by Nicole Helm
“Jagger?” she muttered under her breath.
Disappointment leaked through her, but outrage was quick to chase it away. She was as acutely attuned to his presence as she had been all those years ago.
He was up here somewhere. It was possible he’d seen her coming and was waiting for her in the ladies’.
She pulled open the door and went back into the vestibule.
Footfalls sounded in the corridor headed in her direction. She peeked out and glimpsed the photographer from Page Six.
The paparazzi never quit. Now he was going to harass her for a quote about the status of her relationship with Tripp.
She ducked into the ladies’ room, only to find the small two-stall bathroom just as quiet and vacant as the other. Unease niggled at her, as if she was missing pieces to a puzzle.
Maybe she was losing her mind. The relentless hustle of working sixteen-hour days, the constant stress and never making time for a vacation was obviously taking a toll on her sanity. Instead of being downstairs relishing a once-a-year event, she was running around New York City’s flagship public library, looking for a man who wasn’t eligible for parole for two more years, seven months and three days.
Not that she was counting.
Trudging to the sink, she wished she’d stayed home, curled on her sofa watching a show on DVR, and hadn’t come tonight. But getting tickets from the mayor for helping his daughter avoid a scandal had been an honor that she couldn’t refuse.
Wendy checked her makeup and reapplied her lipstick.
The door swung open, and the photographer strode inside.
“Listen, I admire chutzpah,” she said, zipping her purse. “I wouldn’t be such a success without it, but this is crossing a line. Don’t you think?” She swiveled, facing him, and her whole body tensed.
His dark eyes hardened as he kept walking toward her. She had the sudden unnerving sensation that the walls were closing in. Each confident step he took ate up the distance between them, dampening her bravado and ratcheting her pulse to an alarmed high.
She rocked back on her heels, uncertain what was happening.
Then she realized he hadn’t asked for a quote, hadn’t uttered a word. And he was blocking her path to freedom.
She glanced down at his press pass and read the name Krish Kapoor.
Ice water ran through her veins.
The Krish she knew was bald, stocky and in his fifties. The complete opposite of the twentysomething, wiry guy with a full head of hair stalking toward her, emanating menace.
Don’t panic. Stay calm.
Her mind raced as she strategized options.
Simple and direct was best. She had to get back to a public space where a guard or guest could see her, where anyone could hear her if she needed to scream.
Swallowing hard, she straightened. Her mouth tasted sour with fear, and she did her darnedest not to let a flicker of it show on her face. “Excuse me, I’m sure my date is looking for me.” She marched forward, brushing past him.
He caught her by the arm, yanking her to a vicious stop that left her teetering on her heels.
“How dare you.” On reflex, she pivoted, twisting her arm up and around, breaking his hold. Her next instinct was to shove him out of her way, yell, run—all at once.
But he slapped her with so much force she went spinning and fell. Her head smacked against the edge of the countertop on the way down and she hit the floor. Hard.
Pain blasted through her skull, radiating to her limbs.
The world tilted. She gasped for air.
Shocked and hurting, she dragged herself along the cold tile floor, trying get away. Even though there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Fingernails scraped against grout as she hauled herself farther. Shaking, she feared she’d splinter into pieces from the pain.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was told to rough you up first. Make it look like you suffered.”
First. Suffered. The words swam in her mushy brain. She couldn’t make sense of it.
What was going to happen once he was done making it look like she’d suffered?
Red droplets hit the white tile, streaking as she slithered toward the wall. She was bleeding. From her nose? Her lip? She couldn’t tell.
Her attacker closed in with a few short steps. She had to do something, anything. Using all her strength, she kicked his leg. Her sharp heel connected with bone.
The guy swore bitterly. “Now, I’m really going to hurt you.”
Inhaling deep, Wendy clawed up the wall, pulling herself upright as much as possible. She turned, shifting her butt onto the floor, and blinked through the agony ricocheting in her head. Her vision started to clear.
She put her back against the solid wall and faced her attacker.
The guy unscrewed the long lens on the camera and dumped a gun suppressor into his palm. He dropped the lens and slammed the body of the camera on the counter. The inside was hollow except for a gun. The pistol was so small it looked like a toy, but Wendy knew it was all too real.
She shook her head in confusion. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, wiping the moisture from her nose with the back of her hand. Blood smeared her skin.
“Orders.”
“Whose orders?” She choked on a sob.
Wendy wasn’t in the business of making enemies. Her success depended on smoothing things over, making trouble disappear, keeping people happy. She certainly didn’t drive people to murder.
“Don Emilio Vargas.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, from the news. He was the nation’s current biggest headline, the leader of Los Chacales cartel, arrested in San Diego. Why would he want her dead? How did he even know who she was?
The man screwed the sound suppressor onto the barrel of the gun.
Paralyzing terror swamped her. No, no, no! I don’t want to die.
So much for work hard now and enjoy the rewards later. She should’ve taken that vacation to a warm, sunny tropical island, even if she had been alone. The same way she woke up and went to sleep. Alone.
She pushed back the fear and chaos raging in her mind. Forced herself to think.
“I have money. I—I can pay you a lot. Whatever you want.” That was far from true, but this circumstance warranted any lie that would work.
“Once the Brethren have been ordered, money can’t save you.”
Wendy screamed as loud as she could, screamed until her throat burned and her lungs ached. Fearing that no one would hear her over the music and chatter downstairs, she kicked out again, this time striking his knee.
He grunted in pain, but he managed to raise his weapon and aimed.
Her heart clutched.
The door to the bathroom swung open and the guy spun, refocusing the barrel in the opposite direction.
Her attacker blocked her view, but he didn’t shoot whoever walked in and let the door close. “Hey, man.” The gun lowered. “What are you doing here?”
Oh, God. Her attacker knew this other man. The cavalry hadn’t arrived. Tripp hadn’t come looking for her. No one had heard her scream.
Wendy pressed up against the wall, wanting to disappear through it. A desperate whimper left her.
“I was sent as backup.” The husky, masculine voice was a shock to her senses, a lightning strike straight to her heart.
A voice that was deeper, coarser than she remembered, but nonetheless familiar. Even in the haze of panic and pain, she’d recognize it.
“You, too? How many of us did the Brethren send to off one chick?”
“By my count, a lot.”
Wendy’s stomach dropped. Tears leaked from her eyes as the terrible reality struck her, and the pain was too intense to bear.
Jagger wasn’t incarcerated.
He was here...and he’d come to kill her.
Copyright © 2021 by Juno Rushdan
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ISBN-13: 9781488072932
Shot Through the Heart
Copyright © 2021 by Nicole Helm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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