Page 112 of Ruthless Enforcer

The ice in my veins solidifies.

I slide the phone away, my eyes sweeping the gallery. There’s no way he could know we’re here.

Unless he had us followed. I didn’t see a tail, but I’m not underestimating that motherfucker.

The patrons are still laughing. The string quartet near the entrance is playing a piece in three-quarter time.

I look at the corridor near the back.

Clara has been gone for forty-five seconds.

I don't run. Running causes a stampede, and a stampede creates chaos that an assassin can hide behind. I move through the crowd with swift efficiency, parting the sea of tuxedos like a blade cutting silk.

I round the corner into the back hallway.

The door to the private powder room is standing ajar. The brass latch has been forced.

On the polished hardwood floor beneath the handle lies a single broken bobby pin and an overturned velvet bench.

No.

Every tactical calculation vanishes, replaced by a red-hot fury that threatens to blow the roof off the building.

I reach inside my jacket, unsnapping the leather holster and drawing the nine-millimeter into the low-ready position. I move down the service corridor, past the curator’s locked office, straight toward the heavy steel fire door that leads to the loading bay and trash compactor.

The door is unlatched by half an inch. A draft of freezing Montana winter air bleeds through the gap, carrying the sharp scent of ozone, exhaust, and wet cedar.

I push the steel door open with the toe of my boot and step into the loading bay.

The space is cavernous, lit by a pair of amber floodlights mounted high on the cinderblock walls. A delivery van idles near the open roll-up door, exhaust curling white into the falling snow.

Cole Turner stands beside it with my wife. His left arm is locked across Clara's chest, a revolver pressed beneath her ribs.

He looks better than a dead man has any right to. The burns along one side of his neck disappear beneath the collar of an expensive charcoal suit. His face is thinner, the scar along his cheek more pronounced, but otherwise he's composed, almost elegant.

The motherfucker dressed for the occasion.

Clara isn't nearly as composed. She's furious. Her emerald gown is torn at the hem, one shoe is missing, and she's currently trying to drive the heel of the other one through Cole's foot.

I go cold with fury. “Get your hands off my wife.”

Turner looks up and smiles, no surprise, no panic. “Finally. I thought I’d have to send you a written invitation.”

I raise my gun. “Let her go.”

“You know, Reyes, for a man with such an impressive reputation, you're remarkably predictable where she's concerned.”

“And you're remarkably talkative for a dead man.”

His smile widens. “My death was rather convincing, wasn't it?”

“I've seen better.”

“You believed it.”

“Not even for a minute.”

“That’s true,” Clara affirms.