Page 39 of Shadowed Agenda

“It was the guy in the photograph. The one with the red baseball cap.” Regan pressed a hand to her throat, and blood seeped between her fingers. “Go after him. Don’t let him get away.”

“You’re hurt,” Pavlo growled, reaching for the hand pressed against her neck.

Regan batted his hand away. “I’m fine. It’s just a nick.”

He caught her hand as she raised it to swat at him once more and pried the fingers of her other hand off the cut. He glanced at the wound, and the tension wrapped around him eased.

“Keep pressure on it. Go to your suite and deadbolt the door,” Pavlo shouted as he raced up the stairs and disappeared.

Regan prayed he caught the guy. They had questions that needed answers.

Chapter eighteen

Theguyhadahead start, but Pavlo wasn’t letting him get away a second time. He flung the stairwell door open and ran into the eighth-floor hallway.

A handful of people were making their way to the elevator. The red baseball cap was like a flashing neon sign. Regan’s attacker was running toward the staircase at the opposite end of the hallway.

Pavlo chased after him, darting around people, focused on his prey.

The guy flung the stairwell door open. A second later, Pavlo did the same.

Pavlo could hear the guy’s footsteps several flights down. Pavlo ran down the steps two at a time, hoping to catch up. The guy would tire. Pavlo wouldn’t.

The footsteps were growing louder, slowed, and then stopped. A door opened as Pavlo reached the first-floor landing.

There was probably a motorcycle waiting for him. It was the perfect getaway vehicle on the busy New York City streets.

Pavlo grasped the stair’s railing, vaulted over it, dropped onto the staircase below, and raced down the few remaining steps. The lobby door snicked shut. He pushed it open.

The bright red baseball cap immediately caught Pavlo’s eye. He was headed to the employee area. He’d slowed his pace, attempting to blend in with the people scattered in the lobby, but even without the cap, Pavlo would have spotted him. His movements were stiff. He kept glancing behind him, and he walked with a noticeable limp. Regan’s Louboutins should have come with a warning.

The guy looked over his shoulder again. This time, he noticed Pavlo and picked up speed. He bumped up against a man and lost the baseball cap. The guy was bald. Even at this distance, the tattoo on his skull was visible. It explained the ball cap.

Pavlo followed him down a long sterile hallway marked “Employees Only.” He wished he’d worn his back holster instead of the ankle holster. He’d be at a disadvantage if the guy’s buddies had weapons. There was only one reason Baldy was leading him on a wild goose chase instead of trying to lose him on the crowded sidewalks. His ride was waiting for him in the alley.

Double doors to the left swung open, and a young woman backed into the hallway, pulling a room-service cart laden with food. She swung it around as Baldy barrelled down the hallway. She flattened herself against the wall, and he tipped the cart over, blocking the hallway. It crashed onto the floor. Broken plates spilled their contents across the gray tile. Food splashed onto the white walls. Baldy grabbed the girl and flung her to the ground.

Pavlo smirked. The guy was an idiot if he thought that would slow him down. Pavlo sailed over the cart and dodged the girl.

The sounds of the New York City morning rush hour infiltrated the hallway as Baldy opened the back door. Pavlo gave a last burst of speed.

The exit door was still closing as Pavlo flung it open and ran into the alley beside the hotel. A motorcycle engine revved further down the alley, and Pavlo could make out the machine sitting in the shadows of a dumpster.

No way was he letting Baldy get away a third time. Pavlo threw himself through the air and tackled the guy. They both tumbled onto the hard pavement. Pavlo didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the guy by the front of his t-shirt, lifted his head off the pavement, and punched him twice before dropping him back onto the pavement.

The roar of the motorcycle headed in the opposite direction filled the alley. The guy’s buddy had left him to fend for himself.

Pavlo turned the guy onto his stomach and ground his knee into his back to keep him from moving. He quickly found the knife. Baldy’s gun was in a waist holder. Pavlo had been lucky the guy hadn’t drawn the gun. The only cover was the dumpsters evenly spaced further along the building’s wall.

Pavlo tossed both weapons several feet away. They were evidence. He’d need to call Hector. There was no way he would question Baldy and let him go. He’d already attacked Regan twice. Pavlo wanted him tucked away in jail and no longer a threat to Regan.

Without thinking, he fished a couple of zip ties out of his suit jacket pocket and secured Baldy’s hands and feet. The black skull tattoo on the back of his head was a work of art and clearly done by a professional. The tattoo on his neck wasn’t. It was prison quality. The FBI report indicated the guy had done time. A tattoo on his left bicep peeked out from under his black t-shirt. Pavlo figured it was a gang tattoo. Baldy was probably a small fry in the gang hierarchy, easily intimidated when faced with someone higher up the food chain. That could work in Pavlo’s favor.

Pavlo rolled him over, fisted the front of his t-shirt, and looked down at him. “Who hired you?”

The guy stared at him, refusing to speak.

Pavlo hit him again, just hard enough to ensure cooperation, before tossing him to the ground. Baldy needed to learn how charming and persuasive he could be. Pavlo grabbed the back of the guy’s t-shirt.