Ruth’s spine straightens. “Who?”
“You know who. Gabriella. My men were supposed to bring her here.”
My eyes widen. I open my mouth to scream, because this is my one and only chance. However, before even a bit of breath can pass my lips, one of Ruth’s men slaps a huge hand over my mouth so hard it presses my lips against my teeth. I scream against his palm, but it’s muffled and useless. The scream vibrates in my skull, all the power of my lungs behind it. But not a bit of sound escapes.
I struggle and thrash, but it doesn’t do me any good. The bindings hold me in place, and the goon prevents me from making any noise.
Ruth’s lips part in a perfect, practiced mask of confusion. “Your men? They never arrived. I was just about to call you about it, actually.”
I can still see him, though he hasn’t yet seen me.
Peter’s jaw ticks, I can see it from where I’m seated. No anger—just calculation. “Is that so.”
His question doesn’t go up at the end. It’s more of a statement than anything.
“Yes,” Ruth says. “We’ve been waiting for hours.”
Peter lifts a brow. “Then why,” he says slowly, “does the tracker I placed on one of their phones ping in the field behind your warehouse?”
Ruth’s face freezes in an expression of tight surprise. Not a single blink—not a single breath.
Busted.
Her eyes flick sideways. Just once, just a hair.
Peter’s voice drops even lower than it already was. “What are you doing, Ruth? Who are you up there with?”
I’m excited, just a little, at the prospect of being saved. But at the same time, I know that a single shot could end him where he stands. Ruth would just have to get a little unnerved, and…
“What amIdoing?” she echoes, laughing like it’s all some silly misunderstanding. “Peter, darling, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What areyoudoing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in some meeting?”
She flicks her gaze over her shoulder, making eye contact with one of her men. She gives him a frantic nod, mouthingnow!He hurries out of the room.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I’m here,” he says, “to understand why you appear to be in the process of stabbing me in the back.”
Ruth seems more confident now. It’s totally obvious to me that Peter has only a few seconds to live if he doesn’t do something. “Oh, well, Peter—you want to know why it looks like I’m stabbing you in the back? Because that’s precisely what I’m?—”
A gunshot cracks. My eyes widen, then squeeze shut. Did she do it? Did she shoot Peter?
I open my eyes and look for him.
No.
He’s still standing.
But who?
My question is answered by a lowthud. One of the Irish guards near the back door drops like a bag of sand, revealing a spray of blood on the crates stacked behind him.
I flinch so hard the chair underneath me skids, the groaning of metal on metal filling the air. The goon behind me lets out ashitas he tightens his hand over my mouth.
Ruth reels back, eyes wide. “What the?—?”
Another shot, then another. The sound is different. It’s not theboomthe way a gunshot would sound in the warehouse, echoing off the walls. It’s distant. Sharper.
There’s a sniper outside. There has to be.
