Marque and Reprisal Read Online Free PDF Page B

whatever it had been was over. She could do nothing about it. She would try a direct call to her father—much more expensive, but at the moment money didn’t matter.
    She cracked open the booth door to let her security escort know that she would be making more calls, but before the door was fully open she saw a trio of masked figures push through the inner door of the lobby, weapons out. Her escort, standing at the desk chatting with the assistant manager, whirled, but too late: he was dead and so was the assistant manager before either of them could push a panic button. Ky ducked back into the booth, but did not latch the door; that would turn on the ENGAGED light. Instead, she held very still.
    “What room?” she heard one of the intruders ask. A mumble, then the same voice said, “Upstairs.” An instant of relief. She eased around to peek out the door. One of the figures was crouched over the bodyguard, going through his pockets. No chance then to run out the door and get help. She could almost feel the blow in her back if she tried it. But once they found she wasn’t in her room they’d search the place, including this booth.
    The booth held nothing she could use as a weapon. The booth could not be used for local calls—and would not function anyway without the door being latched, at which the telltale light would come on. All this ran through her mind, a cascade of logic that came down to one conclusion—and she was already in motion when she became aware of it.
    The masked figure frisking the dead guard had his back to her at the moment—five strides took her across the lobby. Three before he noticed anything and whirled, but she was already moving so fast that his hasty shot missed, and she was on him. Primary disarm—the weapon flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor. Her chop at his throat met a hard surface; he wore armor under his clothes. He uncoiled a vicious kick; Ky evaded it, whirling and noticing the movement of his left hand toward his side. The next weapon—instead of trying to intercept that movement, she dove toward the dead guard, snatching his weapon as part of a sideways roll, and shot her attacker square through his mask before he had his weapon all the way out. She recognized the stab of emotion that passed through her, sharp and sweet; a wave of guilt followed:
Not again.
She shook it away.
    Seconds had passed. They would be at her floor now. They would be opening the door. And how many were left outside, in case she managed to escape and try to flee? If she’d had an implant, she could have called for help by now. Ky reached over to the reception desk’s outside line. It hummed, and she punched in the local emergency code. A faint rhythmic buzz… three, four, five. Behind the reception desk was the office—she hadn’t been in it, but brief glimpses when the clerk came in and out suggested the usual work space, which might or might not have another exit. The corridor to the left led to the dining room, and from there to the kitchens and presumably another exit, which might also be covered by the assassins. But offices, dining rooms, and kitchens had lots of hiding places. Which…?
    The lift hummed suddenly, then clanked into motion. The assassins? Or some innocent bystander? For the first time she thought about the other possible captains in residence. Two—but they might or might not be in their rooms. Around the desk, a glance at the assistant manager, a crumpled heap on the floor, at the monitor. The lift stopped, but now she heard footsteps on the stairs. No time to make it to the corridor. She ducked into the office with its desks, cabinets, shelves stocked with office supplies. Another door led into a smaller room that seemed to function as a storeroom for linens and cleaning supplies. She moved into it, checked that nothing had a reflective surface to reveal her to someone outside, and flattened against a stack of toilet paper cartons.
    Voices outside. “Piet’s