The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  She got on her tiptoes to better reach Dusty’s ear. “We need to break the stained-glass windows, create other ways out.”

  He nodded and shouted, “I’ll get the one in front.”

  The big one. The one that would be harder to reach with the mob surging to the front door. Before she could object, he vaulted over the bar, grabbed a barstool, and made his way through the layers of smoke toward the front of the club.

  Climbing over the bar, she landed on the other side almost on top of a guy and a woman curled on the floor. A tug on the woman’s slender forearm got her to look up, eyeglasses broken, nose cut. “You okay?”

  The woman nodded, and Gracie pulled her to standing. Together they grabbed the man’s arms and helped him up. He staggered against the bar and held on. Tipsy or concussed? Hard to tell.

  Coughing, eyes burning, Gracie picked a barstool up by the legs and lifted it over her head. Though she nearly lost her footing with the debris on the floor, she made it to the window, hauled back, pushed out from her hip, and tossed it. The stool smashed the glass but stuck on the leaded frame. Fudge.

  Hacking, she grabbed another barstool and with a burst of energy that started as much in her desperate heart as in her right leg, she let the power and the scream rise up and out and hurled the heavy chair.

  With a crash, the barstool tore clean through, dragging the first stool with it. Gracie nearly sagged with relief.

  Someone scrambled up to the windowsill and began kicking out the remaining glass. Soon he had it clear enough that other people started climbing out.

  At the other stain glassed window, the guy she’d helped held a barstool over his head. He sent it crashing through. And then the woman with the broken glasses climbed onto the windowsill, kicked out glass. Soon both windows had people scrambling out of them.

  The sprinklers went off.

  Water soaked people in seconds, making things slippery. Gracie fought her way through the overturned tables to the people struggling to get at the front door. She turned people around, got them to go out the window.

  Once enough people began to see a clear, easier way out, the tide turned toward the windows, easing pressure on those at the front door. Good.

  Gracie was guiding more people out when she remembered her chefs, Jack and Jenna.

  Her heart pounding a thousand hopeless fists against her chest, she jumped back over the bar, ran through the walkway, and jerked to a halt in the kitchen.

  It wasn’t on fire? Smoke drifted about, but nowhere near as bad as in the main club. And the sprinklers, which went off only in areas where the temperature reached a certain degree, weren’t on. Something wasn’t right.

  Jack and Jenna weren’t in sight. Easy to see why. They would’ve had no problem going out the back. And, considering the smoke out front, would’ve had little choice.

  A moment of relief followed by a crash of dread. Victor. Earlier, she’d let him upstairs to look at security footage. She sprinted across the kitchen and through the swinging doors into the back hall.

  The lighted pad by the upstairs security door blinked with an error code. The door was programmed to unlock during a fire when someone unchipped was upstairs, but that shouldn’t produce an error code.

  Removing her Beretta from the secret compartment in the green bench in the hall, she pulled the heavy door open, took note that it was indeed unlocked, and ran up the stairs.

  She glided through the hallway, calling on the smooth and measured training, the deep and pointed focus that had been with her since childhood. All the security pads along the hall were blinking.

  How had three layers of back-up failed? Not right. Awareness locked on every shadow, split-second analysis of potential danger while dismissing the throb of alarms against her ears.

  In the first room, the operations center, she found Victor. Calm and emotionless as a robot, she moved over to him and checked his pulse. Alive. Someone had knocked him hard on the head. So said the lump on the back of his skull.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. He’d be okay. Squeezing his hand, she continued out and down the rest of the hall. Checked the server room and her office. All empty.

  Her mouth grew dry. One room left. Weapon drawn, she stalked into the small hall that led to her apartment.

  Her heart charged like a warrior intent on battle. She spun through the doorway, scanned. The bookcase that hid the elevator was open.

  She moved deeper inside, toward the kitchenette, alert, ready to check behind the breakfast bar. At the last second, someone jumped out low and tried to grab her by the waist.

  Using an avoidance technique, she slid to the side. Without any body to grab, the man fell. When he tried to get up, she brought her gun down across his masked face. Her sprinkler-moistened grip slipped and the gun glanced off his temple. Not hard enough. His head only jerked.

  He leaped toward her, grabbed her gun hand, twisted. With a cry, she lost her weapon. Using her free arm, she sent an elbow into his nose. Fast. Hard.

  He dropped to his knees then charged, grabbing her waist and shoving her backward.

  Grasping the sides of his face, Gracie jabbed her thumbs into his eye sockets as her soaked feet refused purchase. He smashed her into the breakfast bar. Her back seized with the sharp jolt of pain. Air left her in a rush.

  Fighting for breath, she forced one thumb into his eye. He cried out, pushed her off, slapped his hand to his eye and bent over.

  Regaining her balance, she grasped him by the neck, drove his head down and hammered her kneecap into his face again and again.

  Slam. His head jerked. Slam. His nose cracked. Blood soaked his mask. Slam. He made a sad, futile grunt and went boneless. She let go. He dropped to the floor.

  She staggered away, the pain in her back making her feel queasy. A sound alerted her to someone behind. She shifted just in time to feel the solid and unexpected whack of metal against her neck, followed by the sharp sting of what felt like a million volts of electricity from a stun baton.

  She dropped to the ground, convulsing. Her teeth slammed together. Her eyes rolled back and into darkness.

  Chapter 41

  After stopping to help another person from the floor, Dusty picked up a barstool and pushed his way through the throng. The press of people, the heat of dimming fire, the cries of panic, and the driving urge of survival instinct forced him to use his size and strength to make his way forward.

  If he’d been twenty pounds lighter, he’d have gone down for sure. Shaking water from his face like a dog, he sucked in thick, black smoke, coughed and hacked up phlegm through an already-aching throat.

  Someone grabbed his belt from behind. With a chair held over his head, all he could do was look down. A woman. Using him to help get through the crowd, the way someone might follow an ambulance to get through traffic. He kept moving.

  By the time he made the front window, he had a mini conga line trailing. No time to waste, he pitched the stool as hard as he could through the large stained-glass window. It shattered. The noise was lost to the alarm, screams, and gush of water.

  The people behind him broke for the opening he’d just made. A few take-chargers took the lead and began directing others out the window. The crush at the front instantly lessened as people turned for the new exit.

  He saw the flashing lights as a fire truck pulled up out front. Firemen started to haul people through the broken window as others with axes began to free people trapped at the front door.

  Hacking into the crook of his arm, he pushed through the crowd and headed back into the club. Thick globules of wet drywall dropped from the ceiling and onto couches, where they burst apart like piñatas, spilling fist-sized chunks.

  The ceiling? He looked up. Damn it. One of the explosions had come from the decorations.

  He stepped over debris and scanned the club. Where the hell was Gracie?
There was no way she’d leave until everyone else was out. Not while her staff and people were in need. Her staff. The kitchen.

  Wiping water from his eyes, he vaulted over the bar just as a splintering crash sent a fighter jet decoration slamming onto the spot where he’d just been.

  He loped through the hall and into the kitchen.

  Smoke drifted about like fog, but it was clearer back here, easier to breathe. Nothing like the nostril-burning quality out front. And no sprinklers. What was going on?

  Wiping soot, snot, and water from his face, grateful the bouncer had allowed him the weapon, he bent down and removed his Remington .380 from his ankle holster.

  His mind alert, his body coiled with tension, he made his way through the kitchen and to the back hall. No one around, but the security pad on the door leading upstairs was flashing.

  He crossed the hall and heard more than saw the club’s back door being thrown open and a couple of firemen burst inside.

  Slipping away, he opened the security door and climbed the stairs on the balls of his feet. At the top, gun drawn, he crouched and scanned the hall. Empty.

  Stalking forward, he checked the first room and found a body. Male. It took him a moment to place the guy. He knelt and checked the guy’s pulse. Alive. He patted his cheek. “Victor?”

  Victor’s brown eyes opened then widened with recognition. “Rescuing me. Got a thing for Latinos?”

  “I got a thing for redheads and one in particular. Seen her?”

  Victor shook his head, groaned, closed his eyes. “Stop fucking with her.”

  Guy was out of it. “We’ll talk later. I’m giving you a pass.”

  Victor’s eyes shot open. He tried to sit up. “Did you give Tony a pass?”

  What? A slight press on Victor’s shoulder kept him down. “Stay down. You hit your head.”

  The swish and clink of metal announced the fireman a second before his booming voice. “Fire and rescue. What we got here?”

  Dusty hid his weapon. “Looks like a concussion.”

  Victor cursed. The fireman muscled in and Dusty retreated as the guy bent to Victor. Dusty left and made his way down the hall.

  Where was Gracie? Had she gone out? No way. She wouldn’t have left Victor up here. What had Victor been doing up here?

  He quickened his pace down the hall, searching rooms as he went. A room with computer servers. An office. White. Clean. Sparsely decorated. Gracie’s office.

  Every door had a dead security pad. Turning the corner at the end of the hall, he saw the final door. Again security pad flashing error.

  High alert surging in his blood, he stalked forward, pulled the door open, and saw her struggling from a seated position to her knees. After taking a hot second to make sure no one was in the apartment, he rushed over to her. She’d gone from kneeling back to sitting. “Where are you hurt?”

  Grabbing his arm, she squeezed. “Dusty. The escape route, behind bookcase. Quick. Close it.”

  He looked over and saw what she meant. The bookcase was open to reveal a secret compartment.

  Not bothering to argue with her—didn’t know her well, but knew her well enough—he went over to the compartment and shut it. An elevator. An escape route? Was that how those who’d attacked her had gotten in? And if so, how the hell did they know this was here?

  He turned back to ask her when two firemen came into the apartment.

  * * *

  The lights from emergency service vehicles, police and fire and ambulances, strobed across the back of Club When? The madness from inside had switched to the outside.

  Injured people sitting on the ground, being tended at ambulances, walking around aimlessly. Less injured people crying, hugging, talking at each other as much as to each other.

  Some people just standing around in shock. And lookie-loos gathered at the edge of the parking lot, still in their pajamas, watching the whole thing with curiosity.

  Dusty guided Gracie over a fire hose as they exited the back of the club, then tried to steer her toward an ambulance.

  She shook him off. “I don’t need help. I need to help.”

  There was that upbringing of hers again. “You’re going to be looked at first.”

  She began to argue, walk away. Dusty caught her by the forearm and held her for a moment. “Watch.”

  Her head swiveled, noted the ambulance that drove past and came to a halt in the parking lot, squeezing in between the fire truck and another ambulance. Two techs climbed out, rushing to meet a man carrying an injured woman. She had a tourniquet on her bleeding leg.

  Gracie made a sound of grief so heavy and unexpected, his stomach turned sour.

  He looked closer at the woman, her dress and dark hair. Shit. The woman at the bar, the one who’d been flirting with him. The one Gracie had given a free drink to.

  Half of her right leg was missing.

  Gracie’s face scrunched in anger, tears dropped from her eyes. “This is my fault.”

  His heart broke for her. He leaned down. “Steady. It’s not your fault.”

  “I should’ve known something like this might happen,” she rasped. “That’s my job.”

  “Grace, violence happens. It’s not always easy to predict when. Don’t convict yourself.”

  She looked at him. Broken. Hurt. Tear-stained. “How can I fix this?”

  Fuck.

  He folded her into his arms, gathering her up, so damn grateful she was okay, so damn grateful she let him hold her, hoping his strength could muffle some of her pain. He kissed the top of her head, swallowed over the bricks of anger stacking like a barrier, the Great Wall of China, in his throat. “We are going to find whoever is behind this. It’s that person’s fault.”

  And he was done chasing his fucking tail when he already knew exactly who it was he needed, wanted to protect.

  Chapter 42

  Early morning, hours after the fire, Dusty walked through the surgical-white hospital corridor. The smell of smoke seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his nostrils. Probably better than the smell of hospital antiseptic.

  With an apology for almost crashing into them, he veered out of the way of a woman with an IV bag walking with a nurse’s aide in a candy-striped uniform.

  He’d been up all night; so had Gracie.

  He’d never seen a more determined person in his life. After he’d insisted Gracie be checked out—took nearly every bit of charm and convincing he had, stubborn woman—she’d gone nonstop. Helped out with the ambulances, talked to injured, consoled those in shock, talked with a few angry fellows Dusty had wanted to take down, but she’d handled it with…well, grace. She’d been interviewed by police and fire, insisted on coming here, checked on her staff, Victor, any available injured.

  He’d been by her side through all of it, but she’d left him to speak with the hospital administrator about taking care of the bills, so he was on his own. And since he’d wanted to talk to the guy privately, because he sure had acted funny when Dusty had visited with Gracie, he turned into Victor’s hospital room.

  Victor sat up in bed. His dark eyes were pinned to a television tuned to the news, which currently showed clips from the club fire.

  Dusty rapped on the doorjamb he’d already entered. Victor looked up, waved him inside. Dusty purposefully kept his eyes off the screen. “You’d think that’d be the last thing you’d want to see.”

  Victor squinted one eye. “I’m just trying to catch up on what happened. I was knocked out through most of it.”

  He’d been unconscious because Victor had fought back—not only did he have a concussion, but a broken clavicle, a couple of broken ribs, and one hell of a shiner.

  There’d been two men, and they’d wanted into the computers that Victor had been working on. Apparently, he’d been looking through some old surveillance footage of the cl
ub’s exterior.

  “Is it helping any?”

  “Mostly it’s just speculation on the Parish family’s bad luck. Bringing up the drone attack earlier this year. No one’s asking the obvious questions yet. Easy to see an explosion without a raging fire isn’t amateur hour.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m here. Trying to find out who is after Gracie.”

  Victor picked the corded remote off the guardrail where it hung, cringed in pain, rested his head back, and flicked off the television. “What is that?”

  Now that he’d bothered to give Dusty his full attention, he’d noticed the flowers.

  Dusty shrugged. “Wasn’t sure of the protocol.”

  “I would’ve preferred a naked picture of your girlfriend.”

  Huh. This guy wanted to wave a red flag in front of a bull. “You’re a lot less friendly now than when I was in here with Gracie. Heck, less friendly than the guy I remember from Mexico. And you were in a lot more pain in Mexico.”

  “Pain is a chronic condition when you get involved with the Parish family. You might want to write that down, tattoo it on that generous bicep, and walk away now.”

  Dusty walked over to the windowsill, put the flowers into a vase with other flowers. A little crowded, but he hadn’t thought ahead. Sunlight streamed through the metal blinds and across the burgundy vinyl lounge chair. He sat, put his elbows on his knees. “Why are you so pissed at me?”

  Victor turned his head to look at him. His eyes held the glassy sheen of medication, which explained why he seemed a tad slow to answer. “You need to be honest with Gracie. She might seem tough, but she’s—”

  “Not anyone I want to mess with. I got her. And I even get why you’d think poorly of me, but she knows why I’m here. She knows everything I’m about.”

  Victor lifted his head from the pillow, then let it drift back. He closed his eyes. “She knows about Tony? About his death?”

  “I’ve been totally honest with her. And I’m no longer working my job.”

  That opened Victor’s eyes. “So why are you here?”