Page 122 of Missile Strike

Someone shouted.

Movement exploded around them as security and protesters converged.

She stalled mid-step. Beside her, Talia went rigid.

The back of Isabella’s neck prickled.

She turned.

The noise from the scuffle faded.

Miran Hassan’s son.

Perspiration beaded his forehead. His gaze burned bright. Intent.

Somehow, she forced sound past the tightness in her throat, even as her feet stayed cemented to the floor. “Why are you here?”

He threw a cautious glance at Talia before returning his focus to Isabella. “Because the sins of the father shouldn’t be visited upon the child.”

Talia shifted in front of her, her body angled in a protective posture. “You don’t belong here.”

The man’s expression tightened.

Isabella wasn’t in the hallway any longer.

She was twelve again.

Trapped.

Your father will feel what I feel.

“Bella!”

Danny’s bellow broke through the memory like a gunshot.

Hassan’s head snapped toward the sound. His hand shot out, iron-tight around Isabella’s wrist. “Listen to me…”

“Leave her alone!” Talia’s hands slammed into Hassan’s chest, shoving hard.

Hassan staggered back, Isabella’s wrist still in his grip.

Her heel caught. The floor rushed up.

A powerful arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her back.

Danny.

He set her on her feet and pivoted in the same motion, forearm locking around Hassan’s throat. “Bella—inside the ballroom, now!” he barked. “Tavari!”

Tavari broke from the crowd as Caleb and Nathan herded the guests back into the ballroom from where they’d spilled out at the sounds of chaos.

“Come on.” Tavari wrapped an arm around Isabella, then the other around Talia, and hustled them inside.

Isabella twisted her head, trying to see past the blur of bodies and shouting voices.

Hassan fought Danny’s hold. Police and security swarmed.

Then she was in the ballroom, the door closing.