Page 104 of Can't Stop Watching
He comes around the desk. "Sir, I'm not going to?—"
I cut him off. "There's a woman in danger up there. This isn't a fucking debate."
His hand grips my shoulder. "That's it. You're leaving now."
The moment his fingers clench my jacket, muscle memory takes over. I grab his wrist, twist, and drop my center of gravity. One fluid motion—the kind you don't forget once it's been drilled into you a thousand times. Before Captain America can process what's happening, his face is kissing the polished marble floor, his own taser pressed against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. One minute he's a tough guy, the next he's tasting floor wax.
I press the taser harder against the guard's neck, watching his jaw grind in anger.
"Where is Brian Langford?" I growl, the words sharp as broken glass.
His lips press into a thin line, but his eyes flicker—a micro-expression that speaks volumes. He knows what's going on here. That's the face of someone who knows they're guarding a monster.
"You know, don't you?" I lean in closer, my voice low and dangerous. "You know what Langford does here."
A entire body goes rigid. Bingo.
"Listen, tough guy," I snarl, "I can fry your ass right here, right now. How's that for a Friday?"
But the asshole just stares back, unblinking. The taser doesn't scare him. Maybe he's used to pain. Maybe he knows it won't kill him.
I toss the taser aside, the clatter echoing through the lobby. In one fluid motion, I draw my Glock and press the cold barrel against his temple. His eyes widen. Now I'm speaking his language.
"Okay, let's try this again," I say, my tone conversational, like we're discussing the weather over coffee. "I'll redecorate the floor with your brains. How about that? Think the janitor will appreciate the extra work?"
The guard's breathing quickens, sweat beading on his forehead.
"You don't understand," he whispers, fear finally cracking his facade. "If I talk, I'm dead anyway."
I laugh, a sound devoid of humor. "Newsflash, Rambo, you're looking at dead right now. At least if you tell me now, you'll have time to run. So will this be quick or messy?"
His eyes dart around, searching for an escape that doesn't exist. I can see the wheels turning in his head, weighing his options. It's a familiar dance, the moment when a man decides if his loyalty is worth dying for.
"Look," I say, easing up slightly but keeping the gun firmly in place, "I get it. You're just doing your job. But right now, there's a woman up there in danger. Whatever Langford's paying you, it's not worth an innocent life. Trust me, I've been where you are. Protecting the wrong people, thinking it's loyalty when it's just fear dressed up in a fancy suit."
Something shifts in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or just the realization that his options have narrowed to a pinpoint.
"Thirty-second floor," he finally croaks out. "Executive suite at the end of the hall."
I flip him over, his body as limp as wet cardboard. Fishing out his wallet, I scan his driver's license. "If you're lying to me, Samuel Barrett," I growl, "I'll find you and destroy everything you hold precious."
The man shudders.
"I swear that's it," he whines.
Pocketing his ID—always good to have insurance—I sprint for the elevator. The doors slide shut with agonizing slowness, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and the fucking muzak from corporate hell.
Thirty-tw0 floors. That's all that stands between me and Lila. Thirty-two floors and the sick game Langford's playing. My mind races, conjuring up a thousand scenarios. I see Gianna by the fireplace, her pleading eyes begging for my help.
The image sinks its claws into my chest, threatening to rip my heart clean out. I've been here before, haven't I? Always a step behind, always too late to save the ones who need saving. It's a dance as old as me. I'm Fortune's whipping boy.
But not Lila. Not this time.
She's the first person in years who's made me feel something other than the cold embrace of guilt and regret. If something happens to her… I'll tear that motherfucker limb by limb.
The elevator chimes, each floor a reminder of how far I still have to go. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven... Time stretches, warping and bending until each second feels like an eternity.
Fear claws at my throat, threatening to choke the life out of me. What if I'm too late? What if Langford's already…
