Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught Read Online Free Page A

is fully booked and I cannot simply ‘squeeze’ you in.”
    “All right, all right,” Budd said as he reached into his pocket. “I’m an American, so I know how the world works. How much to take a seat?”
    The maître d’ eyed the roll of cash that Budd brought out of his pants. “You are not the first American to have resorted to this, sir. But I cannot accept money for a table I do not have.”
    “C’mon, take it.”
    “No, sir.”
    “C’mon,” Budd said, thrusting the notes towards the breast pocket of the maître d’.
    The hotel worker took a step backwards. “Sir, please put your money away. Perhaps, if you care to wait at the Skyview bar, I could inform you if we receive notice of any late cancellations. Would that be acceptable to you, sir?”
    “That’d be great.”
    “Come with me then, sir,” the maître d’ instructed.
    Budd pocketed his cash and followed the maître d’ towards the double wooden doors of the Skyview Restaurant. Two mauve-suited attendants pulled them open, offering polite bows as they approached.
    Barely inside the vast dining room, Budd paused to absorb the impressive sight. From left to right, the restaurant was over 300 feet wide and 150 feet deep, the floor filled with more than two hundred tables, each one set for between two and ten places. Almost every seat was occupied. The entrance was in one corner of the restaurant and from there Budd looked across the sea of white tablecloths. Waiters swarmed with brisk efficiency. They wore the same uniform of white shirts and black waistcoats, pants or skirts, bow ties and shoes as the maître d’, and had the same, immaculately clean, close-fitted white gloves.
    Moving his eyes to the guests, Budd saw that the majority of the men were donned in smart suits and tuxedos, while the women wore evening dresses and gowns. He momentarily felt uncomfortable in his brown pants and blue sweatshirt.
     
    What did I care if I didn’t fit in?
    I was on a kind of vacation, and, after all, lots of posh women, especially British ones, long for a bit of action in the rough. At least, that’s what I’m told, and they certainly do in the movies. And being some rich lady’s guilty pleasure has always been a position I’ve felt capable of fulfilling…
     
    The wall that ran parallel with the entrance had many other doors, each one complete with a small porthole window at eye level, from which the waiters rushed in and out. He guessed that the partition concealed the kitchen. The other three sides of the dining room, along with the domed ceiling, were made of glass and offered unobstructed views of the London skyline, a dark horizon cluttered with innumerable electric lights.
    “Sir, please follow me,” the maître d’ instructed again.
    Budd did as he was asked and was led straight to the opposite corner of the room, where a long wooden counter arced around from the glass walls and was surrounded by a section of floor raised from the restaurant. Inside were a few dozen people, who were sitting in leather sofa chairs and talking quietly over their drinks.
    The maître d’ stopped as he reached the rising steps to the bar area. He smiled politely. “Should a reservation be cancelled, sir, I will come and let you know. Good evening.”
    “Thanks a bunch,” Budd muttered, turning away and heading over to the counter. “Double Scotch, please. Forget the ice.”
    “Certainly, sir,” the barman answered.
    Having tasted his drink and paid for it via his room’s tab, Budd took a seat on one of the sofas. Around the edge of the raised area was a wooden railing that had glass panels between its uprights. Budd looked around the restaurant, focusing on the different guests, soaking up the atmosphere and passing the time as he sipped his Scotch.
     
    Most of the people were as dull as drying paint; rich, slightly fat, bald men with their chubby, well-dressed wives—the Skyline was too expensive and public to take a mistress—or they were