“Thieves!” the guard repeated. Mercilessly he stepped up to Marissa and slapped her a third time, knocking her back against the receptionist’s desk.
The desk broke Marissa’s fall. She sent a few dispensers and a metal stapler crashing to the floor.
Survival instinct told her to make a run for it, but she could hardly leave Wendy. Marissa glared at her assailant.
“We’re not thieves!” she shouted.
“Are you crazy?”
The guard’s smile broadened into a hideous grin, exposing decaying teeth. The next second, his expression was stern.
“You call me crazy?” he snarled. He reached for his revolver.
Wide-eyed with terror, Marissa watched as the man raised the gun and aimed its barrel directly at her. She heard the horrifying mechanical click as the guard cocked the gun’s hammer back. He was going to shoot her.
“No!” Wendy shouted. She’d regained her breath and was sitting up.
Marissa couldn’t speak. She thought of uttering some plea, but the words wouldn’t come. She was paralyzed with fear. She couldn’t take her eyes away from the blank hole of the barrel as she braced for the shattering blast.
“Hold it!” a voice cried out.
Marissa winced, then opened her eyes. The gun hadn’t fired. She sucked in a lungful of air as the gun in front of her face lowered. She hadn’t even been aware she’d been holding her breath.
Marissa allowed her eyes to leave the gun and rise to the guard’s face. He was staring in disbelief toward the short hallway to the elevators and stairwell. Marissa’s eyes followed his line of sight. Standing there, holding a gun of his own in both hands, was a rumpled figure. The gun was trained steadily on the guard.
“Aren’t you guys overreacting?” the stranger asked.
“Now I want you to put that gun on the desk and move over to the wall.
No fast moves. I’ve shot a lot of people in my day. One more wouldn’t make much difference.”
For a moment no one moved or spoke. The security guard’s gaze shifted from the newly arrived intruder to the Chinese man in the gray suit. He seemed to be contemplating whether or not to comply.
“The gun on the desk!” the stranger repeated. Turning to the man in the gray suit, he added: “Don’t you move!” The man had started to circle the room.
“Who are you?” the guard asked.
“Paul Abrums,” the man said.
“Just a workaday, retired cop trying to earn a few dollars to supplement my pension. Certainly is lucky I was in the neighborhood to keep things from getting out of hand here. Now, I’m not going to tell you again: put the gun on the desk!”
Marissa stepped aside as the guard moved to the receptionist’s desk and laid his revolver down. Wendy got up from the floor and joined Marissa.
“Now,” Paul said.
“If you two gentlemen would kindly step over to that wall and put your hands on it, I’d feel a lot better.”
The two Asians looked at each other, then complied. Paul went to the desk and picked up the revolver. He stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Turning his attention back to the men, he went up behind the guard and frisked him for additional weapons.
Satisfied, he turned to the man in the gray suit.
In a flash, the man in the gray suit spun around with a guttural yell, kicking the gun from Paul’s hand and sending it flying across the room. It clattered to the floor near the windows. Without missing a beat, the man assumed a crouched posture.
With another yell, he aimed a second kick at Paul’s head.
Having been caught off-guard by the first kick, Paul was prepared for the second. An experienced street fighter, he ducked the kick and grabbed a chair and slammed it into his attacker’s midsection. The chair and the man ended up in a tangle on’ the floor.
Next, the security guard assumed a crouched position suggesting martial arts training. He came at Paul from the side as Paul vainly tried to extract the long-barreled Colt from his trouser pocket. Abandoning the gun for the moment, Paul grabbed a lamp from an end table and used it to parry the guard’s lightning thrusts.