Page 5 of Ruthless Enforcer

“Don’t,” I murmur, steering her past the last marble pillar. “He’s been fiddling with an earpiece, except whoever’s talking to him isn’t talking to the rest of your detail.”

Her head snaps around to stare at me. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.”

Her eyes drop pointedly to the heavy hand locked over her hip. “Apparently.”

I push through the heavy service door, pulling her into the sudden, sterile shock of the back corridor. The door thuds shut behind us, cutting off the gala in an instant. The orchestral swell, the laughter, and the soft amber lighting are replaced by humming fluorescents, poured concrete, and rows of stacked folding tables and catering carts.

No bystanders. Just a long, empty hallway smelling of bleach and stale coffee. Much better.

“Now can you tell me what’s happening?” she asks, keeping pace as I pull her around the first corner.

“Two men followed us off the floor.”

She turns to glance back over her shoulder, but I squeeze her waist, keeping her in step with me. “Eyes forward, Duchess.”

Her green eyes flare. “You’re very bossy for a kidnapper.”

“I prefer efficient.”

“You’re not efficient,” she shoots back, breathless but entirely unfazed. “You’ve spent half the evening flirting with me.”

“It’s only been”—I glance at my watch—“eleven minutes, and that was before I rescued you.”

“I didn’t know kidnappers had a professional code.”

“Standards are important.”

The heavy fire door bangs open behind us, the metal handle clattering against the wall. Clara goes rigid beneath my arm—not in panic, but with that sudden, focused stillness of someone bracing for impact. She grew up around hard men. James Whitlock is hardly a pussy. The man may condemn the Reyes empire, but he plays just as dirty. She knows what violence sounds like before it arrives.

I let go of her waist, instantly disliking the distance between us, and step directly between her and the hallway. “Stay behind me.”

She pauses, searching my face. Whatever she sees in my eyes wipes the rest of the sarcasm right off her tongue.

The waiter clears the corner at a dead sprint. He’s thick-necked, moving with purpose, and clutching a preloaded plastic syringe in his right fist. Focused on Clara, he lunges straight for her.

Conscious of the angle of the cameras mounted in the corners, I make a show of pushing Clara out of the way and step directly into his path. I snatch his wrist in an iron grip and turn us so my back is blocking the feed, torquing his arm behind him until I hear the wet snap of his shoulder popping out of its socket.

His breath hitches on a scream, but before he can make a sound, I grab a fistful of his collar and pretend to trip. I “stumble” forward, and his entire upper body slams face-first into the concrete wall.

Oops.

His knees turn to water.

Holding him in front of me, I discreetly peel the syringe from his limp fingers and uncap the needle with my thumb. “Any idea what’s in this?”

He growls something about my mama.

“Rude.” I drive the needle deep into the meat of his thigh, injecting him with its contents. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“Watch out, Gabriel,” Clara calls out. “Behind you.”

Leaving the syringe sticking out of his leg, I turn in time to see the second man barreling toward me, a serrated drop-point blade in his hand.

He swings the knife in a brutal upward arc meant for my ribs. I step inside the swipe, take the brunt of his forearm against my chest, and drive my forearm into the side of his neck like a club. The blow knocks his wind out, but he resets, snarling, and swings the blade back around.

Wanting to drive home that he’s attacking me for whoever might watch this later, I make sure I control his knife hand and let his momentum whirl us, around right into a six-foot stainless-steel catering cart.