The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(20)

White recognized the intruder as the man he’d seen holding a woman in the hallway a few doors down. They were about the same height. The man had silver hair, deep-set eyes, and frown lines etched into his forehead. He was older too. But strong. White drove his knee repeatedly into the man’s groin, to little effect. A few silenced shots hammered into the ceiling, and White wasn’t sure whose finger had pressed the trigger. Feeling his hands weakening, White abandoned thoughts of snatching the man’s pistol away from him. Instead, his left hand moved quickly to the Street Beat Spyderco knife at his side. The blade slid from its polymer sheath easily. White lashed out from left to right across the man’s forearm, slicing flesh. The intruder dropped his pistol, and White tried to kick it away as it fell. He missed.

The intruder headbutted White on the nose, causing him to tear up in pain. White switched the knife to his right hand and lunged again, this time aiming at the man’s throat. But it was as if the man with the silver hair had been waiting for this exact move. He sidestepped the blade and grabbed White’s right wrist with his left hand. Using White’s momentum, he brought him around in a circular motion before suddenly stopping and reversing direction with his entire body. White’s frame went one way while his arm went the other. White felt his elbow and wrist joints almost snap at the torsion exerted on them. He dropped the knife and landed hard on his back. Not wasting any time, the silver-haired man began to throw punches. Stinging pain exploded on the right and left side of White’s head. White had to do something, but he didn’t even have the force to bring his arms up to protect himself.

His only objective was to stay conscious—or alive—long enough for the rest of his team to arrive. He hoped Veronica had locked the door of the bathroom as he had asked her to. On the verge of losing consciousness, his brain registered blood mixed with the bile of failure. And shame. Lots of shame. Then there was just the feeling of floating at the bottom of a black hole.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The Ritz-Carlton


San Francisco, California

Veronica silently cursed. What the hell had just happened? Was this attack random, or was it targeted? Two minutes ago, the man she loved was asking her to marry him. Now, she was hiding in a bathroom.

Damn!

There were so many questions bouncing in her head. It took a conscious effort to push them away. She had to focus. She took several deep breaths to calm herself and regain control of her mind. It worked. Despite her heart pounding in her chest, her hands were steady. She held the Bishop blade tightly, ready to pounce at anyone crazy enough to breach the bathroom’s door. She had been locked inside the bathroom for less than one minute. Her first move after retrieving the knife was to kick off her heels.

So far, she had counted five shots. Two double taps, followed by a single shot. It had taken everything in her not to come out of the bathroom. The last thing she wanted was to distract Clay.

Someone yelled out in pain. She stopped breathing. Was it Clay? Had he been injured? Did he need her? What was she supposed to do?

She had to do something. There was no way she could stay hidden any longer. She quietly unlocked the door and opened it a crack, just enough to peek out. Her eyes picked up three persons in the room. Two were dead, or seemed to be, and one was alive.

Clay.

She was about to call his name when the hotel room door opened. For an instant she thought reinforcements had finally arrived, but her relief was short lived. A tall man she had never seen before fired at Clay at almost point-blank range. A blink of an eye later, they were fighting over control of the gun. Silenced shots were fired into the ceiling, and white plaster powder cascaded to the floor.

Should she intervene? Before she could make a decision, a small knife appeared in Clay’s hand. He slashed at the man. The gun tumbled. Then everything happened in a blur. One moment Clay was on the offensive, the next he was on his back with the intruder on top of him, punching him in the face repeatedly with both hands. Hot rage engulfed her, and Veronica hurled herself at the man with the silver hair, her hand firmly wrapped around the handle of the knife. In four strides she was on him, and the blade came down in a deadly arc. She aimed for his neck, but the man must have felt her presence because he started to turn to his left. He gasped for air as the knife entered his back just behind his left shoulder. His body stiffened, and he let out a guttural scream that startled Veronica. He got up but staggered left and right as he tried to remove the knife from his back. Incapable of reaching it, he looked at her, his deep-set eyes the appearance of hell itself. She stepped backward as he stumbled toward her. Her back hit something.

The window, she thought, as the man kept moving in her direction. She frantically looked around for something to use against him, but his hands grabbed her by the neck. His fingers fastened around her throat, squeezing her flesh, choking the life out of her. Veronica kicked at his shin, but her strike didn’t carry much power. She pounded at his arms, tried to scratch his eyes, but to no effect. Already her strength was leaving her. Even in his wounded condition, the man was too strong for her. Her chest was burning, and black dots swirled at the edges of her vision.

She went limp. All the rage and anger inside her wasn’t enough to move her body. How was it possible that a moment of pure magic could be transformed into absolute horror? For the first time in her life, she could feel death breathing down her neck.

And it terrified her.