They ran double time down the hall, Alec ready to burst through the door to get to Em. His pulse thundered in his ears, echoing her cries and the gunshots in his head.
Dev called out, “Alec, hold up!”
He checked himself long enough to signal to Rhys who went high while he went low as Dev kicked in the door. They jumped back, bracing for return fire, but were met with silence.
“Emily!” Alec shouted, as they swept the room, guns raised.
“We’re clear,” Rhys called.
Dev crouched beside Jace, fingers to his neck. “He’s got a pulse.”
“Thank fuck for body armor,” Leland said, dropping to his knees on the other side as he ripped off his shirt to staunch the shoulder wound seeping blood.
“You’re sure this is where Emily pinged?” Alec asked, vibrating with frustration.
Dev grabbed Leland’s GPS device, checking the locator. “It says she’s here.”
They searched—under tables, behind chairs. Nothing.
Something skittered across the floor when Alec took a step.
Rhys crouched to retrieve it. “No,” he said grimly. “It says her signal’s here.”
He held up a small black disc—Em’s short-range transmitter that only hours before he’d clipped to her bra.
Alec’s rage surged. He kicked a chair into the wall, splintering it.
Then he saw them—her shoes. One overturned. The other spattered with dark spots as was the floor beneath it.
He bent and touched the marble. His fingers came away red.
“She’s injured,” he ground out, the word tasting foul.
He strode quickly toward the door.
Leland called. “I’ll stick with Jace but send a medic.”
When they entered the ballroom, they found organized chaos.
Federal agents everywhere. Buyers cuffed and corralled near the grand staircase. Two of their men, Ren and Mason, flanked the perimeter, weapons holstered but eyes sharp. One man tried to run and was tackled. Another wept openly, his designer suit soaked with sweat.
Taking the lead, Alec pushed through the crowd, barely registering the agents or the shouting. He needed to move. To act. To find her.
She’d said she was coming back. As long as he was breathing, he would make sure she kept that promise.
“Nick Devlin!” a woman called.
The four of them halted. Regina stood off to the side, wrists bound in zip ties, her silver gown stained and rumpled. She surged forward, but an officer caught an arm, his hold locking her in place.
Alec veered her way, demanding, “Where have they taken her?”
“Taken who?”
“You know damn well who,” he barked. “Emily. You’re part of this.”
Dev moved fast, intercepting him before he could reach, and, likely, strangle her. “We don’t have time for your bullshit, Regina,” he said, his rage and panic barely controlled.
“I had nothing to do with this. I swear.” Her voice cracked, her eyes darting from Dev to Mateo to Rhys, in search of an ally. She found none. “It was Benny, one of my chefs. I’ve suspected something was off about him for months. I should’ve let him go or called you in after the first girl disappeared. I regret that I didn’t.”
