Chapter 5 - The Ambush
|
Thomas spat blood onto the expensive stone tiles, his face twisted in a mixture of pain and profound humiliation. He looked at Larkin, waiting for his cousin to intervene, to reprimand me for daring to strike a member of the syndicate.
Larkin didn't even look at him.
“Go home, Thomas,” Larkin ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority in the cold night air. “Before I decide that her shoe didn't do enough damage.”
Thomas scrambled to his feet, shooting me a look of pure, venomous hatred before shoving his way back through the glass doors.
Larkin walked slowly toward me, stopping inches away. He looked down at my steel-tipped stilettos, then up to my face.
“A palm strike to the chin,” Larkin noted, his eyes glittering with a dangerous, hungry curiosity. “Precise. Lethal if applied with just a fraction more force. You didn't just learn that on the streets, Penelope. You were trained by a professional.”
“It’s been a long evening, Mr. Steves,” I said, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders, refusing to take the bait. “I’d like to go home.”
“You are not going back to your apartment,” Larkin stated firmly. “Not tonight. Thomas is impulsive, and Viktor Volkov is watching you. You are coming with me.”
He didn't wait for my argument. He placed a heavy, protective hand on the small of my back and guided me through the private service exit of the hotel, bypassing the crowded ballroom entirely.
His armored black SUV was waiting in the underground garage. His driver, a massive man named Silas, opened the door for us.
The ride through the city was suffocatingly quiet. I stared out the tinted window, watching the rain begin to slick the Manhattan streets, my mind racing with the realization that my three-year cover was completely blown.
As we turned onto a narrow street near the waterfront, the SUV suddenly slammed to a violent halt.
The sound of shattering glass and screeching tires filled the air. A heavy garbage truck had pulled out of an alley, blocking our path. Before Silas could throw the vehicle into reverse, two black sedans boxed us in from behind.
“Ambush!” Silas roared, drawing his weapon.
Gunfire erupted, heavy automatic rounds striking the bulletproof glass of the SUV, spider-webbing the windows with terrifying speed.
Larkin reached for his weapon, moving to push my head down.
He froze.
May you like
I wasn't screaming. I wasn't cowering in the leather seat.
I had already unbuckled my seatbelt, kicked off my stilettos, and pulled a compact, suppressed 9mm pistol from the hidden thigh holster beneath my silk dress.
