Keith Tucker stumbled into Sarah, knocking her drink all over her dress.
"Oops," he slurred. He didn't apologize. He wrapped a heavy arm around her waist. "Let me buy you a new one, sweetheart. And maybe a new dress."
Sarah tried to pull away. "Get off me."
"Don't be like that," Keith sneered. He tightened his grip.
Dennie stepped between them. "She said let go."
Keith looked down at Dennie. He laughed. "And who are you? The nanny?" He reached out to touch her face.
She tilted her head. His fingers missed by a millimeter. Her eyes went cold.
Two of his bodyguards stepped up, blocking their path to the exit. The crowd around them parted, forming a circle. No one helped. This was New York. You watched, or you recorded.
Keith grabbed Sarah's wrist and yanked her. She screamed.
Dennie's brain did the math in a fraction of a second. Intervention risk: High. Exposure risk: Critical. Fifty-million-dollar breach of contract. Alternative: Sarah gets hurt. Her gaze flickered to the ceiling corners, spotting two security cameras. Dennie could deal with those later. Sarah's safety was the only variable that mattered now.
She sighed. She reached down and unbuckled her stilettos. She kicked them aside.
"Last chance," she said.
Keith laughed.
Dennie moved.
She grabbed Keith's wrist with her left hand, stepping in close. With her right palm, she struck the inside of his elbow. There was a sickening pop. Keith howled and dropped to his knees.
The first bodyguard swung a heavy fist. She ducked. She grabbed one of her discarded heels from the floor. Using the momentum of her spin, she drove the steel-tipped heel into the meat of his thigh. He collapsed.
The second bodyguard came from behind. She felt the air shift. She dropped her weight, driving a Krav Maga elbow strike backward. It connected with his nose. Blood sprayed.
She side-stepped. Her silk dress flared, untouched by the red mist.
It took fifteen seconds. Three men were on the floor.
The floor manager came running, flanked by security. He looked ready to throw Dennie out.
She reached into her clutch and pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, held together by a simple money clip. She tossed it onto the bar. It landed with a heavy, satisfying thud.
"For the trouble," she said, her voice steady. "And for your silence. My friend and I were never here."
The manager's eyes widened at the cash, then flickered to the carnage, then back to Dennie. He scooped up the money and bowed slightly.
"Clean this trash up," she said.
She turned to Sarah. She was shaking. Dennie put an arm around her. "Let's go."
Up in the VIP box, silence reigned.
Quentin Sharp, a board member who owned a chain of MMA gyms, let out a low whistle. "That was textbook. Mossad style. Who the hell is she?"
Holmes hadn't moved. His glass was frozen halfway to his mouth. He was staring at the woman barefoot on the dance floor, holding a bloody high heel like a weapon.
He recognized the dress. He bought it two years ago.
He recognized the back. He had turned his back on it a thousand times.
His brain short-circuited. The dull, lifeless wife he had just fired was down there dismantling three men with the efficiency of a spec-ops soldier.
A strange, dark heat curled in his gut.
He turned to Felix. "Did you file the papers with the court?"
"Not yet," Felix stammered. "Tomorrow morning."
Holmes smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Withdraw them."
"Sir?"
"Withdraw them," Holmes said, his eyes locked on Dennie. "Immediately."
