Free Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm by Tere Michaels Page A

to the Iron Butterfly. In the lobby, Damian was directing the staff upstairs to their posts, offering complimentary drinks, meals, and accommodations to clientele for the rest of their stay—the words seemed to actually pain him. He spotted Cade and waved him over.
    Limping from the cold, Cade crossed the lobby to Damian’s side.
    “Your client,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
    “That son of a bitch,” Cade muttered. “Left me—”
    Damian waved him off. “He paid double your fee and left you a 50 percent tip.”
    Cade blinked.
    “And he left you this.” Damian pulled out his tablet with the blinking message icon under Cade’s name.
    Holding the blanket closed with one hand, Cade took the tablet, then flicked the message icon.
Sorry.
- Patrick

Chapter Eight
     
    T HE ALARM echoed in Nox’s head as he raced down the back stairs of the Iron Butterfly. He could hear doors opening as people began to panic and evacuate.
    “Fire!” someone shouted.
    “Bomb!” another screamed.
    Nox moved quicker, his steps sure, his well-conditioned body moving with ease even as guilt wracked him. The warring began to slow his steps as his body screamed “go” and his conscience screamed “what about Cade?” He was two flights down when he turned around, fighting against the flow of people now hot on his heels.
    He made his way through the river of frantic guests and staff trying to escape the building. They broke his momentum, pushing him backward until he struggled to the side and pulled himself onto the railing.
    Deftly, he climbed, hauling himself up like a kid on the monkey bars, swinging up and over until he reached the floor he’d come from.
    He wasn’t going to leave that kid alone and handcuffed to the bed.
    His fight-or-flight response had kicked in wildly at the first sound of the alarm. It sounded like the evacuation, like the klaxon at his mother’s sanitarium that terrible night. His heart pounded violently—he needed to get out, wanted to, but no.
    You don’t leave people behind.
    Nox got back to the floor and pushed the door open. In the hallway, red lights flashed and flared; Nox focused on running back the way he came, to get back to the kid, to—
    He saw her at the other end of the hall.
    A tiny dress, long legs, a drape of red hair. She couldn’t have looked more different than the last time he saw her, standing on the deck of the ferry with a murderous look in her eyes.
    He froze.
    She was running down the hallway, knocking on doors and shouting “Evacuate!”—the irony made him dizzy.
    When she spotted him, his heart clenched, but she showed no recognition, no reaction beyond her purpose for being here. “Sir? You have to get out of here. I’m sure it’s just a false alarm, but—”
    “In the Monarch Suite. Someone is still in there,” he managed to grind out. He gestured down the hall.
    “Oh, okay—thank you.” She smiled, then pointed toward the stairwell door. “Please head downstairs to the lobby.”
    Nox stepped back as if she were coming after him, when, really, she just turned and went in Cade’s direction.
    Nox turned and ran.
     
     
    S HE WAS alive.
    He made it to the street, momentarily confused by the lights and crowds and policemen and emergency units. Snow fell, but it wasn’t the pretty kind that dusted the street and cabs. An icy mix and a wind kicking in from the north. A storm, possibly a bad one.
    Nox didn’t bother to hail a cab. He took off down the main drag toward the south exit of the District. If someone was following him, he didn’t want to lead them back home.
    He slipped in his dress shoes, the lifts he used to appear taller screwing with his balance, the icy deluge picking up as he walked as quickly as he could manage. The crowds thinned as the weather worsened—he could see the wall ahead, lights dimming as fewer businesses and advertisements populated this area.
    If she recognized him, there would be guards following. Or cops alerted to pick him