The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) Read Free

the schedule giving him a minute-by-minute breakdown of the day’s timetable. Had he forgotten about a rooftop event to kick off the day’s proceedings? No – he knew the timetable back to front. He had written it. The day ended with fireworks on the fortieth floor but nothing was to take place outside the building before then.
    He looked again at the crowd standing on the front lawns. Some were turning away, some now covered their eyes – but all seemed transfixed by events in the sky. Knowing something was wrong, Roscoe sprang to his feet, ran to the door and, grabbing his phone, headed up the two flights of stairs back into the lobby.
    Sprinting across the hotel’s marble lobby, Roscoe’s ripped six-foot frame cut an imposing figure. He looked towards the elevator bank for his assistant Stanley, but Stanley was gone.
    At the front entrance, the lobby manager of the new hotel, Anna Conquest, called across to him.
    ‘Jon, what’s happening?’
    ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Roscoe as he keyed the security pad to open the front entrance.
    ‘We heard screaming outside. Somebody must be hurt.’
    ‘Have you seen Stanley?’
    ‘He was waiting by the elevator for Jackson Harlington. Then the screaming started. I didn’t see where he went.’
    The front entrance opened and, seeing the chaos outside, Roscoe shouted to Anna to get the police to the hotel. ‘Now!’
    But it was too late.
    As the watching crowd screamed again, then scattered, Roscoe looked up in horror to see a blood-covered body falling from the sky.
    Roscoe ran across the lawn as the body crashed to earth, blood splattering the dispersing crowd. The garden and flowers that had been tended and trimmed to perfection were now sprayed with red. As he reached the obliterated body, he could see, even in its devastated state, that it was the remains of billionaire investor and Tribeca Luxury Hotels major shareholder Jackson Harlington.

CHAPTER 4
    STANDING NEXT TO the body of Jackson Harlington, Jon Roscoe turned to face the crowd. He held up his hands as he made a direct appeal.
    ‘I need everybody to step back away from the body and away from the hotel, right now,’ he commanded. ‘I want everybody to move back into the gardens and I need everybody to stop filming.’ Roscoe was unsure if his last request would be heeded but he pressed on. ‘And I need to know specific information about what people saw.’
    A woman screamed out, ‘He cut open his body. Ripped open his stomach!’
    ‘Did anyone see the attacker?’ said Roscoe, trying to make himself heard above the panic coming from the crowd. ‘Can you tell me, was there more than one person involved?’
    ‘He was wearing a mask,’ a voice called out.
    ‘I’ve got a video here,’ called another. ‘It looked to me like he was on his own.’
    ‘I could only see him. I don’t think there was anyone else with him.’
    Roscoe knew trying to get information in this way was hopeless. From the blood and entrails scattered across the garden, along with the state of Jackson Harlington’s body, he knew a ferocious attack had taken place. He needed to get back inside the hotel to track the killer. He started to push his way through the assembled journalists and dignitaries, who were beginning to react with a mix of shock, morbid fascination and a desire to scoop the story. Even journalists and writers who spent their time reporting on the latest advances in luxury travel and on the world’s most extravagant destinations realised they were suddenly part of a far bigger story. As Roscoe tried to make his way back into the hotel lobby, he found his route blocked by journalists peppering him with questions.
    ‘Is that Jackson Harlington?’ cried one.
    ‘Who would want to kill Jackson Harlington, and in such a ferocious way?’ asked another.
    He felt one journalist grab his arm. ‘Do you think the killer is still in the hotel? Maybe we can help you track him down. He’d have no chance against all of