Page 50 of Unlocked

A figure slipped inside. All black. Moving with purpose.

Archer's instincts screamed.

The figure crossed to Lebowitz slowly, deliberately. Lebowitz's eyes widened. Confusion. Then recognition. Then fear.

"Jesus Christ," Archer breathed.

The figure leaned in close, speaking into Lebowitz's ear. Whatever they said made the man go rigid with terror and fight against the restraints holding him in place.

Then the knife appeared.

The blade slid between Lebowitz's ribs with surgical precision. Lebowitz screamed behind the gag, jerking once before going slack.

"We have to—" Tatum moved toward the door.

Archer grabbed her arm, shaking his head. "No. If we go in there now, we're witnesses. We're suspects. It will come out that we were here. Whoever that is will know we're on to them. We lose everything."

"He's dying!" Tatum said, her voice tight with anguish.

"He's already dead," Archer said flatly. Not only because it was true, but because she needed to hear it. He could see what it cost her. For all her composure, all her attitude, all her hard-won toughness, she was still fundamentally decent. That quality in her did something to him that he had absolutely no business allowing.

The figure withdrew the knife, wiped it clean, and stood there for a moment. Composed. Unhurried. Then turned and headed for the door.

Tatum, who had seemed frozen, suddenly shot toward the door and yanked it open.

"Tatum, stay here," he growled, reaching for her.

But she was already running. "Like hell⁠—"

Archer's heart stopped. She was running toward a killer. A killer who had just murdered someone in cold blood and who would not hesitate to do it again.

He lunged after her, bursting into the hallway just as she disappeared around the corner.

"Tatum!"

He ran. Faster than he'd run in years. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the music, the voices, everything except one thought: Get to her. Keep her safe.

He rounded the corner and nearly collided with a group spilling out of a side room. Bodies everywhere. Latex and sequins and chaos.

There. A flash of electric blue hair ahead. He fought his way forward, but by the time he broke free, she was gone. He sprinted for the exit, lungs burning, and burst into the alley.

Tatum stood there, chest heaving, scanning left and right.

"Tatum!"

She spun. He grabbed her shoulders, rage and fear at war in his chest.

"Are you out of your mind?" he growled. "You could have⁠—"

"I lost them." She pulled away, anger and frustration radiating off her. "They were right there, and I lost them."

"You're lucky you didn't get yourself killed."

"Someone just executed Timothy Lebowitz right in front of us, Archer. Someone methodical. Someone prepared." She met his eyes, and he nearly flinched from the fire there, the determination underneath the shaken edges. "And whoever they are, they knew exactly what they were doing."

His jaw worked. He wanted to yell at her. Shake her. Lock her somewhere safe and keep her there. But she wouldn't let him. And part of him, the part that was falling for her despite every reason not to, admired her for it in a way that was becoming genuinely inconvenient.

He pulled out his phone.