Meredith Fletcher - Best Man for the Job

At that moment, the suite’s door crashed inward and a group of men wearing dark coveralls and ski masks invaded the room. They carried pistols and small machine guns.

A masked man grabbed one of the guys at the party and put a pistol to his head. Another masked man stepped forward and fired a burst that raked three of the walls and punched out glass from the balcony doors. The sound of the shots barely penetrated the cottony deafness that filled Eryn’s ears.

“Get down on the floor! Do it now and you’ll live!”

Callan reached for the pistol that should have been holstered at his hip, but his fingertips brushed his slacks and closed on empty space. He hadn’t brought a weapon to Las Vegas because security at the airports was so tight and too many questions would have been asked. The wedding was only going to take three days. He’d felt naked without the pistol, and now he felt vulnerable and helpless.

He clenched his empty hand into a fist. He focused, looking for options.

At the first explosion, he’d crouched, lifting his left arm to protect his face and save his eyesight, and taking two quick steps away from the window because broken glass often became shrapnel. The brief series of explosions echoed throughout the large room but the reinforced windows remained intact except for the bullet holes.

The attendees of the bachelor party reacted slowly, not certain what they were supposed to do. A few of them, prompted by television and action movies, fell to the ground and covered their heads with their arms or shoved their hands into the air in surrender. Partial deafness followed in the wake of the thunderous explosions and the gunfire.

Confused and uncertain, maybe a little drunk or stoned, a partygoer stood facing the men. His hands were over his head and he was crouched, but he hadn’t gone to the floor. “Hey! Hey! Don’t shoot!”

“I said, get down!” One of the men in black coveralls took a single step forward and kicked the man in the crotch. When the guy doubled over in pain, the invader slammed his machine pistol into the back of the man’s head. The impact drove the man to the ground. The invader kicked the downed man in the forehead. The man quivered, then relaxed into unconsciousness.

Callan memorized as much information as he could. Ski masks covered the faces and hair. The coveralls masked body shapes. But he studied the weapons and the footwear. The machine pistols and handguns were expensive, and probably personal equipment. The men wouldn’t throw them away. Stripping off the coveralls would give the men a different appearance almost immediately because they had clothes underneath. They weren’t carrying extra footwear. They would keep the shoes. All of them wore the same black work boots.

A unit. Callan was certain of that. They dressed alike and they moved together, didn’t talk much because they knew what they were doing. That could be a good thing, depending on what they were there to do. Callan hoped it was simple robbery. If Daniel and his friends didn’t act stupid, they would all get to live.

Slowly, Callan spread his hands out and went down to the floor. Seven hostiles stood in the room at strategic points that offered everyone fields of fire. Cold anger stirred inside Callan despite his hopeful thought. The men were professional, at least to some degree, but they weren’t willing to get too bloody with whatever they were doing. Otherwise they would have shot someone to prove they meant business.

Frustrated, his heart hammering, Callan watched in silence as the invaders swiftly worked the room.

“Billfolds and cash out on the floor.” The speaker wore dark brown work boots that laced up to his midcalf. He’d been the one who had flattened the guy who’d moved too slowly. “We want your money and credit cards. All of it. Try anything stupid and you’re going to leave the hotel in a body bag.”

Callan reached inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He wasn’t worried about the money. He kept only a little cash in the wallet. The rest was in his pocket and in his hotel room. He knew how to travel in potentially unfriendly environments, spread it out so it wasn’t all seen or lost at one time. Despite the neon welcome mat in Vegas, he knew the city held predators. All metropolitan areas did. Small villages drew hunters as well, but they couldn’t hide as quickly. He’d hunted predators nearly all his adult life.

He shoved the wallet beyond the reach of his hand. He pressed the left side of his face against the carpet. The smell of cleaning solvent burned his nostrils and almost made him sneeze. He watched, looking for the leader. Units tended to cycle around the guy in charge.

One of the invaders pulled a dark green plastic garbage bag from a coverall pocket. He handed his weapon to another man, then walked around the room collecting wallets and cash.

Callan drew a breath. The men were careful, seasoned. They knew how to work a hostile crowd. As the man with the bag made his rounds, another man crossed over to Daniel. The man hooked a big hand in the back of Daniel’s shirt and yanked upward.

“Get up.”

Scared, face red with panic, Daniel got up. He looked confused and lost, more like a boy than a man.

Callan pushed the thought from his mind. The assessment wasn’t fair. He didn’t know his sister’s fiancé, but there was no way Daniel was prepared for what was taking place in the hotel room. Everyone in that room was afraid. Callan knew he was afraid, too, but he was better at working with his fear.

“What do you want?” Daniel spoke more calmly than Callan would have expected.

Good job, kid. Keep your head and you’re going to be okay. Callan hoped that was true.

The man slapped Daniel’s face hard enough to turn his head. Daniel stumbled but the man grabbed his shirt and pulled him up.

“Don’t talk. Talking will only get you hurt. Do what I say when I say to do it.”

Blood trickled from the corner of Daniel’s mouth. He grabbed his attacker’s arm and tried to kick the man in the groin.

Kid’s got guts, but he’s gonna get himself killed. Callan knotted a fist and worked hard to keep himself down. Bruises healed quickly enough.

The invader intercepted the kick on his thigh, then backhanded Daniel in the mouth. In the next instant, the man thrust the pistol into Daniel’s bruised and battered face. The attacker rolled the hammer with his thumb.

Callan started to push himself up before he could check the movement. He froze when a gun barrel touched the back of his neck and shoved him down. The man hadn’t shot Daniel. Callan quieted himself and waited.

The man drew the weapon back almost immediately, his point made. That was professional. Making contact with a prisoner was dangerous.

“Stay still, soldier boy, and you get to live through this.”

They knew him. That fact sent an icy spike through Callan’s gut. This wasn’t just a random heist directed at a bachelor party. They knew who was going to be here, and who the guests were. That also meant the men weren’t here just for the cash. He watched helplessly, feeling his captor’s gaze. They’d put a man on just to watch him.

“You hear me, soldier boy?”

Controlling his fear and anger and frustration, Callan nodded. “Yeah. I hear you.”

Before Daniel could recover from the rough treatment he’d received, the man turned him around. A second man joined the first. After the first man thrust his machine pistol under the second man’s arm for safekeeping, he reached into one of the large coverall pockets and took out a roll of gray duct tape. He grabbed Daniel’s arms and wound tape around his wrists.

Another strip of tape covered Daniel’s bloody mouth. The next one covered his eyes.