BULLETPROOF HEART

THE LOBBY

BULLETPROOF HEART - CHAPTER 17: THE LOBBY

Price didn't run up the stairs. He ordered tea.

Marcus watched from the mezzanine. The man who'd ordered his team killed in Bayelsa was sitting in a five-star Brussels hotel lobby, black wool coat, hands wrapped around a cup, like a tourist waiting for his wife.

Marcus's work phone buzzed again. Same number.

*Laurent: STAY IN ROOM. ARMED RESPONSE 6 MIN. DO NOT ENGAGE.*

Six minutes was too long. Price would be gone in two.

Downstairs, Amara's voice in his earpiece — she'd kept the cheap radio from Abuja.

"Marcus, I see him on the lobby camera. He's alone."

"You were supposed to lock the door," he whispered.

"I did lock the door. Then I unlocked it. Rule 4 — I don't listen when you're being heroic and stupid."

Despite everything, he smiled.

"New plan," he said. "You stay on camera. You are my eyes. I go down."

"Be careful. He has a gun in his boot. He always does in the photos Dele had."

"Noted."

Marcus went down the back stairs, not the elevator. Pistol low, hidden by his untucked shirt. Same pistol from Room 7 in Port Harcourt. Six bullets, same as always.

Price didn't look surprised when Marcus sat across from him.

"Thompson."

"Colonel."

"You look... domesticated," Price said, nodding at the upstairs. "Yellow dress girl made you soft."

"She made me accurate," Marcus said. "Which is why you're not going to make it to the door."

Price sipped tea. "You won't shoot me in a hotel lobby in Belgium. You're not that guy."

"No. But I will sit here for six minutes while Belgian police come in. And you know what happens after? The Hague doesn't give you parole. Dele already flipped on you for a deal."

For the first time, Price's hand tightened.

"He what?"

"Your name, his mouth, 5 billion dollars of receipts. You taught me Rule 1 — always check the perimeter. You forgot to check yours."

Behind them, elevator ding. Amara walked out in the hotel bathrobe, barefoot, hair wet — like she just got out of the shower. A guest. Innocent.

She walked straight to their table.

"Sir, sorry — are you using this chair?" she asked Price, perfect polite smile.

Price looked up, confused for a half second. That's all Marcus needed.

Marcus's hand shot across, grabbed Price's wrist, slammed it to the table. A small pistol clattered — ankle gun, just like Amara said.

Amara didn't scream. She kicked it under the next table.

Hotel security turned. Guests looked.

Price tried to stand. Marcus didn't let go.

"Stay," Marcus said, quiet, like to a dog.

Sirens outside. Loud now.

Amara slid into the chair next to Marcus, slipped her cold bare foot over his under the table, grounding him.

"You good?" she whispered, like on the roof.

Marcus finally breathed. Soldier face gone.

"I am now," he said.

The Belgian police entered — three, rifles down, fast and professional. Laurent behind them, coat flying.

Price stood, hands up, smiling that commander smile one last time at Marcus.

"This isn't over, Sergeant."

Marcus put his arm around Amara — robe, bare feet, total chaos — and pulled her into his side.

"Yeah it is, Colonel," he said. "I stopped taking your orders in 2022."

They cuffed Price and walked him out past the Christmas tree.

In the lobby, everyone stared at the couple — American in untucked shirt, Nigerian girl in bathrobe, both barefoot under the table.

Amara leaned into Marcus's shoulder.

"One bed is still upstairs," she whispered.

"Yeah," he said.

"And we have five minutes before Laurent wants a statement."

"Five minutes is enough."

"For what?"

He looked down at her, cupped her face, thumb on cheekbone, lobby full of police.

"For a proper kiss that isn't in front of a firing squad."

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*END OF CHAPTER 17*