Chapter 9 - The Steel Heel
Before the three gunmen could raise their weapons, a loud, deafening CRASH shattered the garage gates behind them.
A massive black SUV driven by Mason slammed through the wooden barrier, its high beams blinding the three gunmen instantly.
"Move!" Larkin roared.
He drew his firearm, discharging two sharp rounds that struck the gunman on the left, while Mason opened fire through the SUV window, taking down the gunman on the right.
The third gunman panicked, dropping his weapon and diving behind a concrete pillar, while Thomas turned and sprinted toward the pedestrian exit ramp leading out to 58th Street.
"Penelope, stay behind the car!" Larkin ordered, turning to clear the remaining gunman.
Penelope didn't stay behind the car.
She saw Thomas reaching into his coat for a small snub-nosed revolver as he ran toward the exit ramp. If he made it to the street, he would disappear into the Manhattan night with the offshore account access codes.
Penelope moved.
She didn't run like a woman constrained by a dress. She gathered the heavy silk skirt of her gown in her left hand, her long legs striding with powerful, athletic speed across the wet concrete.
CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.
Her steel-tipped six-inch heels struck the floor with blinding speed.
She closed the thirty-foot gap between them in three seconds.
As Thomas reached the base of the concrete ramp, Penelope reached out her right hand, seized the back of his expensive silk collar, and yanked him backward with every ounce of momentum in her body.
Thomas choked, losing his footing on the damp concrete, crashing heavily onto his back.
Before he could raise his revolver, Penelope lifted her right foot and brought her six-inch steel-tipped heel down with brutal, surgical precision directly onto the back of his right hand.
CRACK.
"AAAAAGH!" Thomas screamed in agony, his fingers instantly letting go of the gun as the steel tip bit into his knuckles.
Penelope kicked the revolver away into the dark corner of the ramp, stepped onto his chest with her left heel, and looked down at him with dark, freezing contempt.
"I told you, Thomas," Penelope whispered, her dark red lips curving into a cold, terrifying smile. "My heels aren't just accessories."
Larkin arrived at the top of the ramp a second later, his weapon raised, only to stop dead in his tracks.
He looked at Thomas writhing in pain on the floor, then looked up at Penelope, who stood over him in her black silk gown, her hair immaculate, her posture regal, looking down at her former boss's cousin like a queen stepping on a bug.
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Larkin let out a low, slow breath, a dark, mesmerized smile spreading across his broad face.
"Remind me," Larkin murmured, walking up beside her and sliding his arm around her waist, "never to make you angry, Miss Woods."
