High-Heeler Wonder (Killer Style 1)

“Bravo.” Anders clapped theatrically. “Let’s see. We have prostitution, a little human trafficking, with a side of drug dealing and blackmail. Which is why I keep such meticulous records.” He waved a hand at the computer. “You know, said that way, it sure does put the harassment complaint you came to bitch about way down at the bottom of the totem pole of bad things, doesn’t it?” He ambled to the filing cabinets. “Of course, it would be harder to manage all of my activities if it wasn’t for my photographic memory. My father thought I was wasting that gift when I enrolled in design school. Little did he know how handy it would become.”

Thank God Anders had an ego the size of the moon, eager to spill all the intimate details of his grand plan. That he was sharing so much didn’t bode well for Tony and Sylvie’s longevity, but at least the more the asshole talked, the more time Tony had to formulate an escape.

The designer crossed to the desk and tapped the cover of Sylvie’s laptop. “I wonder…” He stopped midthought and took another step closer to Sylvie.

The closer Anders came to her, the louder the blood roared in Tony’s ears.

“One of the benefits of a photographic memory is that I never forget a face. Especially not a photographer’s assistant with a totally squeezable ass. Or should I say an undercover cop with a totally squeezable ass…” As Anders turned to Tony, he slid a 9 millimeter Glock from

a shoulder holster hidden under his magenta blazer, and held it casually at his side.

“I’m not a cop,” Tony ground out between his teeth. “Not anymore.”

Ignoring him, Anders spoke in a singsong voice, as if reciting a child’s bedtime story. “I remember how blistering hot it was the day I shot your partner. Even the cats were sweating as they watched from the top of the dumpster in the alley behind Yo! Mein. I’d forced a hulking man to his knees in front of me, and the power rush was amazing. Instead of pulling out my dick—which is what normally happens in that situation—I grabbed my gun, put the barrel flat against his forehead, right next to a large mole above his right eye. He cried when I put my finger on the trigger. Not weeping. No, he was too butch for that. Just a single tear, like a brokenhearted girl in a sappy romance movie.” He paused, drawing out the ugly tale as fury raged inside Tony. “Then boom, his brains were splattered all over the asphalt.”

Tony saw red. Every tendon and muscle begged for action, for the chance to rip Anders’s bones from his body and beat him senseless with his own femur. His peripheral vision turned black. His arms and tightly drawn fists shook with long-denied wrath. Thighs tense, ready to attack, he went deadly cold. He emptied his lungs of air and his mind of distractions.

He could move fast enough to kill the asshole before Marvin even realized what was going down. But then what would he do about Marvin? And if he went for the bodyguard first, he’d be taking a huge chance that Anders would shoot them both before he could get to him.

All shitty options. But they were the only ones he and Sylvie had.

One target.

One move.

One outcome.

The single click of a gun safety being released echoed off the bare cement-block walls. Tony swung around.

“I don’t think so.” Marvin centered the gun’s aim on Tony.

Anders’s brows went up.

Marvin moved like lightning, and in three long-legged steps had his Remington .45 shoved against Tony’s ribs. “This is not the day to be a hero.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention it?” Anders malicious smile widened. “You and the bitch are going to die.”

Tony took a mental step back and made himself assess the situation with cold calculation, as he’d learned at the academy. The bodyguard was fast, but with all that bulk, he wasn’t nimble. Pulling out all the stops for a surprise attack would render him useless. Anders, on the other hand, had crazy on his side.

But Tony had more to lose. Sylvie.

The designer turned a disdainful gaze on her. “Can’t say I’ll miss either of you. Of course, attending your funeral may be a bit awkward, but I think I can bear the burden. I’ll be sure to wear something you’d hate.”

“Sylvie, now! Run!” In one fluid motion, Tony pivoted on his heel, grabbed Marvin’s gun, and shoved the muzzle away from his body.

But instead of escaping as planned, Sylvie grabbed her laptop with both hands and winged it at Anders. It smashed into his nose and blood squirted out like a fountain.

While Anders reeled, Tony sliced his elbow into Marvin’s windpipe, and a split-second later smashed his fist into the goon’s face. Marvin went down like a redwood tree, and stayed down. The gun clanked against the concrete floor.

The sound of Sylvie and Anders struggling penetrated the heartbeat drumming in Tony’s ears, and he dove for the gun. Ignoring the searing pain in his bad knee, he rolled into a half squat, gun in hand, Anders in his sights.

The designer stood, bloodied and battered, with his arm around Sylvie’s waist, his own gun’s muzzle planted on her temple.

Tony’s gut hardened. “Let her go.”

Anders pressed the muzzle hard enough against Sylvie’s head that she whimpered. “You’ll never pull the trigger in time. She’ll die first.”

Doubt crept up Tony’s spine, embedding itself in the secret, dark places of his mind where all his fears resided. His thigh muscles started to quake and the pain in his knee hit fifteen on a ten-point scale.