The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(78)

Nicholas cleared his throat. “Are you armed?”

“No.”

“Should you be?

“I no longer own a firearm,” I said. “And despite what you’ve seen in action movies, a lone man with a gun isn’t very effective against multiple enemies.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I’ll know when we get there.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Shouldn’t we have a plan or something?”

“I have a plan. Find them. Get them out. I’ll make up the details as we go.” I glanced at him. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

“You’re kind of scary when you’re like this.”

“This is a mission now. And they fucked with the wrong guy.”

The tracker in Cameron’s shoe led us to a rundown hotel. Metal scaffolding crawled up the side of the building and a makeshift awning protected the sidewalk. It looked like it was under construction—or had been. I didn’t see any sign that a crew had been here recently. No trucks or equipment. I circled around to a street that led behind the building, looking for a loading dock or place for deliveries.

Several cars were parked in the loading zone. None of them were construction vehicles.

One was a bright yellow Lamborghini Huracan with a giant spoiler on the back. Good for speed enthusiasts. Perfect for show-offs. That had to be Bobby Spencer’s car.

I wanted to pop that fucker’s head like a tick, but he was a secondary concern.

The other cars were black SUVs. Tinted windows. Probably bulletproof.

I parked a short distance back. I couldn’t tell by the make of the SUVs who we were dealing with. The building looked abandoned, so it could be a regular meeting spot. Or Bobby had hired more than just a crew to pull off a kidnapping.

“Stay here,” I said. “Watch the clock. Follow me inside in exactly three minutes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“They’ll have someone standing guard. I’m going to neutralize them.”

“You can do that in three minutes?”

I met his eyes. “I only need two. But I’ll wait for you.”

I got out and put my hands in my pockets, keeping my head down. A lot of my job had required going unnoticed. Not calling attention to myself. I was a big guy, but most people would be surprised at how easy it was to move in and out of a location if you simply looked like you belonged—even for me. And I was good at it.

So I didn’t slink along the outer wall or attempt to stay hidden. I strolled right up to the service entrance where a guy with a buzz cut armed with an AK-47 stood guard inside.

“Hey, man,” I said, keeping my hands in my pockets.

His brow furrowed. God, he was young. Couldn’t be more than twenty-five, tops.

“Who are you?” he asked, his Russian accent strong.

Before he had a chance to blink again, my hands darted out and I grabbed his gun. He instinctively pulled back, expecting me to try to take it from him. Instead, I moved with his momentum, and jerked the gun upward just enough to hit him in the forehead with it.

The single sharp strike did its job. He crumpled to the ground.

I kicked the weapon away and did a quick visual. Lone guard. That was a good sign. It meant they didn’t expect trouble.

They were really fucking wrong.

Stepping to the side, I checked my phone. Cameron’s signal was here. I put it away, then stuck my hands back in my pockets and waited for Nicholas.

Sixty-five seconds later, he crept up to the service entrance. His eyes widened at the unconscious guard. “Holy shit. Is he…?”

“No, but he’ll have a wicked headache. Let’s go.”

The service entrance opened to a series of storerooms, a freight elevator—looked broken with doors stuck half-open—and a doorway to a large commercial kitchen. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. There were holes in the plaster and random bits of debris strewn about. A single cloth napkin that might have once been white sat unceremoniously in the middle of the hall.

Footsteps sounded from up ahead. I motioned for Nicholas to duck into the kitchen and get down. I stepped through the open doorway and took cover where I could still see who was coming.

The sound of his breathing came first. Whoever he was, he was in a hurry. Shoes pounded against the floor.

As soon as he came around the corner, I darted into action. Sprang out of the kitchen and had him laid out on the ground, pinned down, my hand around his throat, before he had any idea what had hit him.

Bobby fucking Spencer.

“Fuck,” he said, his voice a strangled croak with the grip I had on his neck. He grabbed my wrist, but he didn’t thrash or try to get me off him. “You gotta help her. She’s upstairs. They’re going to kill her.”

I loosened my grip by a fraction. “Talk.”

He took a gasping breath. “I was going for help. Can’t call the cops. How did you find us?”

“Where is she?” I growled.

“Upstairs. Penthouse. Dude, I didn’t know they were going to kill her. I swear to god, that wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The Russians?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he here?” I asked, emphasizing the word he. If Bobby had met him, he’d know who I meant.