Lila aimed, shooting three times in quick succession, three little puffs of air that barely made a noise over the still-chattering crowd.
Her first dart skewed wide, but the second hit the gunman’s chin, startling him and frustrating his aim. Simultaneously, a sharp blast from his revolver echoed throughout the room.
Her third tranq hit his neck perfectly.
The man flicked it off and did not fall down.
The distraction allowed her to get closer, though. She didn’t have time to wonder why the tranq hadn’t worked or if anyone had been hit. Dropping her Colt, she sprinted closer, leaping into the air as he aimed again.
Another shot rang out as she barreled into the man’s hips.
The pair collided. The gun shot rang far too loudly in her ears.
His weapon skittered across the floor.
Lila rolled onto the gunman’s chest, unable to remember the complicated grappling moves from hand-to-hand training. Instead, she sprawled out on top of him and punched at his face, hoping her weight and fist would do the trick.
Predictably, it didn’t. He shoved her off like an unruly child and crawled toward Senator Langston. In a brave moment, the politician had chosen to guard the man’s gun, keeping it locked between his boots as if he were a hen roosting on a rotten egg. When he saw the would-be assassin heading toward him, he yipped and froze.
“Take it to the militia!” Lila shouted as she clasped her arms around the gunman’s ankle. She yanked the man back, her stitches pulling, her palm screaming out with a dull ache. The gunman slid on the wooden floor, his hands whacking against it as he tried to stop the pull.
All at once, he sat up on his hands and knees, kicking back hard with his ensnared boot. It caught Lila in the stomach.
“Oof!” The champagne she’d drunk struggled at her throat, but Lila refused to let go.
In a panic, her fumbling mind landed on a move that would certainly have an effect.
Rolling on her ass, she kicked out, nailing the shooter in the balls.
“Ugh,” the man cried out.
Lila winced. She’d hit his balls, all right, but her heel had also struck, stabbing him in the thigh. She nearly gagged as she pulled her foot back, her heel almost refusing to dislodge from his leg.
The gunman didn’t seem all that concerned about the tirckle of blood, running down his thigh. His boot grew heavy in her arms, and he finally flopped onto his stomach.
Finally, the tranqs had kicked in.
Lila let go of his foot and crawled toward his shoulder, ready to flip him over and check his breathing.
The gunman’s elbow smashed into her jaw, stunning her.
Gods, she was horrible at hand-to-hand.
Lunging again, Lila grasped at the man’s wrist and jerked, finally recalling at least one hold she’d learned in training. She quickly curled herself into an arm lock, twisting her legs on either side of his arm, pushing her ass into his neck and folding her ankles across his opposite shoulder.
The intruder flailed, pumping his torso off the ground, trying to break free. Seams ripped in her dress, but the lock held.
So did Lila.
She turned a frantic eye around the ballroom, waiting for someone to charge across the room and help her hold down the stranger. It wouldn’t be Olivia LeBeau, for it appeared that Lila’s first misfire had struck the woman. One little black dart had lodged itself between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.
The heirs and senators weren’t much help, either. Several hundred heads had jerked at the first shot, their eyes latching on to the struggling pair. Some watched with detached interest, assuming Lila would deal with the man, just as blackcoats and workborn always dealt with anything unpleasant in their lives. Others had frozen, refusing to flee out of shock or fear they’d be captured on film looking like an idiot. A quarter of the crowd had no such qualms. They’d run screaming to the exits, shoving one another out of the way in a bid to escape first.
The rest of their peers held up their palms, filming the panic for leverage.
Then there was Oskar Kruger. He trembled on stage, two holes buried in the wood beside his boots. He did nothing at all. He’d been left alone and unregarded when the auctioneer dove off the stage. Oskar hadn’t even hidden behind the useless podium. He’d merely closed his eyes while the shots rang out, ready or willing or hoping to die.
Perhaps all three.