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“If you won’t get into the van, then I’ll drag you.”
He rises, keeping tight hold of my hair, dragging me flailing on my back.
“Help,” I scream. “Somebody help me!”
He kicks me in the ribs. “Shut up.”
I grab his ankle, trying to throw him off balance, but he breaks free from my grasp and continues dragging me across the paving stones.
“When I bring you to Jim, I’m going to ask him to let me have my turn with you first.”
My scalp burns, bringing with it a fresh bout of panic. I grab onto the hand encasing my hair by the root and try to yank him to the ground.
He looms over me and snarls, his features a rictus of rage. “Stupid bitch. You’re going to get us both kill?—”
A gunshot rings out, sending out an explosion of blood and gore. Warm rain, sticky and coppery and thick, spatters across my face. I gasp for air, my heart lurching, but my lungs refuse to breathe.
The cop stares sightlessly ahead before collapsing on his knees and falling on his face, revealing a dark figure striding toward me with a gun.
It’s Roman, looking murderous.
THIRTY
ROMAN
The ballroom and the orchestra behind me explode into screams, and I hit the ground with a thud. The shooter continues firing, and I hope to hell my surveillance people hunt down that motherfucker before he or she escapes.
“Roman.” Benito’s voice is tense. “You okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and check in on where the bullets hit. The pain is dull, like tiny punches, although I may have cracked a rib.
“Yeah. Nice call on the bullet-proof undershirts.”
When I crack open an eye, I find Cesare crouched low, pointing his gun into the panicking crowd.
I clutch Benito’s lapel. “Make sure he doesn’t hit anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Sure thing.” His face goes blank the way it does whenever he concentrates, and he presses a finger into his earpiece. “They’ve already identified the shooter. He’s running toward the back wall.”
I grunt. “Lock down the exits. Make sure nobody leaves the grounds unless they’re legit.”
Benito nods.
“And get the observation people to track his accomplices.”
We wait until Gil approaches the stage to let us know the ballroom is clear. I ease myself up and clutch at my sore rib. Lightweight bulletproof armor doesn’t absorb much of the impact, though it sure as hell protects my insides from getting shredded.
My brothers and Gil surround me, their features creased with concern. Since the bulletproof undershirts were a last-minute decision, no one had the chance to test their effectiveness.
“Where’s Emberly? Did she reach the pool house?” I ask.
Gil murmurs something into his earpiece and waits a few seconds before saying, “No one has activated the motion sensors. She’s probably still out there, stuck in the crowds.”
“Shit.” I hurry along the edge of the stage and descend the stairs. My bruised rib throbs with each step. “You three, make sure she doesn’t escape the grounds in anyone’s car.”
Gil and my brothers explode into action, each heading for the ballroom’s different exits. I jog toward the one closest to the stage that runs past the events kitchen and into the courtyard where the caterers have parked their vans.
I push the door open and break into a run, trying not to think of Emberly getting crushed in the melee or getting trampled underfoot. She’s an intelligent woman, resourceful, too, and knows how to survive. But she’s also unpredictable.
