Money was a great motivator. Both rescuers scrambled away. He heard them calling for Tremaine as they moved away. For rescuing Portia, they might even get their fifteen minutes of fame.
With rescue on the way, Killian wrapped Portia tighter in his arms and finally allowed himself to ponder what had happened.
He turned the last few minutes before the collapse over and over in his mind. No matter what angle he viewed the problem from, he ended up in the same place: a bomb had most likely caused the explosion and anyone could be responsible.
The caterers. Security. A corporate hitman.
As far as he knew, though, only one urgent delivery had been made right before the explosion.
His pretty little courier had smiled wide when she made the delivery. Had she been carrying the bomb? Had she known?
He closed his eyes. If the bomb had arrived with the courier, then the last time he’d seen the package was in Tommy’s hands.
He cradled Portia close while they waited for the rescuers to return. Last time, he hadn’t been able to save his family and there’d been no one to blame. Just a horrible accident.
If tonight hadn’t been an accident… He’d go after the fucking courier and whoever had sent the bomb with every resource at his disposal.
Chapter5
Dizzie pulledinto her designated parking slot in the lower levels of Tremaine headquarters, almost collapsing from relief when she stopped. The ride home had been slow and stressful. Not due to traffic or others drivers, but because she couldn’t get the images of the hotel wreckage out of her head. After a clipped report that she was on her way back, she’d ignored calls from dispatch, afraid she’d burst into tears if she tried to speak.
Metal claws rose from the ground and secured her bike. Her legs wobbled as she stumbled off the bike. She braced her hand on the seat to gain her balance before the system swept her ride into storage racks elsewhere in the garage. The motorcycle disappeared into the building as lasers flickered over the frame, scanning for damage.
Her pulse kicked up as she watched it disappear. Every time, she worried that she wouldn’t get her motorcycle—her freedom—back. Being a courier suited her perfectly. She wasn’t trained for anything else.
Dispatch and other desk jobs? Her idea of hell.
She slapped her palm on the scanner surface at the entrance and walked into the lower levels of the building. She made her way on autopilot down the maze of corridors and to the dorms that housed low-level employees like her. When she finally slipped inside her room, she closed the door and leaned against it. She’d never been this happy to be in the safety of her quarters instead of on the road.
Her room was small, the smallest size available, but that was fine with her. The company might feed her and provide housing, but all those costs were rolled into the price to buy out her contract. When kids from the crèche turned eighteen, the company gave them access to their files—where they came from and how they ended up in Tremaine care—and a bill for their upbringing. Until Dizzie earned the credits she needed, the company owned her, body and soul.
Well, not so much her soul, but only because they hadn’t figured out how yet.
She hung her jacket on a hook by the door and dropped into the chair in front of a small computer monitor. All she wanted was to go to bed and put her best-worst day behind her, but business came first.
Logging into her bank account, she moved quickly though the passwords and biometric scans until she got to the account screen. She stared at the deposit notice for the payment and the bonus in her account with mixed feelings. It was one of the largest payments she’d ever received, but the excitement she’d normally feel was muted by the terrible accident at the hotel.
“Just take the money,” she muttered and started transferring funds around.
The bulk of tonight’s earnings went to her corporate debt. It might take her years, but she’d buy her freedom or die trying. She may have spent her first twenty-three years indentured to Tremaine, but she wasn’t going to spend her whole life here.
The remaining credits were spread out across a number of secondary accounts. Basic living expenses—like the clothes stacked haphazardly on the other chair against the wall and the rainbow of nail polish bottles on the dresser—she paid out of her account at Tremaine Banking. Next, she replenished the credit sticks she used for fun money.
The rest she very carefully transferred to the emergency fund she’d created outside the Tremaine system. A shady entrepreneur slash bar owner called the Jack held the account. For a small monthly fee, of course.
Logging off, Dizzie toed off her boots, crawled onto her bed, and flipped on the video screen.
Big mistake. The explosion dominated every channel. Over and over again, the screen showed the damaged structure and the steady stream of stretchers and body bags leaving the building.
Newsies on one channel called it a terrorist attack. On another, they claimed it was a corporate assassination attempt. Chyrons screamed things like “Industrial Espionage Gone Wrong?” and “Will Crash Crash Stocks?” Experts offered “proof” for their pet theories.
That could have been me.
The words looped through her head. The shakes started the moment the reality of the night’s events finally hit her. She clenched her fists, but that wasn’t enough to stop them.
The voices droned on, listing the famous people at the event—movie stars and corporate bigwigs she hadn’t seen. Portia Tremaine and her husband. Killian St. John. With each name, she pictured the crowd in her mind and relived the swirling chaos of the party.
Dizzie wrapped her arms around her middle and focused on Killian. The way she’d seen him—alive.
