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Her gaze clashed with a cold, black stare. There was a second of something close to recognition, even though she had never seen this man before tonight. She knew a predator when she saw one.
Time slowed. Charlie edged backward, clutching her purse. Wishing she had her SIG.
Her brain screamed at her to run, run.Run!
Charlie’s heart raced, but her feet felt mired in quicksand as she turned and fled. A scrape of leather on pavement behind her, the man closing in. She heard him as much as sensed him.
Adrenaline overcame the initial jolt of fear. She darted to the side. Barely missed the hand that clawed out to grab her.
But he was fast. Much faster than her in those clumsy, loud heels. Fear flooded her veins. Maybe if she made it back to the rear door, she could—
He snatched a hold of her hair—the long tresses secured by well-placed bobby pins—and yanked her backward. Pain pulsed over her scalp, wrenching a cry from her lips.
Not panicking was the most important thing. That’s what she taught her clients. She had to get him off. Had to free herself.
Dropping her purse, she pulled out the pins from the front. The force of his grasp ripped the wig from her head. She stumbled at the sudden release. Floundered to find her footing.
A kick sent her reeling into a wall. Her bare shoulder and leg scrubbed against brick, her skin burning from the scrapes.
He swooped in. Clamped a hand around her upper arm and whipped her around. “You’re coming with me,” he growled at her, but Charlie knew that leaving with an assailant never boded well.
Ninety-five percent of the time if the woman complied, she was dead.
He reached into his jacket pocket.
She didn’t wait to see for what. But she imagined a gun in a shoulder holster. Instead, she slammed the sharp point of her heel down onto his foot. He grunted in pain. Driving her knee up into his groin, she shoved him away as he doubled over. His hand fell from his jacket, and she glimpsed the shoulder rig.
If he pulled the gun, running wouldn’t save her. It would only get her a bullet in the back or worse, in her head.
She stood her ground but didn’t wait to strike again. Size didn’t matter in a fight. As a woman, she was never going to get attacked by someone smaller or weaker. It boiled down to thinking outside the box, focusing and moving quicker than her opponent.
Scarface recovered, standing upright when she planted one foot—as best she could in the teeter-totter heels—and pivoted, swinging her elbow up and around. She used the added rotation to drive it hard into the side of the guy’s head. If she had attempted to throw a punch that hard, she’d have broken her hand. But her elbow barely felt it.
The guy staggered. But this wasn’t his first rodeo being hit in the head. Still off-balance and blinking from the blow, he reached under his jacket again. Charlie grabbed his wrist, holding it inside the jacket so he couldn’t pull the weapon from the holster. He was strong, had lots of lean muscle. She rammed her heel onto his foot once more and threw a punch. But he jerked sideways, and she just missed his solar plexus. Had the blow struck where she had aimed, it would have immobilized him, giving her enough time to get away.
He flung her off him and slammed his fist into her gut. A cry crawled up her throat, but she could barely breathe, much less scream. Scarface drew a gun with an attached sound suppressor.
Not something you saw every day.
“We’re going to go for a drive,” he said, and this time she picked up on his slight accent, “and have a little chat.”
The rear door to the club flew open with a clang as it banged on the wall. A blond guy in jeans and a button-down lurched out. “Is this the bathroom?” he asked, tottering deeper into the alley.
A drunk.
“Go back inside,” Scarface said, waving his gun at him. “This isn’t the toilet.”
Dread ricocheted through her. Her lungs squeezed. While there was a witness, she scooted to the side, trying to ease away, but Scarface blocked her path. All he had to do was redirect the aim of the muzzle at her.
If the drunk left, Scarface was going to drag her away somewhere, question her and then kill her. She sensed it in her bones.
“What? Really?” the drunk said. “Man, I can’t hold it.” The blond guy stumbled over to the opposite brick wall and unzipped his pants. “Give me a minute.” He shoved his hand in his pants, jiggled around. Then he spun around, drawing a gun. Something small, microcompact. “Police! Drop your weapon!”
For a dazed second, she stared at the blond man in shock. His feet were spread wide, his gun raised.
Scarface squeezed the trigger. Bullets bit into the brick facade near the blond’s head as the other guy bolted around the corner. Footsteps thundered around the side of the building toward the front of the club.
Charlie swayed, balancing on her heels.
