Teaser for Dangerous Rescue
For your entertainment, an unedited excerpt from Dangerous Rescue, coming soon from New Concepts Publishing. For a close up of the pretty cover go here
The motorcycle escorts peeled off as Regan exited the limo. Ian watched as she and her security guards--a pair of over-sized blonde jocks, whom he’d mentally, nicknamed dumb and dumber--entered the hotel lobby. He hung back, losing sight of the trio after a few seconds. Telling himself it was past time for him to leave.
An overly honed protective instinct impelled him get out of the SUV. Deciding he’d bluff it out if she spotted him, he rushed through the entrance. Rapidly scanning the room for Regan, he caught a glimpse of pink moving toward the elevators. Then a loaded-to-the-hilt luggage cart blocked his view.
Once he’d cleared the obstruction, the pink suit had vanished.
Ignoring the fear chilling the back of his neck, he dropped all pretense of being casual and sprinted for the elevators. The door to number five was almost closed. An extra burst of speed, and his long arm, kept it open. A jab of the call button reversed the direction of the mechanical doors.
His jaw hardened at the sight of Regan alone with an assistant manager, if he were naïve enough to believe the man’s breast pocket pin.
“Seven please.” Ian bared his teeth and pulled up the corners of his mouth in what he hoped looked like a friendly grin for the man standing next to the elevator’s control panel.
“Afternoon ma’am.” He nodded toward Regan.
Her eyes flickered over him so quickly he might have missed it if he hadn’t been glued on hers.
“Good afternoon sir, Mr. Hitman isn’t it?” Her voice retained the phony upper-class accent, her tone was low and even, giving no indication she was upset.
“No, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ve got me confused with someone else. Killzone’s the name.”
So she wasn’t running away with the assistant manager. Ian wondered what the hell had happened to dumb and dumber.
The suspected terrorist punched the button for seven without saying a word. The movement revealed an underarm bulge that hadn’t been visible earlier, ratcheting Ian’s tension even further. He had a gun of his own, but he never drew it unless he was prepared to use it.
He shuddered thinking of the damage a shooting match in the small steel cage could do. He wouldn’t chance it--not with Regan there. He could use his knife, but bloodstains were so hard to get out. He really liked the tie he had on, and the shirt was good--practically new.
He’d have to take him out the old-fashioned way.
He fumbled through his pockets giving an imitation of man looking for something. The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor.
“Damn plastic cards. They never work for me anyway.” Ian opened his wallet, and then extracted his gas card, dropping it into his jacket pocket, hopefully simulating a room key.
On his way out the elevator’s door, Ian deliberately stumbled, bumping into the man. Quickly, he slammed the phony assistant manager’s face into the elevator wall. He followed up with a locked two-handed blow to the back of his neck, putting the bad guy out of commission. He caught the guy’s limp body as he crumpled. While disarming him, and then extracting his wallet, Ian paused to flash Regan a reassuring grin.
The wallet held a high quality fake driver’s license, and a couple of twenties. Ian dropped the billfold and pocketed the gun.
“Killzone’s the name?” Regan arched a questioning eyebrow at him.
“Hey, it worked. It seemed like the simplest way to say message received, princess,” he defended his choice of code name.
“You’re such a guy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. You wouldn’t happen to have cuffs?”
“No.”
“Damn. Me neither,” he admitted regretfully.
Ian stripped off his tie and bound the man’s wrists behind his back. “Good tie,” he muttered.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” The dry tone was vintage Regan, not a trace of princess. It made him grin.
“Thanks,” he said, inordinately pleased by her offer.
Regan reached for the penthouse button. Ian blocked her, shaking his head no. “There’s no way of knowing who’s waiting for us. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
He started to punch in the first floor, and then changed his mind, holding the door open button to keep them stopped. He scanned her prim suit. If they stepped into the lobby with her in that outfit she might as well be wearing a neon headpiece that flashed, Princess here--take me hostage.
“Can you do anything about the princess outfit?”
Regan raised an elegant eyebrow. “Not with the doors open.”
Ian released the button he’d been pressing. The elevator resumed its downward journey. He knew he should offer to turn away. But he wasn’t about to miss a free strip show, starring Regan.
“Get me his jacket,” she ordered.
Ian nudged the terrorist with his shoe. “Sure.”
The motorcycle escorts peeled off as Regan exited the limo. Ian watched as she and her security guards--a pair of over-sized blonde jocks, whom he’d mentally, nicknamed dumb and dumber--entered the hotel lobby. He hung back, losing sight of the trio after a few seconds. Telling himself it was past time for him to leave.
An overly honed protective instinct impelled him get out of the SUV. Deciding he’d bluff it out if she spotted him, he rushed through the entrance. Rapidly scanning the room for Regan, he caught a glimpse of pink moving toward the elevators. Then a loaded-to-the-hilt luggage cart blocked his view.
Once he’d cleared the obstruction, the pink suit had vanished.
Ignoring the fear chilling the back of his neck, he dropped all pretense of being casual and sprinted for the elevators. The door to number five was almost closed. An extra burst of speed, and his long arm, kept it open. A jab of the call button reversed the direction of the mechanical doors.
His jaw hardened at the sight of Regan alone with an assistant manager, if he were naïve enough to believe the man’s breast pocket pin.
“Seven please.” Ian bared his teeth and pulled up the corners of his mouth in what he hoped looked like a friendly grin for the man standing next to the elevator’s control panel.
“Afternoon ma’am.” He nodded toward Regan.
Her eyes flickered over him so quickly he might have missed it if he hadn’t been glued on hers.
“Good afternoon sir, Mr. Hitman isn’t it?” Her voice retained the phony upper-class accent, her tone was low and even, giving no indication she was upset.
“No, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ve got me confused with someone else. Killzone’s the name.”
So she wasn’t running away with the assistant manager. Ian wondered what the hell had happened to dumb and dumber.
The suspected terrorist punched the button for seven without saying a word. The movement revealed an underarm bulge that hadn’t been visible earlier, ratcheting Ian’s tension even further. He had a gun of his own, but he never drew it unless he was prepared to use it.
He shuddered thinking of the damage a shooting match in the small steel cage could do. He wouldn’t chance it--not with Regan there. He could use his knife, but bloodstains were so hard to get out. He really liked the tie he had on, and the shirt was good--practically new.
He’d have to take him out the old-fashioned way.
He fumbled through his pockets giving an imitation of man looking for something. The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor.
“Damn plastic cards. They never work for me anyway.” Ian opened his wallet, and then extracted his gas card, dropping it into his jacket pocket, hopefully simulating a room key.
On his way out the elevator’s door, Ian deliberately stumbled, bumping into the man. Quickly, he slammed the phony assistant manager’s face into the elevator wall. He followed up with a locked two-handed blow to the back of his neck, putting the bad guy out of commission. He caught the guy’s limp body as he crumpled. While disarming him, and then extracting his wallet, Ian paused to flash Regan a reassuring grin.
The wallet held a high quality fake driver’s license, and a couple of twenties. Ian dropped the billfold and pocketed the gun.
“Killzone’s the name?” Regan arched a questioning eyebrow at him.
“Hey, it worked. It seemed like the simplest way to say message received, princess,” he defended his choice of code name.
“You’re such a guy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. You wouldn’t happen to have cuffs?”
“No.”
“Damn. Me neither,” he admitted regretfully.
Ian stripped off his tie and bound the man’s wrists behind his back. “Good tie,” he muttered.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” The dry tone was vintage Regan, not a trace of princess. It made him grin.
“Thanks,” he said, inordinately pleased by her offer.
Regan reached for the penthouse button. Ian blocked her, shaking his head no. “There’s no way of knowing who’s waiting for us. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
He started to punch in the first floor, and then changed his mind, holding the door open button to keep them stopped. He scanned her prim suit. If they stepped into the lobby with her in that outfit she might as well be wearing a neon headpiece that flashed, Princess here--take me hostage.
“Can you do anything about the princess outfit?”
Regan raised an elegant eyebrow. “Not with the doors open.”
Ian released the button he’d been pressing. The elevator resumed its downward journey. He knew he should offer to turn away. But he wasn’t about to miss a free strip show, starring Regan.
“Get me his jacket,” she ordered.
Ian nudged the terrorist with his shoe. “Sure.”
posted by Evanne Lorraine at 6:30 AM
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