having no choice but to find work and do the providing and protecting themselves.”
The senator’s face colored, and he coughed into his glass. “Well…”
“Furthermore, in this day and age, a woman who doesn’t educate herself and protect herself and her family’s future is complicit in her own downfall if that future falls apart and there’s no man there to catch her,” she said sharply. She was just getting warmed up.
“My own mother would’ve been in terrible trouble had she not been an educated woman with a degree in physics the day my father decided he was going to leave us for a blonde bimbo half his age. Oh, for the record, my mother did stay home and raise us in our formative years, and kept the home fires burning, because that’s what made her happy. And you know what, it didn’t matter one bit to the so-called man of the family.”
“I didn’t mean—”
Her reporter’s instincts came to the fore, demanding answers. “Given your view on women in the workplace, I’m curious as to why you’re attending the inaugural gala tonight if not to show your support for the president and her cause of the Stand Together Gala?”
The senator’s wide-eyed expression was unmistakably that of a man who knew he’d fucked up and couldn’t think of a single graceful way out of the conversation. “One d-doesn’t have to agree with every single detail to support our president,” he stammered, glancing around for an avenue of escape. “Oh, I see someone I must speak to. If you’ll excuse me?”
“It’s been interesting talking to you, Senator Blevins. Have a good evening.”
Eyes narrowed, she watched him hurry away. What a douche canoe! The truly scary thing was, there were plenty of men in politics who thought the way Blevins did. If men like him had their way, they’d set women back decades, have them on their backs and in the kitchen. Get enough men together with voting power, and changes happening that weren’t in women’s best interests were not far-fetched at all.
Jolie shuddered, and attempted to shake off their talk. She spotted a much more welcome face—the governor of Texas—and was about to head his way when something strange caught her eye.
Three people, a tall, gorgeous woman and two men, were headed out of the ballroom. The weird part was one of the makeup of their group, and their body language. One of the men, a waiter, had taken the woman’s arm and was positioned very close, in a proprietary manner, leading her away. The other man, looking pale, was sort of going along.
Frowning, Jolie started after them, moving as casually as possible. She didn’t know why the scene bothered her so much, except it didn’t appear natural. Perhaps the woman was simply ill, and the waiter was helping her. But the waiter wasn’t speaking reassuring words to the woman, or smiling. No, this wasn’t right.
Quickening her steps, she tried to follow but was waylaid more than once by friendly colleagues wanting to chat or just say hello. The urge to find out what was going on was strong, but not wishing to be rude, she spoke with each person who delayed her. In that time, it didn’t escape her notice that a couple more men had left the room.
By the time Jolie made her exit, the strange little group was nowhere to be seen. She stood in the hallway uncertainly, glancing each way, until deciding to poke around a bit. Strolling along casually, she listened for anything out of place or alarming as she passed each door. If anyone noticed, her cover story was going to be that she was on her way to the ladies’ room, which was conveniently down the corridor a ways.
It soon became apparent there was no telling where the group had gone. There were people around, working the coat check room, the press rooms, some pausing while entering or exiting the ballroom to talk. Disappointed, she headed to the rest room for real, taking the opportunity to freshen up.
On the way, she grabbed the sparkly purse hanging off her shoulder and opened it, taking out her cell phone to check her messages. Confirmation on a couple of post-gala interviews should be there by now. Except, when she unlocked the device and punched the buttons, nothing happened.
No service.
She tried again, with the same result, and groaned in frustration. Of course, there would be a problem with her cell phone on the most important night of her career. Figured.
Replacing the device, she shouldered her little purse again and continued into the rest room. There, she stood at the counter, dug out her tube of lipstick, leaned toward the mirror, and had just begun to reapply the color to her lips when shouts in the hallway startled her.
Stiffening, she bolted upright and stared at the closed rest room door.
But it was the telltale pop-pop of gunshots, followed by terrified screams, that got her moving.
CHAPTER THREE
Distantly, Jolie was aware she’d dropped the tube of lipstick as she darted into one of the farthest bathroom stalls from the door. Quickly she slipped off her high heels, tucked them under her arm, and climbed on top of the toilet, making herself as small as possible while hiking up her long dress as well so it didn’t show below the stall. She left the door cracked some, praying it would appear as empty as the others if anyone gave a cursory check.
More gunshots sounded, and men could be heard yelling orders. “My God…”
Who were they? How had they gotten into the building, much less with weapons? Had the president arrived after all? Were they after her, or someone else?
Which begged the question why. An attack at an event like this one had to be planned in advance, so something must’ve happened to set it off. Her mind went back to the strange scenario with the waiter, the woman, and the handsome man, and she couldn’t help but think the events were connected somehow.
Even in the midst of something so horrifying, she couldn’t shut off the innate questions. The need to dig deeper.
She thought of Bill and sent a prayer that the cameraman was okay. Her other friends and colleagues as well. The agents present tonight were surely battling it out with the intruders, and someone would be along shortly to announce that the situation had been contained. Right?
Suddenly, the door to the women’s rest room burst open, banging against the wall so hard it must’ve taken out a chunk of plaster. Jolie’s heart slammed against her ribcage as booted feet stomped just inside and paused. Through the sliver of space between her stall door and the frame, she could only see part of the bathroom counter, and the lipstick lying on the floor just underneath.
And in the mirror, two men with automatic weapons, glancing around. They were dressed all in black, flak jackets protecting their torsos. These men were definitely not FBI agents, who were dressed in tuxes tonight, the same as the other guests.
“Clear.”
“Yeah.”
“This is bullshit, man. Not the way it was supposed to go down.”
“Yeah, what a fuckin’ waste. Whatever, we gotta follow orders anyhow. Let’s jet.”
Turning, they left. She barely had a second to exhale in relief before shouts came from right on the other side of the door, followed by more gunshots. The sound was so loud, she had no doubt the men who’d just exited were in a battle with someone. Hopefully, the Feds.
There was a thump against the wall outside, then all fell silent. Her body shook from fear, and her legs began to ache from cro
uching on the toilet. She needed to move, but she was afraid more of the bad guys would make an appearance. She was probably safer where she was, and yet…
What if they blow up the hotel?
Visions of the building coming down while she sat here doing nothing finally got her going. Slowly, she crawled off the toilet then ditched the shoes, leaving them on the floor. After slinging her purse strap across her body, she cautiously made her way to the door. She listened, heard another shot that sounded as though it came from down the hallway. Possibly the ballroom.
Now or never.
Gently, she eased the rest room door open and peered out. The sight that greeted her was so shocking, she forgot to breathe. Two men, whom she presumed to be the ones who’d checked the ladies’ rest room, were lying in a pool of blood, motionless. One man was sprawled on his stomach, head turned to the side, eyes wide and blank.
Battling down a wave of sickness, Jolie checked the corridor. For now, the sounds of conflict seemed to be centered in the ballroom down the hall, so she glanced toward the opposite end of the corridor, away from danger, looking for another exit.
There appeared to be a couple of options, but there was no telling whether any of the bad guys occupied the back stairwells. If she was one of them, wouldn’t she have those covered? Of course she would.
She was about to step back into the rest room and check her cell phone for service again when she spotted the gun resting on the floor near one of the bad guy’s outstretched hands. Heart pounding, she didn’t hesitate. Bending, she scooped up the weapon, palming it, testing the weight and feel of it.
“Yes,” she whispered in relief. One thing this Texas girl could do was shoot. An old boyfriend had spent hours teaching her how, and she’d finally taken an official class and gotten her concealed-carry license a couple of years ago. She knew how to handle a gun safely.
And now that she had a weapon of her own, she felt a whole lot better about her odds of getting out alive.
“Ma’am, drop the weapon!”
Head snapping up, she barely had time to register the tall, blond man who’d popped around a corner toward the ballroom. A man dressed like one of them, all in black, who hadn’t identified himself as an agent or officer of any kind.
A man who was bringing up his arm, gun in hand.
So she did the only thing she could to protect herself.
Jolie swung up her own weapon and fired.
* * * * *
To his shock, Dalton felt the punch at his right shoulder as fire spread through his chest, down his arm. Thrown backward, he hit the wall and then fell, losing his gun in the process. The automatic weapon he’d acquired was strapped to his back, useless underneath him for the moment as he stared at the ceiling, panting.
“Shit! Fuck!”
Pain rolled through him like a wave breaking over the beach. Or a beached whale. Of all the ways he’d imagined getting taken out, it wasn’t by a gorgeous slip of a chestnut-haired woman in a formal dress carrying a hand canon nearly as big as her head.
Instinctively, he reached over with his left hand and clutched his shoulder. Upon inspection, his palm came away smeared with the blood he could rapidly feel soaking the front of his black T-shirt. With one lucky shot, she’d managed to get him right next to the strap of his flak jacket, under his collar bone.
“Goddamn,” he groaned.
“Do you have any other curse words in your vocabulary? Or have you used them all?”
A pretty but very stern face and big violet eyes filled his vision as the shooter crouched over his prone body. For some reason, she looked familiar, but he was in too much pain to think why.
“Who are you?” His voice came out in a croak.
“I think a much better question is who are you, and what does your group hope to accomplish by this attack?”
Blinking at the object she was now holding above his face, he cursed again. Wouldn’t you know it—an iPhone. The latest and greatest design with a big fucking screen and a video camera that was now recording his face, and their conversation. It didn’t matter that cell phone service was out. The device would record and take photos just fine, one flaw his group hadn’t considered when they’d shut off communication.
“Please, turn that off,” he whispered, feeling sick. “We need to get out of this hallway and out of sight.”
“Not a chance. Not yet.” She cocked her head, studying him as though she’d found a new species of insect. Then she turned the phone’s camera on herself. “This is Joelle Montfort, Channel Eight News, Dallas, reporting live from the Fierenze Hotel in Washington D.C. where there’s been some sort of attack tonight on the inaugural Stand Together Gala for Women.”
Joelle Montfort. That name, where—oh, shit.
“Please—”
“The identity of this group is yet unclear, but the men are dressed in black and wearing flak jackets, like this suspect, whom I’ve wounded in self-defense. Tell our viewers your name and what your group is hoping to accomplish by inflicting tonight’s horror on innocent people.”
Once again, he found himself facing the camera without a clue what to say. Would a member of the Mantle take the opportunity to crow to the media about what they’d done? Probably. But doing so would mean revealing details about the case that the FBI didn’t want to be made public.
He decided to throw her a small bone. “I can’t tell you my name. But my group is the Red Mantle and we’re gaining in power every day. A real investigative reporter will be able to figure out why and how.” His smirk was ruined by another wave of agony in his shoulder.
A brief scowl crossed her face before she turned the camera back onto herself. “I’m in the corridor just down from the main ballroom, which seems to be the focus of the attack—”
A volley of gunshots from far too close by halted her statement. Turning off the device, she stuck the phone back into her purse, stuck her gun in his side, and grabbed his left arm. “Up, now. And give me your automatic.”
“What?” Struggling to his feet, he stared at her in confusion as he did what he was told. After all, his gun arm was on fire, not to mention she’d already proven once that she was capable of defending herself—and she still thought he was one of them. “Aren’t you going to leave me here?”
She snorted. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re the story of my career, Red.”
“Red?”
“Mantle. It’s as good a name as anything. Let’s go.”
She carefully slung the other weapon over her shoulder without taking her gun off him. As she pulled him farther from the ballroom, out of sight, he couldn’t help but be impressed despite the volatile situation. Even more so when he looked down and saw the slight tremble in the small hand holding the pistol.
His respect for her rose a notch, even if she was a reporter. This woman, Joelle, had to be terrified. She had no idea what was happening or why, but she clearly knew how to handle herself. She was a survivor who knew how to handle a gun. Nor was she losing it under pressure.
Of course, he already knew that about her. It had only taken him seconds to recognize her as one of the few victims, along with Nick, to survive the wrath of the serial killer, Samson. Joelle had no idea that, yet, that Dalton was one of the FBI agents who’d assisted on the case, or that they’d met briefly before. And he hoped to keep her in the dark as long as possible.
A real member of the Mantle would’ve disarmed and killed her already, or at least made the attempt, but she had no way of knowing Dalton wasn’t one of them. She was doing what she must, and trying to get her story in the bargain. He almost smiled at that.
“Something funny?” Her violet gaze was sharp. Wary.
“No.” He shook his head.
“What’s the best way out of the hotel?”
He hesitated. “Down the back stairwell, to the basement. If anything happens to me and you have to go on without me, there’s a hole in a wall in one of the storage rooms. The hole takes you out through the st
eam tunnels. But you’d better hurry.”
“Because any surviving Red Mantle members will try to head there, too.”
“Right.”
“Why would you help me?”
“I don’t blame you for being suspicious.” He shrugged. “You’re going to tell Red Mantle’s story to the world. That’s worth something.”
Her scathing look seared him to the core. “So my survival depends on your publicity. Figures.”
“Well, then, that doesn’t make us all that different, now, does it?” he shot back.
That shocked her, having the words turned back on her like that. And yeah, some of his feelings about reporters in general had colored his tone on that one, as much as he admired her courage.
“I’m very different from you,” she said coldly. “Make no mistake about that.”
She gestured him to move, and with a sigh he led her to the stairwell he’d come up before. There was no one there guarding the avenue of escape, especially since he’d taken out the man who’d been assigned to wait with him.
There was no way to keep Joelle from seeing the dead Red Mantle member at the top of the stairwell, but then again, she’d already seen the two he’d killed outside the ladies’ rest room. She just had no idea he’d been the one who’d done it. He’d been making another check of the corridor when she’d popped out of the rest room and surprised him.
Flinching, she grimaced, but kept the gun trained on Dalton as she stepped around the body and urged him down the stairs. They walked without speaking, footsteps echoing. It wasn’t long before they came upon the body of the hapless waiter, and this one caused her much more visible distress than the others. This was an innocent victim.
“What could he possibly have done to harm your cause?” she spat. “That poor man was just trying to make a living.”
There were no answers, so Dalton didn’t try to give any.
They’d almost reached the first level when the distinct sound of voices and footsteps came from below. Wide-eyed, Joelle gestured toward the stairwell they’d just passed. Hurrying, they retraced their steps, bypassing the ballroom level in their flight upward, and pushed through the door on the third level, noting that there appeared to be guest rooms on this floor. Thankfully nobody was around.