I grab him by the ankles and drag him down the hallway, leaving a long streak of blood on the tiles behind us. Not very subtle, but screw it. The whole world is about to come crashing down around these motherfuckers. They’re not going to be paying attention to a blood streak in a hallway. The kitchen is far from empty. A chef stands at the cook top, focusing on the pans in front of him, and three waiters and a sous chef stand to one side, talking. They look at me when I enter, their mouths falling open, though none of them say a word as I drag the unconscious guy into the room and drop his limp body onto the ground. Slowly, I raise my finger to my lips—ssssshhh.
I leave, running down the hallway, back toward the party. When I open the door, slipping back into the foyer, I’m calm and composed. There’s blood on the cuff of my shirt, though no one will notice. Not with so many groups of people now writhing and grinding on top of each other. I keep my head down as I cross the room. I can hear Fernando talking somewhere loudly behind me, but I don’t turn to find him. I move quickly and efficiently, taking the exit closest to the Bedouin tent room, where Plato is now balls deep inside the woman laid out on the floor. He watches me as I fast walk by the doorway, and then he is gone.
Fernando’s office is easy to find. I’ve sat in there enough times to know how to get there with ease. Surprise, surprise, when I try the handle, the door is locked. There’s a camera above the door, but I’m beyond caring about being seen at this point. I raise my leg and smash my foot into the wood, just below the lock, and the doorframe shatters, sending splinters of wood everywhere.
Inside the office, my goal is mounted to the wall above Fernando’s desk: a small, innocuous looking button, black with a small white circle on it. How many times has Fernando hit that thing in his rage? How many times has he hit it out of sheer boredom? Too many fucking times. I cross the room, my heart hammering away in my chest like a pneumatic drill, and I slam my palm down on the button.
For one terrible second I expect nothing to happen, but then a wall of sound blasts through the house, deafening, rattling the windowpanes in their frames. I’ve only heard the alarm once, when I was out in the forest with Natalia, and it was ear-splittingly loud then. Now, it feels as though the sound is alive, shaking the house with its bare hands, determined to raze it to the motherfucking ground.
This is not a practical alarm. It’s designed to strike the fear of god into the inhabitants of the house, Fernando’s Servicio, to warn them of what will happen if they step out of line. I’d say that it probably works.
I pick up a heavy cut glass ashtray sitting on the edge of Fernando’s desk, and I use it to smash the button off the wall. I have no idea if you disable the alarm by hitting the button again, but better safe than sorry.
Then, I’m running.
I don’t go back the way I’ve come. That way leads to too many people, and also to Harrison and his men. I race in the opposite direction, running as fast as I can until I reach the side entrance with the keypad Natalia led me to when we came down the mountain the other day. Thankfully I don’t need a key code to get out. The door smashes into the wall as I rip it open, and the heavy steel vibrates, making a jarring, warped, popping sound. Behind me, I hear screaming.
Outside, the night air is cool and smells of smoke. I don’t know what’s burning, but the air is thick with the acrid twist of something on fire. I carry on running, skirting the perimeter of the house until I reach the patio, where Fernando’s precious lawn begins. Hoards of people have spilled out of the house and are rushing about on the grass, mostly naked, trying to find their clothes or each other. Harrison is out there, too, squinting into the dark, presumably trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.
I stay hidden in the shadows. I need to find Fernando. If Harrison sees me now, he’s gonna be right on top of me, fucking up my plans. Side stepping, I duck low, holding my breath, waiting.
A sound slices through the night air, sending a ripple of panic through the crowd on the front lawn—a single solitary howl. A number of people begin to rally, holding each other’s hands, dashing back toward the house, as if they’re running for cover—the Servicio. They may be out of their minds on black tar heroin, but they’re conscious enough to recognize the low, blasting bass of the wolves’ alarm sounding from multiple speakers mounted onto the outside of the house, and they’re not sticking around to wait for the monsters to arrive.
Everyone is scattered, clueless, running into each other in their haste to escape the unknown threat.
Fernando’s in front of the house, then, head shaking from side to side as he tries to comprehend what’s happening. He looks furious, his brow pinched as he takes in the madness. “Please, everybody, be calm. We will have this under control shortly. Head back inside.”