Chapter 8: The Safehouse

"How many?" I asked.

"Two cars. Four men, maybe five."

"Victor's?"

"Probably."

He took the next corner so hard that my shoulder hit the door.

Rain sheeted across the windshield.

Behind us, the headlights swung wide and came on.

"They saw us leave the stage door," I said. "They've been waiting."

"They've been waiting for me," Alec said. "They didn't know you'd be in the car."

"That makes me feel so much better."

"It should. They don't have orders for you."

I looked at him sharply, and his eyes stayed on the road.

He turned down a narrow service alley behind a shuttered theater, cut the headlights, and braked with a jolt.

"Out," he said. "Stay behind me."

"No."

"Portia."

"I am not hiding in a car while you get shot."

He swore under his breath and handed me a heavy black flashlight from the glovebox.

"Then hit anything that grabs you."

We were out in the cold before I could answer.

The alley was narrow and wet, full of dumpsters and stacked crates, and only one light burned at the far end.

Two cars slid in at the mouth of it.

Doors opened.

Four men walked toward us in black coats, spread out, not hurrying.

One of them was the guard from my dressing room, the one with the radio.

He saw me, and his face went blank with surprise.

"Miss Marceau," he said. "Step away from him. Mr. Ashworth wants a word with this man, and no one needs to be hurt."

"I don't think I will," I said.

"Miss Marceau."

"I'm engaged to your boss's son. If anything happens to me in this alley, you'll explain it to him."

For half a second I saw the guard think about it.

Then the man behind him pulled out a gun.

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