When the second shot comes, Natalie’s eyes fly open. Warm and pliant in my arms only seconds before, she freezes and stares at me in horror.
“What was that?”
“Gunfire.”
“What? Oh god—Sloane!”
I slide my hand out of her panties and resist the urge to suck on my fingers. Plenty of time for that later. “Stay here until I come back. Don’t leave this room. Understood?”
“But—”
“Understood?”
She moistens her lips, nodding, looking beautiful and flushed. Her eyes are still hazy from her orgasm.
Jesus, fuck, my dick aches. Feeling her come for me drained every drop of blood from my head.
I give her a quick, hard kiss. Then I stride across the room and open the door, adjusting my erection. From down the hallway floats the sounds of screams and pounding footsteps, the crash of breaking glass. Above the chaos, someone barks orders in Russian.
Another shot rings out, then a flurry of gunfire sets off more panicked screaming. I hear more barked orders, except this time, they’re in Gaelic.
Looks like I’m not the only one Stavros has pissed off.
Though what the fuck the Irish are doing here is anyone’s guess. According to our agreement with the head of their families, their gaming operations are strictly East Coast.
Maybe they’ve decided to renegotiate.
I pull the .45 from the Velcro holster strapped around my ankle and step carefully into the hallway, weapon at the ready. People stream past the end of the corridor, headed toward the front doors, pushing each other in their panic.
Sloane isn’t among them.
At the end of the hall, I duck my head out and scan the dining room.
Chairs are overturned. Tables are upended. Beside one of them, several bodies lie still on the floor.
I recognize the two who were with Stavros. Alexei and Nickolai.
Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the carpeting around their bodies, neither one of them will be getting up.
Near them are another two unmoving bodies, facedown on the floor. Both are men in suits. I can’t tell from here if they’re civilians caught in the crossfire, but I have a gut feeling that if I turned them over, I’d be looking at two dead Irishmen.
I curse under my breath. The timing couldn’t be worse for a gunfight that will no doubt make the news.
I shouldn’t be here.
Here, with Natalie, who’s supposed to be at the bottom of Lake Tahoe with a bullet in her head.
If Max somehow gets wind of this, we’re both fucked.
I spot Stavros and Sloane. They’re behind a large stand of potted palms against the wall across the room.
He’s protecting her, at least. Crouched in front of her with a gun drawn as she cowers on the floor behind him.
No—not cowers. Her legs are curled under her and she’s bent close to the floor, but she’s looking around, her expression alert and watchful, not terrified.
She catches my eye. Then she tilts her head to the left and lifts two fingers, indicating how many armed men we’re dealing with and where they are.
She’s got balls on her, this one.
No wonder she and Natalie are friends.
I nod, letting her know I understand. Then I turn back and go the other way down the hallway.
Across from the restrooms, there’s an exit to the outside. It leads to a patio, deserted except for a scattering of dry leaves over a thin layer of snow. I run across the patio to the other side of the restaurant, enter through another back door into the kitchen, and lift a finger to my lips to the three frightened employees huddled together under a stainless steel prep table.
One of them clutches her cross necklace. All of them stare silently at me with wide, horrified eyes.
Moving past them, I head to the swinging kitchen doors. They’re the kind with round glass windows at eye level so waitstaff can see as they exit with hands full of plated food. I lean my shoulder against the wall and look out into the dining room.
The two Irishmen crouch just outside the doors.
They’re concealed from the dining room by a low wall that runs around the perimeter of the restaurant, the top of which is decorated with dozens of fake ferns. Gripping weapons, they’re in intense discussions about what to do next, arguing back and forth in hissed Gaelic.
I’ve spent some time learning the language, so I get that they’re soldiers. Not high ranking. Not used to calling the shots.
They need someone to do it for them, so I oblige.
I push through the doors, point my gun at the one closest, and say, “Hey.”
He whips around, spitting mad, swinging his gun around toward me.
My bullet catches him square between his eyes.
I wait a split second for his companion to turn and face me, then shoot him in the chest.
I never shoot a man in the back. It’s unsportsmanlike.
Then I trot across the restaurant toward Sloane and Stavros as the distant wail of sirens grows closer. When I reach them, they’re already on their feet.
“You okay?”
Sloane nods. She’s lost the red heels, but other than that, she doesn’t have a hair out of place. “Where’s Nat?”
“Safe.” I turn to Stavros and command in Russian, “Get her out of here. No one says a fucking word. You never saw me tonight. Understood?”
He nods once.
“I’ll be in touch to discuss what the fuck happened here and how you’ll make it up to me. Now go.”
He drags Sloane off by the arm, headed toward the entrance.
I run back to the employee lounge and find Natalie pacing, wringing her hands. As soon as I enter the room and she sees me, she blurts, “Oh, thank god!”
She’s relieved I’m not dead.
I’d think that feeling expanding inside my chest was happiness, but I know better. I stopped being able to feel that particular emotion years ago.
“Hurry. We need to go.”
I grab her hand and lead her from the room. She follows me without protest, gripping my arm as she hurries beside me. We take the back way out and reach the SUV just as three police cars crest the hill and start to tear down the road toward the restaurant.
If we’re lucky, they won’t see us leave.
If we’re even luckier, the restaurant won’t have any security cameras inside.
And if all the stars align and the gods are smiling on us, none of the witnesses will be able to give an accurate description of any of us to the police.
I have a bad feeling about that one terrified employee in the kitchen clutching her cross necklace, though.
I think the image of my face might be burned onto her soul.
