Chapter 2 - Flying Over the Threshold
The air shattered into a concussive shockwave of splintered oak, flying velvet curtains, and roaring smoke.
The blast wave punched through the corridor, throwing patrons off their feet and shattering decorative mirror panels along the far wall. High-end glassware rained down like hail. Before Penny could process the flash of fire or the sudden, metallic taste of dust on her tongue, a massive arm clamped around her waist like an iron bar.
Matthew Cole didn't hesitate, swear, or flinch. The moment the hinges blew, he reacted with the terrifying, fluid speed of a predator accustomed to ambushes.
He didn't grab her hand. He didn't tell her to run. He hauled Penny straight off her feet, hauled her across his hip, and tossed her over his broad left shoulder like a heavy sack of flour.
"Hey!" Penny squeaked, her head dangling down his back. The world flipped upside down—she was suddenly staring at the back of his midnight-blue trousers, now stained dark with Scotch and dusted with pulverized drywall. "Put me down! What are you—"
The rest of her sentence was swallowed by the sudden, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of suppressed automatic weapon fire.
Submachine guns opened up from the ruined doorway. Plaster exploded off the marble column where Penny had been standing three seconds prior. If she had remained on her feet, two rounds would have clipped her spine.
"Liam! West exit!" Matthew’s voice rumbled deep against Penny’s ribs, completely calm, as if he were directing valets at a country club.
"Moving!" Liam roared back.
Matthew moved fast. Despite carrying over two hundred pounds of curvy, indignant waitress, his stride was explosive. He ducked into a low crouch, using the heavy mahogany service bar as cover just as a hail of nine-millimeter rounds chewed the top of the wood into flying toothpicks.
Penny’s stomach slammed against his shoulder with every long stride. The three shots of tequila swam violently in her skull. "I'm going to throw up on your back!" she shrieked, clutching the fabric of his jacket for dear life as bullets whined overhead. "I swear to God, Cole, if I puke on this suit, it's on you!"
"Hold your breath," Matthew growled back, unfazed. He reached into his left jacket pocket, pulled a sleek matte-black handgun from an inner holster, and fired three precise shots over the bar without looking.
A scream echoed from the smoke-filled hallway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
"Gordon!" Penny yelled, seeing her manager cowering behind a stack of linen hampers, his hands over his ears. "My purse is in the breakroom!"
"Forget the purse," Matthew snapped. He kicked open a service door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, lunged through the narrow frame, and slammed his foot back against the metal door, throwing the heavy deadbolt just as a bullet punched a clean hole through the steel center.
They were in the back hallway—a narrow, brick-walled corridor that smelled of old garbage, damp concrete, and grease traps.
Matthew finally paused near the emergency stairs, lowering Penny to her feet. The sudden return of gravity made her knees buckle. She staggered, her back hitting the cold brick, her chest heaving against her tight black uniform vest.
Matthew stood towering over her. Up close, without the dim lighting of the VIP room, his eyes were a piercing, icy gray. A faint smear of black soot crossed his high cheekbone, but his expression remained terrifyingly controlled. He looked down at her—at her wide, hazel eyes, her disheveled brown curls, and the flush on her cheeks.
"Are you hit?" he asked. His voice was a low, smooth baritone that vibrated right down her spine.
"Am I hit?!" Penny gasped, clutching her chest. "Am I hit?! Somebody just blew up the front door! My ears are ringing! My birthday is ruined! And you just hauled me around like a laundry bag!"
Matthew took a step closer, crowding her into the brick. The scent of high-end cologne, smokeless gunpowder, and spilled eighteen-year Scotch swept over her senses. He didn't look angry. He looked intensely, dangerously curious.
"You poked me," he noted softly, his gray eyes fixing on her mouth.
"You were in my way!" Penny snapped, the alcohol still providing a thin, fiery shield against the crushing terror trying to take root in her stomach. "And you still are!"
Before Matthew could respond, the metal service door behind them groaned under a heavy kick. The steel buckled inward.
"Boss," Liam said, bursting through a side access door from the kitchen, his suit coat torn, a bloody scratch along his jaw. "They brought six guys. Professional. Local crew out of Charlestown, but they've got heavy gear. The alley is blocked."
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Matthew didn't break eye contact with Penny. He reached down, grabbed her soft, warm hand in his large, calloused grip, and squeezed just hard enough to anchor her.
"Looks like your shift isn't over yet, Penny," Matthew said quietly. "Keep up."
