Page 87 of Disavowed

At the top of the steps, she glimpsed an opening in the crowd and side-stepped to a curtained wall. She had to get out, had to warn Gray about Marsden’s plan to blow the building.

Something gripped her arm, yanking her backward behind the curtain. She twisted and tried jerking free, but the hand around her upper arm tightened like a vise. She gasped when the shiny barrel of a gun was pointed at her face.

“With a body like that”—Smith’s lips twisted into a cruel smile as his gaze lowered to her breasts—“I’m kinda happy you’re not dead. Yet.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Dom wound his way through the crowd, heading for the ballroom. With the number of people in attendance, the overflow was backing up into the lobby. Soon it would be standing room only.

There were so many people chattering away, admiring the hotel’s decor and high-end furnishings, no one noticed how casually he was dressed. Or the muzzle of the SIG 556 rifle sticking out from under his vest.

The Swiss-made rifle was a phenomenal piece of machinery, adjustable to single- or triple-shot bursts, along with fully automatic. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t have to use it on any setting. But Marsden was prepared to die. Like him, the colonel was a solider, and going down without a fight wasn’t in either of their genetic makeups.

He flowed with the crowd into the ballroom, pretending to look for his seat when he was, in fact, systematically searching the room in quadrants for Marsden. With the flashy uniform, he’d expected the colonel to stand out, but he still couldn’t get a bead on the man’s twenty.

In addition to the mayor, he’d spotted two state senators and congressmen, along with countless other top investment bankers. And standing in strategic locations was the mayor’s protective service detail—six NYPD officers trained to protect the leader of the city at all costs. If one of them spotted the rifle beneath his vest, he’d be a dead man.

While the remainder of those standing found their seats, Dom skirted around the other side of the room, blending in with the waitstaff that was wearing black, as he was. With every step, he searched for Marsden.

Where the hell is the colonel?

The microphone on the dais squealed as a man he recognized addressed the crowd. It was Andrew, the wimp who’d danced with Daisy at Gray and Alex’s wedding.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.” The crowd hushed. “Thank you for being here with us for the grand reopening of the world-renowned Piazza Hotel.” When Andrew began clapping, the audience joined in. “Without further ado, I give you Mr. Christopher Shane, CEO of Fairhaven Hotels and Resorts.”

The audience was on its feet, applauding loudly, giving Dom the cover he needed to keep moving, continually searching the crowd. Along the way, he noted Shane’s remaining two security guards standing well off to the sides of the raised stage.

As he neared the back of the ballroom, he caught sight of Gray and two other detectives from his squad—Teddy Pulaski and Artie Griffin—pushing their way through the overflow of people jamming the lobby. What the hell? None of them were making any effort to evacuate the building. As soon as the crowd thinned, they bolted for the balcony stairs.

“This beautiful hotel,” Shane said, “is my crowning achievement. My baby. It’s taken three years and four hundred million dollars, but what I’ve achieved is a testament to my perseverance and the grandeur of the Piazza’s landmark history. This hotel contains the most beautiful trappings money can buy. I even installed an underground mall.”

The crowd burst out in laughter and more clapping just as Dom caught up to Gray and the others.

“Gray!” he yelled over the applause.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gray spun, as did the other detectives. “Dom, thank the fuck you’re all right.”

“Why aren’t you evacuating?” he shouted back. “We need every bomb squad in the city here posthaste!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gray stared at him like he was crazed off his ass.

“Didn’t Daisy tell you? Marsden’s got the hotel wired to blow.”

“No. I haven’t seen her.” Gray grabbed a radio from his belt and began calling in the threat.

“Jesus Christ, Carew,” Griffin muttered. “Gray told us you were up to your eyeballs in some seriously deep-cover shit, but this is beyond deep.”

“And then some.” Pulaski nodded. “We got your back. What do you need?”

“Dammit.” Dom twisted his head to the main entrance, then all around the lobby and up to the balcony. With every passing second worry pinged his brain. “I’m here with a woman—Daisy Fowler—she should have met you guys at the door, and now I don’t know where the hell she is. She’s tall, brown hair, and wearing a red dress that should stand out like a beacon on a lighthouse. If you see her, get her to safety outside the building.” He stared hard at Griffin and Pulaski. “She’s my woman. You got me?”

“We got you,” both men said simultaneously.

His fingers curled tightly around the gun’s stock beneath his vest. Something was wrong. He knew it with every fiber of his being. And where the hell was Smith? He seriously doubted Smith was ready to die at the colonel’s side. Smith wasn’t a solider. That bastard’s only allegiance was to himself and money.

“There’s no way we can evacuate everyone in time.” He estimated there were roughly four hundred guests packed into the giant ballroom, plus more jamming the lobby. He ran to the nearest fire alarm box on the wall, flicked up the plastic cover, and pulled down the activation lever. Nothing happened. No alarms, no strobes, no spraying water. Just a twinge of pain radiating from the bullet wound in his shoulder down his entire side.

“Fuck.” He looked over at Gray, who was staring at him through narrowed eyes.