Page 135 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Plan A’s dead,” I said over my mic. “Find her.”

Chapter 41

Gwen

The night exploded—no gunfire, but alarms. A screeching wail started from somewhere in the hallway, as red strobe lights patterned the space outside the door.

Arthur. He’s here.

“Armed men inside!” came a voice through the radio clipped to Rick’s belt.

Rick didn’t let go of me. The threat about my luck running out was still hot against my cheek, and his eyes flared hotter. “You fucking little cunt.”

“You swore he wouldn’t come in like this.” Dr. Hopkins marched toward us, jabbing a finger at Rick. “You swore you knew him—that he’d talk first.”

Rick’s hand rose, and I braced myself for another hit. But he didn’t do it. Instead, his snarl vanished, and his shoulders dropped. “He’s a fucking Boy Scout. He negotiates everything.”

“Apparently not,” drawled Dr. Hopkins.

“Theo, get downstairs.” To Big Hands, Rick said, “Send a man for the Warden. Pull everyone you can from the kitchen and get them downstairs.”

Big Hands nodded, pulled a gun from a holster at his side, and was gone.

Two guards ran by the open door. Open. It was open.

I wrenched my arm free from Rick and bolted. Past Dr. Hopkins, through the door, turn left toward the exit and⁠—

I slammed into a solid body.

The guard locked his arms around my waist and hauled me backward. On his radio, someone said, “Warden’s at the door.”

Rick charged out of the room and grabbed me, taking me from the other man, dragging me back toward the center of the house.

Dr. Hopkins emerged from the study with the sword case in hand. “She’s our bargaining chip. Don’t hurt her.”

Somewhere above me, a gunshot rang out—two, three more. Something thudded, like a heavy weight dropping. Screams and hollers erupted from every direction.

Rick, the guard with us, and Dr. Hopkins remained calm, but they moved fast. We merged with at least a dozen people fleeing the dining room, men and women in their fifties, their seventies, and one woman in pearls with her napkin caught in her belt.

More gunfire, more thuds. Bodies? Was Arthur’s team slaughtering them upstairs?

Or is this someone else? Not Arthur at all?

“Arthur!” I cried out. “I’m in the⁠—”

“Shut up!” Rick yanked me forward, and his fist collided with my stomach so hard the room spun. My legs gave out, and my vision darkened at the edges as I sagged toward the floor. But my world flipped. Tipped upside down as Rick threw me over his shoulder and hurried the group along.

I pounded on his back, but he didn’t flinch. Where was his gun? I could grab it, and—do what with it? I tried to push myself upright to throw him off balance, but he rammed an elbow into my side, and I collapsed against him. I bit back a sob and whimpered, “He’s coming for me. Let me go, and he’ll leave.”

We paused next to a huge fireplace as the wall slid open.

I pushed myself up enough to look around the room. The painting overhead belonged in a Roman basilica, with figures on clouds, horses, angels, rich blues and creams. Three crystal chandeliers hung from ornate plasterwork rosettes, and the walls were paneled in gold with heavy swagged curtains flanking floor-to-ceiling windows. Oil portraits in gilt frames.

How was any of this real? I was in a ridiculously opulent estate in a land of myth and legend, slung over a madman’s shoulder as he took me through a secret passageway in a wall.

A door in the far wall opened, and two men in all black emerged, with big guns pointed at us. “Give us the woman!”

“Get the fuck out!” yelled Rick as he spun, withdrew his weapon, and began shooting.