Page 5 of Duty Preserved

I wasn’t sure I wasn’t going to have my hands full with myself, the way my stomach was feeling.

She looked at the blue awning. She looked at Daniel, who was starting to slide. She looked at me, crouched on the sidewalk, fiddling with a broken shoe.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Love you. Please drink water. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She went. Struggling each step under Daniel’s weight, offering him encouragement.

I resituated my shoe on my foot. It wasn’t going to stay on with the broken strap, but the hotel was right down the block. Fifty yards, maybe less.

“Need some help?”

I turned. A man was standing behind me. Tall, well-dressed. He must have come from the club. I could see the door still swinging behind him. His English was accented in a way I couldn’t identify.

“I’m fine. Just a broken shoe.”

“Let me walk you.” His hand found my elbow. “You seem a little unsteady.”

I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want him touching me. “I’m fine. I’m just going right⁠—”

“I insist.” His grip tightened. He started guiding me, and my shoe was loose and the cobblestones were uneven and I was so drunk I could barely track which direction we were moving.

But I knew it was the wrong way.

“Wait.” I tried to stop. “The hotel is⁠—”

His hand pulled me the other direction. “No, you’re confused. It’s this way.”

“No. It’s right there, I can see it.”

He yanked my arm. I stumbled sideways, and his face changed. The smooth charm vanished, while something malevolent replaced it. His hand came up fast.

A fist closed around his wrist before it reached me.

I knew him before I saw his face. The width of his shoulders, the plain dark shirt, the way he moved—deliberate, unhesitating. He stepped between me and the man as if he’d been standing there all along, had the man’s wrist locked in one hand. And before I could process what I was seeing, he drove his other fist straight into the man’s face. One punch. Quick and efficient. The sound it made was something I would hear in my sleep for weeks.

Donovan. The man who was meeting someone.

The jerk staggered. Then another man was on him—also broad-shouldered, a redhead, moving fast. They had the jerk’s arms behind his back, metal clicked, and they were walking him toward a van that had pulled up to the curb with its side door already open. They put him inside. The door slid shut. The redhead got in the van passenger seat, and it pulled away.

The whole thing took maybe fifteen seconds.

I stood on the sidewalk in my broken shoe, shaking, my arm throbbing where the jerk had grabbed it.

Then Donovan was in front of me. He flexed his hand once, the one he’d struck with, and let it drop to his side.

“Are you okay?” His voice was steady. Like he hadn’t just broken someone’s face.

“What—what just happened?”

“That guy was due for a meeting at a police station. No one you need to worry about.” He said it the way someone would give the time if a stranger asked. “Can I walk you to your hotel, Sarah?”

He’d remembered my name.

Nothing about this night made any sense.

But his voice was calm. He was standing far enough away that I didn’t feel crowded. And his hands were at his sides, not reaching for me.

“It’s right there,” I said and pointed at the blue awning half a block away.