Page 105 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
But in one quick moment, Asher has thrown knives into two of them and has the last one in a head lock. When the guy passes out, Asher binds his wrists with a zip tie. Everything was done so quickly, so efficiently, that the only sound emitted was a soft thump from the knifed bodies hitting the floor.
I watch as Asher enters the left hall, where one of the groups of three is still checking the rooms. He attaches a silencer onto a handgun, then slides into the office and shoots two of the attackers in the back of the head before they even realize he’s there.
The third one is just now entering the hall from the theater room he just cleared. He passes the open office door and freezes. He and Asher make eye contact, and Asher springs into action, snapping the guy’s neck before he can even lift the gun in his shocked hands.
There are only three attackers left and about ten minutes on my timer to spare. A few minutes ago, I would have thought it was an impossible task, but now I know better. Asher was born for this. I can see that now, in the way he moves, calm and self-assured. Each step he takes has such purpose and beauty, it makes these deaths seem almost stunning.
That thought sickens me so much, I have trouble watching Asher kill the other three with ease. I move to turn away from the screen, but when I see Asher approaching the door to the outside hallway, I leap into action, running to the intercom and pressing a button.
“Don’t!” I shout.
Asher pauses on the screen as the sound of my voice echoes through the speakers, and I watch as his eyes lock onto the camera, a brow arched.
“There’s a device on the other side. I think it’s a bomb,” I say. “Xavier and some other guards are out there dealing with it.”
He nods and gestures for me to stay in the room, so I do. I watch as he clears the rest of the house by himself. I’m calm as he does this, because I can see from the security cameras that there’s no one alive but him, but I let him continue anyway. Better safe than sorry.
When he’s done clearing the penthouse, he approaches the panic room. I press a button, and the door opens, the screens slide back into place, and the sat phone retreats back into the wall. As soon as Asher sees me, he open his arms, and I move to hug him.
He leads me downstairs, and my brows furrow in confusion when he says, “The Walking Dead.”
There’s humor laced in his voice, which booms loudly into the room. I jump in fright when I see the five guards rising. My night guard even stretches his hands out in front of him and poorly mimics a zombie’s walk. He isn’t winning any Oscars anytime soon.
I breathe out, my voice just a whisper. “What the fuck?”
Asher’s night guard hears me and grins. “Bulletproof clothes.”
Understanding dawns on me immediately. This is why the bulletproof clothes are only divulged on a need-to-know basis. For situations like this, where the guards are outnumbered and might get shot. They pretended to be dead, while Asher remained hidden and waited for an opportunity to strike. The foresight necessary to have such a precaution in place is genius, and I find myself appreciating Asher even more.
But I can’t help the jab I throw his way. “The Walking Dead? You couldn
’t come up with something better?”
Asher shrugs, a smirk gracing his lips. “I thought it was funny.”
There’s a groan on the floor. I watch as the zip tied attacker blinks his eyes a few times before shooting upright. He freezes when he sees me, Asher and the five very much alive guards. Then, he turns around and runs towards the door, his hands still bound behind his back.
I remember the bomb on the door and stick my leg out, tripping him. It’s an elementary school move, but it works. He face plants onto the hardwood and slides a little across the floor before one of the guards steps on his back, stopping his movement.
“Nice,” says Asher, a grin on his lips.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, too, because this is weird. I just tripped a guy sent to kill us.
After the guards cut off the guy’s zip tie and cuff each of his hands to separate arms on one of the dining room chairs, Asher says to him, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
The guy nods warily.
“You’re not mafia,” he says, though I have no idea how he knows this, but I trust that he’s right. “So, you have no loyalties. No reason to lie. Keep that in mind.”
The guy nods again but remains silent.
Asher flips the butterfly knife he’s holding into the air and catches it. “Who hired you?”
The guy doesn’t even hesitate when he says, “No names, but he was about 5’10”, middle age, and wearing a suit. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a round gut. Looked corporate.”
Asher pulls out his phone, types something in, and shows it to the guy. “Is this him?”
When the guy nods, I lean over to peak at the image. It’s René’s company picture.
