Chapter 297
The motel parking lot, already a canvas of neon-lit despair, was now a three-ring circus of heavily armed sociopaths. The air was so thick with testosterone, gun oil, and pure, unadulterated ego that it was a miracle no one had spontaneously combusted.
In the center of the parking lot, having stepped out of a sleek, black Audi, was the man with the bullhorn. He was not in a suit. He was not in tactical gear. He was dressed in a pristine, blindingly expensive-looking velvet blazer of a deep, obnoxious purple. He was smiling, a wide, gleeful, shark-like grin, as he held the bullhorn to his lips. This, Rick realized, must be the infamous Marnus Warner. He was flanked by a dozen men in actual, high-end tactical gear—the kind of professionals who made Julian Croft's rent-a-bodyguards look like mall cops.
It was, officially, a four-way standoff. And Rick and Sharon were in the dead center, in a ten-by-ten room that was about to become a human-sized blender.
