CHAPTER 11: LOCKDOWN AND BLOOD TRAILS.

Finally, the last two agents from the VIP incident descended the grand staircase into the reception center—its marble floor now littered with broken glass and smeared footprints. The leader clutched the briefcase tightly, knuckles white around the polished handle.

“We got it. Let’s move out,” he barked to his armed men, who kept the panicked guests huddled near the gilded walls.

A toppled sculpture lay in the center of the room now—something abstract, jagged, and unfamiliar. No one remembered seeing or reading about it before the gunfire.

The receptionist, arms raised behind the counter, smirked. His eyes gleamed with sick satisfaction, convinced the plan had succeeded.

But that satisfaction didn’t last.

A sharp, echoing crack shattered the air.

A perfect shot slammed through his forehead, blowing out the back of his skull in a spray of red mist. His body jerked violently and collapsed against the counter, blood painting the polished wood and splattering the surrounding walls. Guests screamed, cried, whimpered—chaos erupted.

Behind a nearby pillar, Jeff froze. His breath hitched. Even some of the agents flinched, including the one with the wounded shoulder—his black mask couldn't hide the shock in his eyes.

“Why, big bro?!” the injured agent cried. “He brought us here!”

The leader reloaded coolly, ejecting the shell with a metallic clink. “You know our rules. The more he talked, the less we could trust him. If he sold out the hotel, what makes you think he wouldn’t sell out us next?”

He gave a nod toward the exit. “Let’s move.”

But as the agents began to shift with weapons raised—backs turned toward the huddled guests, nerves high—Jeff’s eyes darted between them and the crowd. The terrified civilians. The toddlers clinging to their mothers. Amy's grandmother crouched with no hint of fear, gazing at the agents as they moved. If the agents panicked… if they started shooting blind—

His decision came like instinct.

Jeff sprang from cover and fired.

The nearest agent dropped instantly, choking on his own blood, hands clutching his neck.

“Shit! Get this son of a bitch down!” the leader barked, whirling to return fire.

Gunfire exploded through the hall.

Guests shrieked and dove for cover. Jamey, Harvey, and Stinson scrambled behind chairs, pillars, and upturned tables. Jeff rolled behind a flower-brick divider as plaster and ceramic burst into clouds around him.

Above, one of the lobby’s grand chandeliers shivered from the tremors—then broke free.

It crashed into the marble floor with a rain of glass and steel, narrowly missing a pair of agents who flinched back in time.

The shockwave from the impact rippled through the reception center. One of the sculpted marble pieces—once proudly displayed at the center of the hall—teetered, groaned, and collapsed with a thunderous crack. Shards of white stone scattered like jagged confetti, its broken limbs and ruined face now part of the carnage.

---

Meanwhile, upstairs in Candice’s room…

Gunshots rang faintly in the distance.

Candice and the Indian boy shared a wide-eyed glance. Silence. Then—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Hello?! Is anyone in there?!” a woman’s voice shrieked from the hallway, followed by more frantic pounding. “Please—somebody—!”

The Indian boy yanked off one of his multicolored sneakers and held it like a club, taking position beside the door.

Candice nodded, jaw tight. Her hand trembled as it closed around the handle. Another thunderous BANG! And she threw the door open—

No one.

Then she looked down—and gasped.

The naked celebrity woman lay sprawled in the hallway, her throat slit wide open, pumping blood that slithered along the tiles like a living serpent. Her eyes stared up in horror—glassy, unblinking.

Candice stumbled back, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God…”

The Indian boy peeked out, blinked, then recoiled. “That’s a real dead body… That’s real… oh shit…” He bolted into the bathroom, collapsed to his knees, and vomited into the toilet.

Candice stood frozen. Her knees buckled. She couldn’t look away—the gaping throat, the way the blood flowed like it had a mind of its own, the single twitch of the woman’s lifeless hand as if obeying some unseen whisper.

“You see it too…?” she whispered. “So it’s real… what I saw earlier… it was all real…”

The Indian boy’s voice echoed through the bathroom walls between heaves. “What the hell is going on in this hotel?! This is never how I pictured this trip—this is some real Resident Evil shit right now—fuck!”

---

Downstairs…

Hermit’s corpse remained draped over the counter, brain matter oozing down like melted wax.

Gunfire still thundered through the reception hall. Jeff popped up from behind the divider, firing another round—one attacker went down, hit in the shoulder.

“Damn!! My second shoulder! He shot my other shoulder!” the man cried, stumbling but staying upright.

“Move! Get that door open—NOW!” the leader ordered.

They charged toward the main exit—but the large door refused to budge.

“What the—?! Open it!” the leader snapped.

“I’m trying! It’s not fucking opening!” one agent yelled, slamming the handle uselessly.

Jeff fired again—CLANG!—his bullet pinged off the bulletproof metal of the briefcase just inches from the leader’s hand.

“Shit…” Jeff hissed, ducking low. He yanked out his magazine. Only two bullets left.

The leader, face flushed beneath his eyepatch, turned and emptied his magazine into the door.

Still nothing.

He tried calling the outside team—no connection.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!!” He stomped in frustration. “That ode... I killed him too soon!” (“Ode” = “idiot” in Yoruba)

Realization hit like a brick—the dead receptionist had the exit code.

He spun on his men. “Engineers—find the power room! Any place storing security passes—NOW!”

Three of them took off down a hallway.

Jeff saw his chance. He inhaled, aimed, fired—his shot hit the leader square in the thigh.

The man screamed and stumbled.

Jeff lunged forward, tackled another attacker, wrestled the rifle from his hands, and raised it toward the downed leader.

But before he could fire—

BLAM!

Agony tore through Jeff’s side. He rushed back, dodging bullets and collapsed back behind the divider, clutching his abdomen.

“Ha-ha!” the wounded man jeered, one arm hanging limp. He yanked off his black mask, revealing a rugged face—cheekbones sharp like cut stone, a crooked nose that had clearly been broken before, and a patchy beard framing a cocky grin. Scars lined his jaw like old war paint, and his eyes gleamed with both fury and amusement. He raised his weapon with the other hand. “You think I can’t shoot with both shoulders busted? I’m diabetic, fool—nerves are dull as hell!”

He bared his bloodied teeth in a grotesque grin.

The leader crawled to cover, clutching his thigh. Another agent dragged himself beside him. Gritting his teeth, the leader tied a cloth around his bleeding leg and reloaded his Tavor rifle.

“That’ll end him.” The Leader strained.

Jeff lay behind the divider, pressing hard against his bleeding wound. His hand trembled as he stared at his nearly empty handgun.

Only one bullet left.

He let out a dry, bitter snigger as bullets slammed into the flower-brick divider he hid behind, spraying ceramic dust and petals into the air like shrapnel.

What the hell am I doing… thinking about some woman I bumped into at the airport and then ran into again in this damn madhouse?

But the memory refused to leave.

That first moment… her gingered hair catching the sun light like streaks of fire, siren-brown eyes fixed on her cracked-screen phone—so focused, she hadn’t even looked at him when he first spoke. Her skin, a warm brown that glowed faintly under the terminal lights. And that perfume… soft, floral. It still haunted his senses, even now, tangled with the scent of gunpowder and blood.

He winced, pressing harder on his side. His breath caught.

Then came the second time—the madhouse—when he’d pulled her up from the floor. She’d finally looked into his eyes. No fear, just hesitation… and trust.

Her fingers in his. Her weight leaning into him. Her scent again, closer. A moment too intimate for strangers.

Jeff shook his head, jaw clenched.

Focus, damn it. Survive first. Figure out what this is later.