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Others might blackmail him for it.
Lila scanned the crowd for such matrons as Oskar appeared at a side door flanked by two LeBeau militia. Everyone else watched the boy’s progress toward the stage, but Lila watched the highborn and the foreign proxies, sent to bid on their master’s behalf.
If Lila hadn’t been worried over who else her father might have approached, she might not have noticed the man forty paces away, standing near Olivia LeBeau. She might not have noticed his crooked nose and small pot belly, which clashed with the beautiful, fit senators and highborn men in the room. She might not have noticed his breeches, his poorly tied cravat, and his ill-fitting jacket, all of which were too threadbare to belong to any highborn, and cut two years out of fashion. She might not have noticed his boots, which were well worn and unpolished.
Made for working. Made for running.
Lila’s gaze swept up to the man’s eyes. They were a little too intent on the raw-eyed Oskar and the LeBeau blackcoats who escorted him onstage.
Lila had already started running by the time he shoved his hand in his jacket pocket. She ran even harder when he withdrew an ivory-handled revolver, a model not used in the Allied Lands because it didn’t accept tranqs.
She reached into her clutch and drew her Colt, dropping the purse as she wove around an oblivious heir.
She sprinted even faster as the man raised his trembling gun toward the stage.
Chapter 3
Lila aimed, shooting three times in quick succession, three little puffs of air that barely made a noise over the still-chattering crowd.
Her first dart skewed wide, but the second hit the gunman’s chin, startling him and frustrating his aim. Simultaneously, a sharp blast from his revolver echoed throughout the room.
Her third tranq hit his neck perfectly.
The man flicked it off and did not fall down.
The distraction allowed her to get closer, though. She didn’t have time to wonder why the tranq hadn’t worked or if anyone had been hit. Dropping her Colt, she sprinted closer, leaping into the air as he aimed again.
Another shot rang out as she barreled into the man’s hips.
The pair collided. The gun shot rang far too loudly in her ears.
His weapon skittered across the floor.
Lila rolled onto the gunman’s chest, unable to remember the complicated grappling moves from hand-to-hand training. Instead, she sprawled out on top of him and punched at his face, hoping her weight and fist would do the trick.
Predictably, it didn’t. He shoved her off like an unruly child and crawled toward Senator Langston. In a brave moment, the politician had chosen to guard the man’s gun, keeping it locked between his boots as if he were a hen roosting on a rotten egg. When he saw the would-be assassin heading toward him, he yipped and froze.
“Take it to the militia!” Lila shouted as she clasped her arms around the gunman’s ankle. She yanked the man back, her stitches pulling, her palm screaming out with a dull ache. The gunman slid on the wooden floor, his hands whacking against it as he tried to stop the pull.
All at once, he sat up on his hands and knees, kicking back hard with his ensnared boot. It caught Lila in the stomach.
“Oof!” The champagne she’d drunk struggled at her throat, but Lila refused to let go.
In a panic, her fumbling mind landed on a move that would certainly have an effect.
Rolling on her ass, she kicked out, nailing the shooter in the balls.
“Ugh,” the man cried out.
Lila winced. She’d hit his balls, all right, but her heel had also struck, stabbing him in the thigh. She nearly gagged as she pulled her foot back, her heel almost refusing to dislodge from his leg.
The gunman didn’t seem all that concerned about the trickle of blood, running down his thigh. His boot grew heavy in her arms, and he finally flopped onto his stomach.
Finally, the tranqs had kicked in.
Lila let go of his foot and crawled toward his shoulder, ready to flip him over and check his breathing.
The gunman’s elbow smashed into her jaw, stunning her.
