Pugli rolls his eyes. “Too late for that, I'm afraid."
"You're desperate for her," he says. "Means she's someone important. Triple. Or she dies, right here, right now."
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
Pugli just chuckles. "You've no idea who she is, do you?"
Rush stares, baleful and vibrating with wrath.
"Bryn Eloise Harris. Twenty-four years old. Daughter of the one and only Nicholas Harris and his equally impressive wife, Layla Harris. Who, together, own and operate the world's most successful security contracting service, Alpha One Security. They're bona fide heroes, Rush. And do you know who she calls aunt and uncle? None other than Kyrie and Valentine Roth." He tuts, mocking. “The poor thing has suffered a loss recently. Her fiancé, a rather talented musician named Zero, died in a tragic car accident only a few months ago. Now, what I can't figure out is how she ended up in that nightclub, and how those incompetent apes I hired managed to get their hands on a very real princess like this. Even more interesting is her escape from the train. Killed two men—one with a pencil. Imagine that! A pencil! Unfortunately, my original merchandise was allowed to escape in all the hubbub, which is…well, rather inconsiderate of you, Miss Harris." His black gaze meets mine, jovially depraved. "I had a buyer for her lined up. A deposit was laid out. And he doesn't want any…darkies, as he put it. I know, I know—how offensive. He’s a true reprobate, I don’t mind admitting, but we can’t judge who we do business with. I don't ask questions, I merely provide. I offered you to him at a significant discount, too, but no. I'll have to acquire someone else who fits his desired profile."
I'm so terrified and horrified that the disgustingly racist remark barely registers. It's the least of my concerns, at the moment.
He shrugs, then claps his hands. "Well, now. That's enough pleasantries. Rush, let her go."
"Triple the cash, and the contract first."
"I'll wire it to you. Hand her over."
Rush jerks me closer. “Cash. Contract. Now. Unless you want to see her brains splattered across your fucking floor."
With a heavy sigh, Pugli snaps his fingers. Moments later, the butler apparates from nowhere—Pugli murmurs to him, and the man nods, vanishes again.
"Triple!" Pugli says, conversationally. "Going to start a new life for yourself, are you? Somewhere warm, maybe? Tired of the drab London weather, I suppose." He looks at me speculatively. “Did you tell her why you're doing this? No? Well, I won't spoil it, then. I know how to keep a secret, and you can trust me when I say yours is safe with me, Rush."
Secret?
Rush flinches at Pugli's words, his grip on my arm clamping down so hard I squeak in very real pain.
I hear a faint, muffled click—a hammer being pulled back. His grip is still viciously tight—it's a warning: be ready.
The butler returns with a black duffle bag in each hand. He sets the bags on the floor in front of Rush and then reaches into his tuxedo jacket pocket and produces a folded sheet of paper and a pen.
"Sign, and you're a free man," Pugli says. "And a million euros richer. Yes, I kicked in an extra hundred thousand to make it an even million. Call it a tip for bringing her to me early."
A million euros—the price of my life.
Rush inhales deeply, holds it, lets it out slowly, his eyes flickering down to mine.
There's no warning. Not so much as a twitch of his eyes.
His hand blurs—BAM! The butler's head snaps backward, blood and brain matter spraying.
BAMBAMBAM!
Pugli jerks and twists as the slugs hit his chest, three of them dead center.
"RUN!" Rush's shout is deafening.
The heavy doors creak open and the guards fill the space, assault rifles tucked into their shoulders. I don't know which way to run—Rush said outside, but the only way out is past the armed guards. Pugli is on the ground, writhing, gasping—there's no blood, though.
BAMBAM—BAMBAM!
The guards drop in near unison, twin holes in each of their chests over their hearts.
That's the only opening I need—I burst into a flat-out sprint, hurtling over the bleeding bodies, tripping down the stairs, and skidding on the gravel.
Rush's hard hand impacts the back of my left shoulder, spinning me to face right. "That way," he barks. "Go."
