Page 127 of Tate
He spied the door closing to the stairwell down the hall. He turned and sprinted to follow, slamming open the door.
Plunkett was two flights down, taking the stairs down two at a time.
“Where’s Tate?” Ford said in his ear as Tate scrambled after Plunkett.
“It’s the sound guy! I’m in the stairwell. He’s getting away!” He didn’t want to ask what Glo’s answer was. “Scarlett, grab security and tell them to lock down all the exits.”
“Do we have a bomb threat?” Scarlett’s voice was hushed, but he heard music and applause behind her words.
Perfect. It was probably a yes.
“I don’t know yet.” He hit the second landing, took the rest of the stairs down in four big steps.
The sun glared off the cement deck of the patio, and he blinked against it, adjusting his eyes as he sprinted after Plunkett, running hard for the end of the building.
“Hey!” Tate wanted to startle him, jerk him out of his escape path, maybe alert local security.
It worked. The man glanced back and leaped toward another door, fleeing back inside the building.
Tate reached it—another stairwell.
“He’s coming back up the stairs. Ford, you’d better be there.”
“On my way.”
The man’s steps pounded above him as Tate gripped the rail and launched himself, two steps at a time, up the cement steps.
A shout echoed against the walls as a door slammed open. Grunts, a curse, shouts.
Tate came up the stairs and nearly bought it when an axe sailed his direction. It bounced off the wall and skidded down the stairs. Plunkett must have pulled it off the wall.
Tate stopped, breathing hard, heard more pounding as Plunkett thundered up another flight.
He wanted to curse when he found the stairwell handle destroyed. Ford was on the other side, banging his fist on the door.
“Get to the roof!”
He scrambled up behind Plunkett, ready to duck, but the man had a two-flight gain on him.
The other man’s steps had died by the time Tate reached the third floor, and he took a guess and launched out into the fourth.
The floor was empty, a yawning conference space that led out to a balcony overlooking the pool area.
He spied a man standing at the edge of the terrace, against the white cement railing, wearing a gray shirt, his body paint swiped off. Empty tables and chairs, conversation groupings of wicker, stood between them.
“Plunkett!”
The man turned, sweaty and desperate.
Yeah, Tate remembered him now. And not just by his picture, but three months ago, in the bar in San Antonio where he’d bellied up next to Kelsey, Glo’s bandmate. Stalking the Belles even then.
Remembered the tattoo, sure, but also the way he’d looked at Kelsey, eying her up, cocky, as if he knew something.
He wore the same look now, and it raised the fine hairs on the back of Tate’s neck. “What are you doing here?”
Plunkett lifted a shoulder, glanced over his own, then back to Tate. “Can’t you read?” He pointed to the emblem on his pocket. Event Sound and Lighting, with a little lightning bolt on the logo.
Tate shook his head. “Then why the sprint?”
