The hallways of the Hamilton Hotel were deathly quiet, the air thick with tension as Caleb moved forward. The unease he'd felt earlier grew sharper with every step. The empty corridors twisted and turned in the eerie silence, and yet he knew he wasn't alone anymore. He could sense them.
As he approached the lobby, the faint murmur of voices filtered through the cracked walls. He slowed his pace, his back pressed against the corner of the hallway, listening intently. A group of armed men stood just beyond his sight, waiting for him.
"You can come out now," one of the men called, his voice rough but steady. "We know you're there."
Cal's jaw tightened, his heart thumping steadily. They were expecting me. There was no use in hiding now. With a deep breath, he stepped out into the open, his body tense but his expression unreadable. The men stood in formation, guns raised, but their eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. He could sense their fear, though they tried to mask it.
"Get on the ground," the leader of the group demanded, his voice cold. Another man, bulkier than the rest, stepped forward holding several pairs of handcuffs. His pistol was already drawn.
Cal barely suppressed a scoff. Handcuffs? Really?
The man closed the distance, his steps slow and deliberate. He kept his gun trained on Cal as he reached for his arm. The moment the man's hand touched him, Caleb moved. His hand shot out, gripping the man's collar with iron strength.
In an instant, the gun fired. The first shot hit him in the chest, then another, and another, as the man pulled the trigger in a panic. The bullets tore through Cal's skin, but before the man could register what was happening, he was slammed into the wall with bone-rattling force. The plaster and lath crumbled, and with one fluid motion, Cal hurled the man clean through the wall, sending him crashing into the next room.
For a brief moment, the other men stood in stunned silence, their shock palpable. Then, the leader's voice cut through the air.
"Shoot the mother fucker!"
The hotel lobby exploded in a deafening hail of gunfire. Bullets ripped through the air, tearing into the walls, the furniture, everything. Cal dove through the newly created hole in the wall, landing in a small, rundown hotel room. The room was a wreck—dusty, with broken furniture and debris scattered everywhere—but it provided cover.
The men continued to fire, but Cal was already moving, calculating his next move as the adrenaline surged through his veins. The gunshots kept coming, but they weren't enough to take him down. They have no idea what they're dealing with.
Outside, Ryan froze as the sound of gunfire echoed through the air. His heart jumped into his throat. Cal's in there. The panic gripped him instantly, and his hands fumbled as he pulled out his phone, quickly dialing 911.
But his fingers slipped, and the phone tumbled from his grasp, clattering to the pavement below. "Damn it!" he muttered, his hands shaking as he bent down to pick it up.
Before he could grab it, something cold and hard pressed against his face. A hand—massive and unyielding—wrapped around his head, lifting him off the ground with terrifying ease. Ryan's legs kicked out, his heart pounding in his chest as his vision blurred from the pressure. He tried to scream, but the grip was too tight, the air choking in his throat.