Katie Reus: Targeted

“Yes. I worked it out ahead of time.” Nash tilted his head in the direction of the man patiently waiting. “Cormac will lead you into the party and”—he glanced down at his cell phone when it pinged—“your mother is waiting by the ice sculpture of a dragon. It’s near the . . . room of weapons?”

“Room of . . . Oh right. Tell her I’m on my way.” She was so grateful that her mother had taken to texting Nash instead of her. The thought of trying to focus on tiny letters now . . . no thank you.

She was also glad she knew where the weapons room was. Well, sort of. Once she got in the house she was certain she could find it. The Westwoods were huge history buffs and had an actual room designated solely to displaying various weaponry from the past two centuries. It was actually pretty cool, if a little weird.

Her heels clicked along the pathway as she walked toward an intimidating man wearing all black. His expression was cool and assessing as he took her in. “Normally I’d check you for weapons, but Nash says you’re all right.” He opened the door for her and gave a sharp gesture for her to enter.

Okay, then. They stepped into a kitchen that was humming quietly with activity. Various people were setting up dessert trays and plates, but this definitely wasn’t the main kitchen. Maria had been in that one a couple of years ago.

“This way,” the security man urged, clearly not liking that he was her temporary escort.

All the food aromas were overwhelming so she hurried after him, but not before snagging a minicupcake. She hadn’t eaten in hours and sugar probably wasn’t the best idea, but she needed something in her stomach. Shoving it in her mouth, she stumbled trying to keep up with the long-legged man. He took her down a lot of hallways and too many turns to count. Dizziness swarmed her as they reached the end of a hallway that opened into a room where well-dressed people were all drinking either champagne or martinis. Female servers were walking around wearing . . . Holy shit, they were wearing only body paint made to look like tuxedos . Maria blinked and tried to listen as Cormac gave her directions to the weapons room. Nodding politely, she fought more nausea as he hurried away while talking into an ear mic. Before she’d taken two steps a woman named Greta Dobbins latched onto her arm.

Maria guessed the white-haired woman was pushing eighty. She was slim, a few inches taller than Maria, and had a wicked grip. “Hi, sweetheart. I just saw your mother. She told me you were coming and I’m just so glad. It’s amazing how much time you dedicate to that center. Of course, I know your dear mother wishes you’d settle down and get married. . . .”

Oh, sweet Lord. Maria’s eyes and ears glazed over for a moment as she took in the room. Two sparkly chandeliers hung above them and classical music was being piped in from somewhere. About forty people in long, glittery gowns or tuxedos talked among themselves. She recognized some of them, but not everyone. Pasting on a smile for Mrs. Dobbins, she tried to focus on the woman’s face, but bile rose in her throat as clamminess descended over her skin.

“Maria, you don’t look so good.” Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Dobbins practically dragged her across the marble floor to the other side, ignoring the calls of her husband.

“Where are we going?” Maria had no strength to fight the other woman and just prayed there was an empty bathroom nearby.

Taking Maria by surprise, the older woman opened a door Maria hadn’t even seen. It was built into the dark wood paneling, seamless in its architecture. “We’re going to find you a place to rest and I’m going to get your mother. You shouldn’t be here. She told me you weren’t feeling well, but you look like death warmed over. I know how dedicated you are to that center, but this is unacceptable.”

Even though she wanted to argue, Maria knew the woman was right. Her face and hands were clammy, but sweat had started to blossom across her forehead, between her breasts, and down her back. A chill snaked through her body, making her shiver. “How did you even know about that door?”

Mrs. Dobbins chuckled. “Oh, I know a lot about this place. Flora has me over for tea at least once a month. And that’s code for martinis, but don’t tell Kingsley. It’ll just raise his blood pressure and . . .”

Everything went hazy again as the woman chatted away. Maria had forgotten how close Mrs. Dobbins was with Flora Westwood. Even though the woman was a total chatterbox, Maria was incredibly grateful for her kindness now. While she wasn’t sure where they were going, she couldn’t hear the crowd of people anymore and her heels were silent against the carpet runner covering rich wood floors. Finally the woman stopped in front of a door and peered inside. She let out a breath. “Okay, no one’s in here. There’s a bathroom right through there.” Mrs. Dobbins pointed even though Maria couldn’t see past the heavy door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes; I promise. Just as soon as I find your mother.”

“She’s near a dragon ice sculpture.” Or she had been. Maria wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since she’d arrived. Or where she now was in the giant house, for that matter.

“Make that twenty minutes, then.” The woman ushered her into what turned out to be a lavish guest room. It was dimly lit by a Tiffany table lamp, but Maria didn’t care about the décor.

Racing toward the door Mrs. Dobbins had pointed out, she hurried inside and barely made it to the toilet before she threw up the cupcake. After a while she was just dry heaving.

The bathroom lights were too harsh so she crawled to the entry and shut them off. Relief rolled over her at the sudden dimness. There was still a little stream of light from the bedroom, but her eyes didn’t hurt anymore. Wanting to call Nash and her mother, she opened her clutch, but frowned when she didn’t see her phone. The purse wasn’t big, so it wasn’t as if it was hiding in a compartment. Which meant it had likely fallen out in the SUV. Lord, she couldn’t even remember whether she’d brought it. Everything about tonight and the past few days was too fuzzy. Cursing, she snapped the clutch shut and struggled to her feet. She shouldn’t have come tonight and didn’t want to be lying on the floor when Mrs. Dobbins and her mother found her.

As Maria entered the bedroom she heard loud male shouting coming from the next room. At least three men. Two had accents she couldn’t place, but one man she recognized. She wanted to say hello, but was too ill to face anyone and the shouting was escalating.

A low hum of panic threaded through her veins as the yelling suddenly increased in volume. She couldn’t make out the words, but then everything got quieter. Curious and worried, she hurried to the shared wall and pressed her ear against it.

“You cannot bomb the Freedom Tower last,” the familiar voice said, anger punching through each word.

“We can and we will. It is symbolic,” an accented voice growled.

“No—the Tower is a landmark. If you try to wait, it won’t work. The police, FBI, and everyone hunting you will—”

Maria wavered on her feet. Bomb the Freedom Tower? Panic gripped her with sharp talons, digging into her chest until it was hard to breathe. Blood rushed in her ears and she shook her head, trying to clear her fear so she could hear better. Straining, she held her breath as a man talked about bombing other Miami landmarks. Then there was a vile curse about hating the United States.

When everything suddenly went quiet, she pushed away from the wall. What the hell had she just heard? Terror was like a living thing inside her, pushing back most of her nausea. She had to tell someone what she’d just heard. While she didn’t recognize two of the voices, she knew one of them. And that scared the holy hell out of her that he was involved with . . . whatever was going on.