Page 110 of Locked and Loaded

“That'll do,” Mitch confirmed calmly. “Everyone's moving now. Logan and I will get the ladies out. Armand, you're with us.”

“No. I have a yacht waiting offshore and a tender out front. I need to⁠—”

“You need to get your ass out of here,” Hawk interrupted. “Rush, Cash, find the girls and get them away from the buyers if you can. At the very least, keep them separated until the police get here. Armand, you're with me.”

“On it,” Cash answered.

The chatter faded into the background.

Dragan trusted them. Every one of the men on the channel knew exactly what they were doing. That left him free to do what he did best.

Hunt.

He burst through the exit and into the corridor with Valardi only a step behind. The hallway stretched twenty feet before splitting in opposite directions. “You go left,” Dragan ordered. “I'll take the right. Tag me if you find the bastard.”

Valardi nodded once. “Will do.”

The two men peeled away in opposite directions.

Dragan rounded the corner at a sprint.

The corridor beyond was lined with framed oil paintings and polished limestone columns, the expensive artwork blurring into streaks of color as he ran. Ahead, guests poured from side doors, driven out by the alarm. Women struggled in evening gowns and impossible heels while men barked into cell phones, demanding answers no one had. Everyone was taking the emergency exits. Now the auction attendees were mixing with some of the people from the fundraiser gala.

Then he saw Georgiou nearly a hundred feet ahead.

He'd stripped off his tuxedo jacket and slung it over one shoulder, moving far faster than a man his age had any right to.

“Found you,” Dragan muttered. He drove harder. The gap began to close.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Then a flood of people burst through a pair of double doors directly between them.

Half a dozen men, likely buyers, in black tie, accompanied by bodyguards who looked far more interested in escape than the fire alarm.

Dragan lowered his shoulder and drove straight into them. One man crashed into a marble column. Another spun sideways, spilling champagne across his tuxedo. Someone shouted. Someone else grabbed for Dragan's jacket. He ripped free without losing speed. By the time he'd fought through the knot of bodies, Georgiou had reached another intersection.

He glanced back.

For the briefest moment, their eyes met.

Then he turned the corner and disappeared.

“Son of a bitch.” Dragan pushed harder.

A sharp crack echoed through the building.

Gunfire.

Not one shot. Three. Dragan's instincts screamed at him to turn. He didn't. More voices exploded across the comms.

“Cash!”

“I've got him!” Cash barked.

Another shot.