Chapter 6 - The Drop
The heavy footfalls in the hallway weren't the hurried steps of hotel security. They were the synchronized, tactical stomps of men trained to clear a room.
"The balcony," the little girl whispered, grabbing my wrist. Her hand was ice-cold, but her grip was startlingly strong.
I didn't argue. I scooped up the terrifying drawing, shoved it into my pocket, and bolted for the sliding glass door. I threw it open just as the lock on the suite's front door blew inward with a suppressed thwack. Splinters of wood showered the entryway.
We spilled out onto the balcony, and I yanked the glass door shut behind us, locking it just as three men dressed in tactical black poured into the living room. They carried suppressed submachine guns. One of them immediately locked eyes with me through the glass.
"Over the edge," the girl said.
"We're on the fourth floor!" I hissed, the tropical night air doing nothing to dry the cold sweat pouring down my face.
"There is a decorative ledge two feet down. Then a trellis. Move, David!"
I didn't have time to process how a child knew my name, or how she understood the architectural layout of the Solara Grand. The man inside raised his weapon, the laser sight painting a bright red dot directly on my chest.
I grabbed the girl, hoisted her over the wrought-iron railing, and threw myself over the side just as the glass door shattered into a million pieces above us.
We dropped. My boots hit the concrete ledge with a bone-jarring thud. It was barely wide enough for my feet. Below us was a seventy-foot drop to the concrete pool deck.
"Don't look down," I grunted, pressing my back flat against the stucco wall.
The girl didn't look down. She didn't look scared at all. She shimmied along the narrow ledge with terrifying grace, pointing to a thick wooden trellis covered in dense bougainvillea vines that ran down the side of the building.
Gun barrels poked through the shattered balcony above us. "They went over! Check the ground!" a voice barked in English.
"Climb," she ordered.
I grabbed the thick vines. Thorns sliced into my palms, but the adrenaline masked the pain. I climbed down the trellis, shielding the little girl with my body. We scrambled down the side of the resort like insects, the shadows hiding us from the searchlights that suddenly swept the grounds.
When we finally hit the manicured grass near the service road, my lungs were burning.
"We need a car," I gasped, looking at the distant glow of the valet station.
"No," the girl said, pointing to a battered, rusting pickup truck parked behind the kitchen dumpsters. The keys were dangling from the ignition—a careless mistake by a night-shift cook. "That one."
I hoisted her into the cab, slid into the driver's seat, and turned the key. The engine coughed, sputtered, and roared to life. I threw it into gear and slammed on the gas, tearing out of the service exit without turning the headlights on.
We hit the main highway, leaving the Solara Grand in the rearview mirror. I finally clicked the headlights on and gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice shaking with a mixture of rage and terror. "What is going on? Why are they trying to kill my baby?"
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The girl looked at me from the passenger seat. In the dashboard lights, her pale face looked like a porcelain doll's.
"My name is Evie," she said softly. "And they aren't trying to kill your baby, David. They are trying to prevent it from replacing them."
