“None of the feeds at her apartment show her leaving the place at all, but she just popped up in the lobby downstairs. She’s solo, and no phone calls went in or out on her cell, the firefighter’s cell, or her landline. I have no idea how she slipped the surveillance, but if she contacted anybody, it was either by smoke signals or fucking semaphore,” said Intercom Boy.
“Of course.” The muscles along DuPree’s clean-shaven jawline jumped, and yeah, Kellan thought as he covertly angled the locking mechanism of the zip tie between both wrists. He was running out of time.
“She’s trying to throw me off by changing the rules. Insolent bitch. Charles, watch him,” DuPree said, jerking his head toward Kellan. “Franco, go escort the detective in. It looks as if we’re starting this party early.”
* * *
Isabella slid her finger beneath the thin silver chain around her neck, focusing on her breathing even though her lungs were filled with far more adrenaline than air. But her plan was in place—was already in motion—and she was one hundred percent certain it would work.
She’d done the right thing. She had Kellan’s back.
Now she was going to get him back.
The thought steadied her hands along with her nerves as the elevator whispered up on a nonstop route to the penthouse, and she tacked on her poker face when the doors opened to reveal Franco, aka Scarface from the party.
Here we go. “I’m here to see your boss.”
“You’re early,” Franco said with a sneer.
“He’ll see me anyway,” Isabella flipped back, and Franco’s face split into a crooked-toothed grin.
“He’s gonna love making you pay for that.” Franco proceeded to frisk her, his grabby hands lingering in all the places she’d expected them to before he led her past the front door.
“What, he’s not going to entertain me in the main living space?” she asked, the hard soles of her boots calling out each of her footsteps over the marble.
“No. All the good private shows go down in his study.” A minute later, Franco nudged her over the threshold of a darkly-paneled office space, and she got barely two steps in before fear funneled all the way through her.
“Kellan.”
The whisper slipped out, and she dug her nails into her palms in order to keep from running to him. He was upright, although barely, one eye swollen shut and the other on its way. A brutal gash, small but deep, sliced over his temple, and there was enough blood leading down his neck and into his gray T-shirt to tell her the wound wasn’t child’s play. She met his gaze for just a brief second, trying with all her power to stay calm.
And then she looked at DuPree, and so much for that.
“Detective Moreno. You are full of surprises,” he said, regarding her from behind his desk. “It’s eleven-oh-five. Did we not agree on midnight?”
“You said midnight,” Isabella corrected, working up a smile that would thoroughly piss him off. “I never agreed.”
“I make the rules,” DuPree spat, and yeah. Keep coming.
“If you say so.”
“You want me to zip-tie her, boss?” Franco asked, stepping forward, but much to the relief she refused to let show, DuPree shook his head.
“No.” At the thug’s obvious shock, he said, “I want Detective Moreno unrestrained. We’re going to play one of my favorite games.”
Isabella tensed, but said nothing as DuPree opened one of his desk drawers. “Since you’re so fond of boundary-testing, Detective, I thought a bit of chicken was in order.”
A fine sheen of sweat beaded on her forehead, turning instantly cold as he began laying knife after knife on the smooth mahogany desktop. “Blades, huh?” she asked, carefully edging her fingers from her sides to her hips. She needed to keep him angry. “I didn’t figure you for the messy type.”
“No?” he asked, the eight-inch fillet knife in his grasp glinting in the overhead light as he examined it.
She swallowed, moving her hands to the small of her back. “Nope. Frankly, I didn’t think you had the balls.”
Bingo. DuPree slammed the knife to the desktop with a hard crack. “It’s time to shut that filthy mouth.” He rounded the desk, stepping in front of Kellan. “We’re going to find out how high your fuckmate’s pain tolerance is. You won’t scream,” he said, looking from Kellan to Isabella. “You won’t move a muscle. Because if you do, the cuts get deeper until he loses a limb.”
Adrenaline free-flowed in her veins, the tide changing the instant her fingers found purchase. “You’re not going to hurt him, jackass.”
Both Kellan and DuPree’s heads snapped up at the word. “And why is that?” DuPree sneered.
The answer came by way of a loud crash coming from the front of the penthouse, followed by the thunder of footsteps and shouts of “RPD!”, and Isabella’s muscles sang with relief.
“Because we’re not playing by your rules. We’re playing by mine, and I don’t work without backup.”