A few doormen were bent at the waist, holding car doors open for guests. When fifty street bikes came roaring up the drive, every drop of color drained from their faces.
"You... what do you think you're doing! You can't park motorcycles here!"
Before the words left his mouth, my crew rode their bikes straight onto the hotel's red carpet, a dozen of them skidding sideways to barricade the revolving doors.
Four lobby security guards rushed out and barely got their radios up before my people pinned them facedown on the marble floor.
"Suse, penthouse suite, 2801."
Spyder came sprinting over, phone in hand. He'd hacked the hotel's reservation system ten minutes ago.
I took a dozen of my inner circle and crammed into the VIP elevator.
Every second that elevator climbed, Mila's suicide note replayed behind my eyes.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
Four bodyguards in black stood posted outside Suite 2801.
All six-one or taller, comms earpieces wedged in, something bulky holstered at each hip.
These weren't hotel security. They were private muscle on the multinational's payroll.
The one in front, shaved head, saw us and raised a palm.
"Private event. Unauthorized—"