Chapter 16
Adelmo
The waitresses have edged over to stand like pillars to either side of the dining-room entry. Well-trained, wary, and mine.
Kasimir thinks he is being merciful, and he is. He’s not into harming women any more than is necessary. His morals are gray, but they do exist. Normally, I would commend him.
Not today. How do I rescue this from fucking disaster? We are supposed to do this on a precise schedule. There has not been time for everyone to get into place.
In five minutes or less, I will hear a gunshot, and then it will be too late for her.
I watch as she is urged forward, pushed until she falls. My heart thuds into vivacissimo time. The back of my neck is sweating. The men caught her before she met the floor with her face. With their hands gripping beneath her arms, they pull her toward the rear doors that look out over the bay.
The yacht is out there, and six of Montez’s bodyguards are still armed.
My jaw is clenched, and I wonder why I cannot hear my teeth creak.
Her feet drag, scraping over the tigerwood floor.
If I run to her, I may destroy this. I may get some of us very dead.
“Mr. Smith!” Kasimir pounds my back, and I can tell from the subtle tightness of tone that he is completely not amused. “This way, please. Stop thinking about your cock.”
He indicates the room we set up for the talks and takes a step, expecting me to follow. Montez stands in the opening, puzzled by my delay.
The men and Izzy are exiting. They make her stand then ask for their guns. The words are muffled but decipherable. The doorman turns and bends over the collection.
Eight of his men will be armed, in a few seconds. They will be outside, and I will be here, stuck inside, waiting for a gunshot with my guts churning. There is so much glass, so many windows, I may even see her execution.
That pitiful sob, it’s hers.
“Shrike!” I scream it to the rooftop, hear it reverberate then Kasimir curse. I thrust out my hand, and the waitress on my right tosses a gun to me. The grip slaps into my palm.
Contrary to plans, I ignore dick-wad Montez, leave him to the others, and I sprint toward the entry where the men with Izzy have spun to look for the reason for the shout.
Izzy, good girl that she is, has fallen to the ground. They’ve found their guns, and the smarter, faster man has armed his and raised it. I skid to a halt, brace, and fire off two quick shots that hit gut and chest. He cries out, staggers, and topples into the doorman. They fall together, crashing into the bench.
Weapons spill across the pavers, scattering about the feet of the slower escort.
He dives to scoop up a pistol.
Fuck. The doorman is mine. If he rises and reacts fast, we have this.
The plentiful glass makes seeing what’s happening elsewhere simpler. I glance through it and beyond. The jetty and yacht area boils with men who must’ve heard the gunfire, but one of the snipers is on the ball. Rifle cracks whip the air, and two men drop to the ground.
At the door, the second man has chosen to kick the doorman in the head, which was wise. Then he ducks to the right and uses a steel pillar as cover. Not shooting me, though, that is less wise. I take a precise shot at what I can see of his leg, and he shrieks and collapses onto the ground, rolling over, clutching that wounded limb. Izzy has risen to hands and knees, and when he rolls into her, he grabs her and hides behind her, his gun at her throat.
“Fool! I was going to torture her!” I yell, kicking over a coffee table to make a distraction before I shoot his friend again. It looks good and ruthless, I figure. Makes him think.
I dodge to the left to get cover. His first shot at me goes wide, and he lets Izzy go free. Then he grabs her again. He’s clearly decided she makes a good shield.
Bright blood puddles across the gray pavers from his friend’s wounds. That one is quite still and probably dead. The longer I take to do something, the harder this gets, but Izzy is struggling and making it impossible to safely aim.
Then she twists aside, rolls, and I see the hesitation in him, as he wonders if he should take out her or me. Idiot.
I shoot him, the knee this time, by accident—I was trying for his groin. I stand to get a second, better angle. He’s rolling again, a bullet in each leg, sobbing loudly. Izzy crawls away, going to the periphery of the fight like I told her to.
From a few yards away, I halt, take deliberate aim, and shoot.
The gun jams.
Fuck. I drop it and run in to kick his asshole head in.
But… Life likes throwing shit at you.
He flops onto his stomach and sees me coming. Blood-smeared, his gun-hand pops up, the muzzle tracking me.