I was already moving when he slipped his hand into the breast of his suit jacket, reaching, I was certain, for a gun. With so many people around, I couldn’t, in good conscience, draw my Glock. Pulling my weapon and drawing his fire put innocent people in harm’s way.
Vaulting over the back of the couch, I landed on the low table that surprisingly took my weight. Cocktails and champagne and wine bottles scattered and splashed, and while the screams, yelling, and swearing were a distraction—I didn’t know if they were from surprise or injury—I had a singular focus. I led with my head, pile-driving straight into the man’s sternum with all of my weight behind it. I heard the breath heave from his lungs as his back hit the floor, forced out by the blow, and his hand fell from beneath his jacket, palm empty, but that didn’t deter me. Our momentum gave me the easy advantage, so I seized his wrist and trapped the arm between my thighs in an unorthodox armbar, my left calf pressing his cheek to the floor. I had both the leverage and weight to hyperextend his elbow, but my Brazilian jujitsu sensei would have dressed me down for technique. The hold was unbreakable, though, for someone who wasn’t trained.
“Croy!” Brig yelled behind me. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Who are you?” I barked at the man, all my attention there, adding some pressure to make certain he understood I was deadly serious.
“The fuck are you doing, man?!” another guy, not in our group, yelled. “Security!”
“Impressive,” someone said from above me, a low rumble, sexy and smoky that almost—almost—made me look up. I fought the urge and kept my focus on the intruder.
“Croy, let him up,” Brig demanded, squatting down in front of me, near the guy’s head.
“Who the hell are you?” the man I was holding croaked at me, but just barely. He had some of his wind back, but not all.
“I think you should let him go,” a man said as he took a knee near Brig, “I mean, since he was invited, after all.”
“Speak,” I ordered, starting to feel like maybe I’d jumped the gun, and worse, knowing that if it got back to Jared, I’d be in for another lecture. My boss was more of a wait-and-watch kind of guy. He always said that we needed to examine an interaction, assess the potential threat, and decide when the last possible moment was to interfere while not putting our client in jeopardy. Most people weren’t ready to trade their lives for another’s, so a hit usually meant that the assailant would attack and then run. In this instance, it would have been hard for the guy to get away cleanly. I should have thought of that. But in my defense, I wasn’t used to doing nothing for hours on end, so I’d overreacted. Like way overreacted. It was obvious the man I currently held pressed to the floor was nowhere near the threat I’d assumed he was. Just imagining the dressing-down I might have to endure was daunting.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Croy, let him go,” Brig demanded. He was angry, bristling; it was there in the timbre of his voice.
“He came up behind you and reached into his jacket,” I explained as I released the man and rolled to my feet. “What was I supposed to think?”
“That I wanted to surprise him, you asshole,” the man on the ground groused at me irritably. “Good job fucking that right to hell.”
Well shit.
I took a step back as Brig helped the stranger up, realizing only when he was standing that he was a bit taller than I was.
Brig moved quickly, yanking the guy into his arms.
“Are you sure he’s not going to fuckin’ shoot me?” he retorted, glaring at me and rolling his shoulder, testing the mobility.
“He’s sorry already,” Brig said quickly as his friend stopped looking at me and hugged him back. “He was just being a buddy and looking out for me.”
They embraced tightly, thumping each other on the back, and then drew apart. The second Brig let him go, the others were there, taking turns, hugging the crap out of the man I had put on the ground and immobilized.
Security showed up then, two big men in suits, with earpieces. Nolan explained what had happened as I stood there and fake smiled, looking, I was certain, like the village idiot. He leaned in close to them and pressed a hundred-dollar bill into each man’s hand. They left as quickly as they’d shown up, no harm, no foul.
The guy who had called for them got a complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon for himself and his girlfriend, for the trouble. I couldn’t have been more annoyed. I was doing my job—that should have been enough explanation for anyone. And no, I couldn’t say what I was doing exactly, but still, the focus should have been on what had prodded me to act or, in this case, who.