The noise level rose as drinks poured freely. Laughter rang out, kisses and air-kisses flowed.
She felt something, just a tingle at the base of her spine, started a casual turn. She heard the report in her ear seconds before she saw Frye. Deliberately she let her gaze pass over him, move off.
“I heard. I see.” Roarke touched fingertips to her arm.
“He’s wearing a security badge, so he may have access to those areas. Too many people in here. Better chance to take him quietly and without civilian injuries if we do it inside. I’m going in. He’ll follow. I’ve got men in there,” she reminded Roarke. “And I’m armed. That was the plan.”
“Understood. And you understand I’ll be coming in after him.”
“Just don’t rush it.”
“Baxter, take Alexander—quietly—into custody as soon as I’m through the theater doors. McNab, send the green to the feds re the operatives. Clean Sweep starts now.”
She gave Roarke a smile, strolled off toward the theater doors. Now when someone called her name, she ignored it or tossed a careless wave. She could feel his eyes on her, tracking her. Had to get closer, she knew. Couldn’t risk another miss like before, so he had to get close.
A stunner, a knife. Maybe both.
Calculating, she slipped through the doors and into the gilded palace of the theater.
She’d never stepped foot in it before, but she knew every inch, every exit, every corner.
She drew her weapon as she eased away from the doors, moved carefully to the left. She needed him to come through, all the way, m
ove beyond a chance to duck out again.
Two of her men would, as soon as possible, move over to those doors to block them. They’d have him in a box.
She walked a few more steps, deliberately turned her back to the doors.
Other eyes were on him now, eyes she trusted. And she’d hear him. She’d feel him.
She did both as the door quietly opened.
Closer, she thought, listening to the voices in her ear, listening to her own gut. Just a little closer.
She turned, weapon drawn. His face didn’t change, but the hand holding the stunner jerked in shock.
“You may be able to get off a stream before I do, but believe me, if I miss, the other four cops in here won’t. You’re going to want to lower that weapon, Frye, or you’re going to get hit by multiple streams. It’ll hurt like a bitch.”
She saw his eyes dart left, right, saw his body shift, roll onto his toes.
“Nowhere to run,” she began. “It’s over.”
Even as she spoke, the door swung open. “Eve Dallas!” Candida, obviously drunk, stumbled in. “I’ve got something to say to you, bitch.”
Frye had fast hands to go with his fast feet. He grabbed Candida, swung her around, effectively blocking any shots, then launched her at Eve with the spin velocity.
A flailing fist slammed into her eye as the now screaming woman landed on her.
“You bitch!” Candida shrieked it, slapping, kicking. “You ripped my dress!”
Cursing, Eve shoved, pushed Candida into a heap then gained her feet. Streams blasted as Frye dodged and weaved through the theater. On another curse, Eve kicked off the damn shoes and sprinted after him.
Fast, she thought, but goddamn it, she’d be faster. Her right eye watered freely, blurring her vision and throbbing like a bad tooth.
He veered off from the exit as she or one of the others glanced a stream off his shoulder. He returned fire, wildly, leaped onto the stage like a receiver leaping for a long pass. She leaped right after him, set, fired.
This one hit him square in the back. He didn’t stumble so much as sway, didn’t jitter so much as shudder.