Peter groaned. Volkov kicked him again.
“Get up.”
Peter looked up, bleary-eyed and sputtering. He raised himself to a sitting position and glared at Catriona, rubbing his throat as he tried to catch his breath.
Volkov tapped Peter’s knee with his boot. “Hey. What did she do to you?”
Peter coughed his response. “What?”
“How did she get the better of you?”
Peter grimaced, still struggling to breathe. “She sucker-punched me—kicked—”
“She kicked you?”
Peter nodded, his eyes rolling in the direction of the gun still laying behind the door. Volkov followed his attention. He clucked his tongue in disapproval.
Peter knew his mistake had been spotted and his voice grew whiney. “She kicked my hand—”
Volkov cut him short by shoving Mo at him. She stumbled and Peter raised his hands to block her from falling on him. Mo twisted, trying to disentangle herself from his flailing arms and then landed hard on her ample rear end with an expelling of breath. She slid into her familiar corner looking equal parts mortified and frightened.
Volkov backed until he could retrieve Peter’s pistol from behind the door, his own gun pointed at Catriona.
“Would you say she’s a kickboxer?” Volkov asked, throwing the gun at Peter.
He bobbled the weapon and then secured it, taking a moment to stare at it as if he expected it to leap from his hands again.
“A kickboxer?”
Volkov rolled his eyes. “Would you say she’s a kickboxer? Or did she just happen to kick you? Was there skill in what she did?”
“I—” Catriona tried to interrupt. Volkov’s obsession with her fighting style made her uneasy.
Volkov’s eyes flashed in her direction as he raised his finger to shush her. His annoyance seemed so deep and genuine, words failed her and she fell silent like a scolded little girl.
Volkov turned his attention back to Peter.
“Maybe in her heart she is more of a street fighter?”
Peter’s eyebrows slanted like an opening bridge and he stammered. “I, I don’t know, she just...I didn’t see...”
Volkov’s disappointment in Peter’s inability to describe Catriona’s attack felt like an entire other being in the room. He looked to Catriona.
“It feels unfair to ask, but are you a boxer?”
Unfair?
Catriona didn’t understand Volkov’s interest. At first she’d thought he was performing a little play for his own amusement. She’d guessed the final act would be the utter humiliation of Peter for being bested by a woman. But now, he appeared to have lost all interest in Peter.
“No.”
“A kickboxer?”
Is he looking to hire me?
Catriona shook her head again.
“...No.” She stiffened. She hadn’t meant to pause but she could see Volkov saw the lie.
He smiled, nodding his approval. “You are a kickboxer. Very good.”
He kicked Peter’s thigh, this time much harder. “Get up. Get out of here. You are useless.”
Peter stood and with a last smoldering glare at Catriona, left the room. Volkov lowered his gun and, instead, pointed a tightlipped smile at Catriona.
“Good,” he muttered once more before leaving and shutting the door behind him.
Mo’s hand shot to her mouth to stifle a sob. “Why did you do that?” she asked from behind her quivering fingers.
Catriona leaned against the wall and rubbed her arm where Peter had clipped her. “I was trying to save us.”
“You just made him more mad. You almost got me shot.”
“That part might be inevitable.”
Mo glared at her. “Alain will save me.”
Catriona tucked back her head, struck by Mo’s vitriol.
Ouch. There it is again. My expendability shoved in my face.
She took a step towards Mo. “You’re so confident Alain will save you? Where is he then? Your gangster-wannabee husband?”
Mo crossed her arms against her chest and looked away. “He’ll give them what he has to.”
Catriona grunted and moved to the opposite corner to sit. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m not going to sit in this cell and wait to die.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Broch and the party women arrived at Gold, singing a Scottish drinking song he’d taught them along the way. At some point he’d been able to convey to the designated driver the name of the hotel where he wanted to be left and she’d been gracious enough to roll him to the door.
“Thank ye fer yer help,” he said to the driver as they came to a stop at the doors of Gold.
She looked at him through the rearview mirror and rolled her eyes. “Thank you. You kept them distracted for me so I could concentrate on driving for two seconds.”
The blonde on his lap had fallen asleep on his chest and he eased her back to the others as he slipped out from beneath her to a rousing chorus of goodbyes.
With a final wave of thanks, Broch entered the lobby and walked directly to the elevator. He again rode it to the level beneath Alain’s penthouse planning to climb the last flight. As the great metal box rose, he tapped the keyhole next to the button for the penthouse, remembering how Catriona had.
He’d thrown himself into singing with the women during his ride to keep from freezing in fear for Catriona. Left alone in the elevator, he could feel his anxiety looming, tapping on his shoulder, whispering in his ear that he’d never find her. Telling her the things that would happen to her when he failed.
Na.
Hold the anger.
He needed to stay sharp. Fear couldn’t help Catriona. Dread and regret would only drag him down.
He pounded again on the door to Alain’s level.
Philip had his gun drawn when he opened the door to the stairwell, making it clear he had no intention of falling for the same trick twice. An angry red knot bulged on his forehead where Broch had smacked his skull into the ground.
Philip pointed his gun at Broch and shook his
