Devin made short work of him. The combination of slowing to open the door and being in a compromised fighting stance sealed his fate. Devin’s first blow struck his knife arm at the wrist, knocking the blade clear across the stairwell. The second came straight at his face, exploding the man’s nose and knocking his head against the door edge. A third connected squarely with his right collarbone, most likely cracking it based on the sound made on impact. He grabbed the guy by the back of the suit collar and yanked him away from the door before sweeping the side of the man’s knee with a full-force blow. The leg crumpled, and Devin tossed him onto his unconscious colleague.

Staring at them for a few moments, he noted that they looked older than he had originally reported. More like late fifties, possibly early sixties. Both of them in better shape than their presumed ages suggested, but definitely older than he’d expected. Which explained why he’d been able to put them down so easily. His thirty-seven-year-old frame had twenty years less wear and tear.

“Both hostiles neutralized. One unconscious. One immobile,” said Devin. “Where do you want me?”

“We really need to get Chase out of here now. He’s unraveling. He’ll draw too much attention if he leaves with the rest of us.”

“I’ll be right up,” said Devin. “We’ll take the eastern stairwell down.”

“I’ll reroute the backup team to clear it. You okay?”

“Not a scratch. They were pros, but not top tier,” said Devin.

“The team we sent into room four thirty-four might not agree. They took a beating.”

“Sounded like it,” said Devin. “I’m on the way.”

A few mercifully uneventful minutes later, a black armored Suburban carried him away from the hotel along with Brian Chase, his three colleagues from the rooftop bar, and a heavily armed security operative from the firm’s special activities group. Unlike his slightly inebriated and oblivious dinner companions, Chase had been traumatized by the evening’s unexpected turn of events. The shallow, irregular breathing. Fidgety hands. Trouble focusing, which caused him to squint. Devin knew the signs. He was dealing with all of them himself.

Tonight had been a first for him. In the twelve years he’d spent “ghosting” foreign intelligence officers and spies for the FBI’s Special Surveillance Group, he had never carried a weapon. Never needed one, even while working operatives known to be dangerous. The fact that he’d cracked three skulls on his first full field operation with MINERVA didn’t sit well. That and having to square off against professional killers.