That Time in Paris, Logan Ryles [room on the broom read aloud TXT] 📗

The door was unlocked, and he held his breath as he pushed it open, mentally pleading for it not to squeak. The apartment on the other side was dark, quiet, and empty, with wooden floors that were polished but dusty. There was a kitchen on his right, and from someplace on the other side of the dining room, soft light drifted toward him. Light from the open window.

Wolfgang eased the handgun out of his jacket as he pressed the door shut and held his breath. He heard the distant blast of horns and a chorus of voices from the streets below. He could smell coffee in the air and pastries from the café. It was the smell of Paris, and it shielded the scent of a Russian assassin in the room.

Wolfgang held the gun up, bracing his shooting hand and slipping into the dining room. It was empty also, but light spilled over the hardwood from the sitting room on the other side of the door. He drew a half breath through dry lips, then crouched and stepped into the next room. It was empty, like the rest. An open window looked over the Juliet balcony, with a white silk curtain flapping in the breeze. But on the floor were marks in the dust—twin scrapes about ten inches apart, just inside the window.

A rifle’s bipod sat there. I was right.

Wolfgang took a cautious step forward, then glanced around the room. Nobody was visible, but there was only one entrance to the apartment. The Russian had to be inside. He had to be close. He had to be—

Wolfgang heard the soft creak of the hardwood only a millisecond before the first blow hit him between the shoulder blades like a baseball bat, sending him rocketing forward and crashing face-first onto the floor. The Berretta spun out of his hand, and he rolled over, kicking out with both legs for the shins of his attacker. His desperate attempts at defense were useless. The shadow of a man in all black encircled him with deft agility, moving toward his head. Wolfgang instinctively shielded his head with both arms as he tried to roll out of the way, but his attacker’s movements were a ploy. The Russian stepped backward like a cat, landing on one foot and sending the other smashing into Wolfgang’s stomach.

The air rushed from Wolfgang’s lungs, and his arms flew toward his middle, bracing for another blow and leaving his head exposed. The butt of the rifle crashed toward his temple only a moment before his head erupted in pain and everything went black.

The Triumph’s motor died with a gentle rumble, and Wolfgang deployed the kickstand but didn’t dismount. He looked at the other two Triumphs parked twenty yards farther down the hotel parking lot, and then the white panel van parked next to the dumpster in the back.

Edric had booked them a two-room suite at the Hilton near the airport, which was large enough to provide a reliable safe house with multiple routes of approach. The team hadn’t planned on using it. The plan was to be back in the air by now, popping champagne and collecting paychecks.

Wolfgang winced. His head pounded from the impact of the rifle butt on his temple, and it still hurt to breathe. But mostly, it hurt to be him, to be sitting there knowing he had to face the team.

They’re going to blame me. Maybe they should.

Wolfgang slid off the bike, hung his helmet on the handlebar, and walked into the hotel’s lobby. He picked up his keycard at the main desk, using the fake passport Edric provided—John Altman, a Canadian businessman traveling for pleasure—and then took the elevator to the eighth floor. His stomach didn’t churn anymore, but that was probably because the muscles were so bruised by the impact of the Russian’s boot on his abdomen.

What was he thinking? He should have waited in the apartment's hallway or just inside the door. After all, where was the Russian going to go? He was boxed in.

Wolfgang stopped outside the suite and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if his face was bruised, but there was dirt all over his T-shirt, and his leather jacket was scratched. He looked like a fool.

Nothing for it.

He opened the door and was unsurprised to find the lights off. Two steps in, and he heard heavy footfalls coming toward him from the main room.

“You moron! You tryin’ to get us all killed?”

Kevin barreled forward like a charging bulldog, his eyes blazing hatred. He grabbed Wolfgang by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “Are you working for the Russians?” Kevin snarled, his face only inches away.

Wolfgang snapped. He grabbed Kevin’s elbow with one hand and shoved it inward, slicing Kevin’s leverage in half before plowing his left knee into his groin. Wolfgang slid out of his grip, spinning him by the arm and driving him onto the floor. Wolfgang landed on his lower back, twisting Kevin’s right arm toward his shoulder blades.

Kevin shouted, and Wolfgang drove the heel of his palm into his neck, shoving his face into the carpet and completely disabling him. “Don’t you ever question my loyalty, you overgrown, arrogant piece of meat! I’ve met dogs who are smarter than you!”

Kevin wriggled and grunted in pain as Wolfgang applied more pressure to his arm, knowing he was only an inch away from snapping it. Then he felt powerful hands dig into his coat from behind, and before he could resist, he was slung to the left, farther down the hallway. Megan stood behind him, her eyes blazing. “Stop it, you idiots! Are you out of your minds? We’ve got work to do!”

Wolfgang lay on the floor, propped on one elbow. He shot his nemesis a sideways glare, then picked himself up and stumbled into the suite.

Edric stood next to the window, cradling a whiskey glass in his good hand and watching Wolfgang in stoic silence. Wolfgang avoided his