Finn had radioed almost every person on the cartel’s guard roster. No one had seen Lars. The only place left to check was the kitchen. He moved past a steady stream of waiters — some with crates of alcohol to restock the bars, others bearing trays of bite-sized desserts.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he ripped off his mask so he could better scan the interior.

The kitchen looked like a kicked over ant nest. Penguin-suited staff bustled across his field of view, an impossible din of shouts and clashing crockery filling the air.

He grabbed the first person who wasn’t moving past him at full tilt, and pulled her to the side.

“You seen someone wearing one of these?” he yelled over the noise as he hoisted his mask for the woman to see. “Tall, blond hair?”

She gave a quick nod. “Outside,” she yelled back, pointing across the kitchen.

Thank fuck.

Finn snatched his radio from his belt, lifting it to his lips. “Bravo, this is Mike, come in.”

He held the radio to his ear as he attempted to navigate his way through the kitchen without getting a pan, tray, knife or elbow in his stomach.

The saying, ‘bull in a china shop’ suddenly carried so much more significance to him.

“Bravo, come in for fuck’s sake!” Finn yelled into the radio. “Over!”

“This is Bravo,” came Bailey’s staticky response. “What’s going on, over?”

“Might have a lead on Lars. Checking the back of the kitchen, over.”

“Need me to get there, over?”

“No. Stay where you are.” He gritted his teeth. Worms moved under his skin. His eyes were agitated. And his beast had long since began pacing, claws tick-tick-ticking over the basement of his mind. “But if I don’t check in after five minutes, then you get down here. Over.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

Finn clipped his radio back on his belt as he pushed open the door leading outside.

Full night had fallen, hardly dispelled by a full moon and a light dusting of stars.

“Lars?” Finn bellowed, scanning what little he could see. There was a light on outside the kitchen’s back door, but it highlighted little more than the front of an overflowing dumpster. “Lars!”

He moved to the left, but a wall soon cut him off. He turned back, about to head back inside the kitchen.

Lars had probably come outside to smoke a joint. Maybe the waitress had not seen him come back inside and cut through the kitchen. It was fucking busy in there, how could she? He had to be inside—probably jiving on the dance floor. He loved dancing after he’d smoked; said it was almost as good as getting high and fucking.

Pale moonlight gleamed off something, catching Finn’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, stepping to the right.

There, in a tangle of weeds on the other side of the chain-link fence spanning the hotel’s perimeter, lay an empty bottle of soda water.

“Lars?”

Finn hurried forward, and ducked his head around the corner.

His heart sunk into his feet, which was why they were suddenly so heavy and clumsy that he half-fell, half lunged forward.

Lars lay on his side, one hand outstretched, the other trapped under him.

Motionless.

Skin as gray as moon dust.

Bailey cracked open his sixth beer of the evening. It was weird; whenever he turned around, a waiter came by with a tray of his favorite brand and paused to offer him one.

Then again, it was a popular brand.

Five minutes, Finn had said. It had been less than two, but he already felt edgy. Maybe it was the crush of people around him, although he’d never had an issue with crowds before.

Either way, he had to get back to Cora. He took a long sip from his beer as he walked towards the crowd on the dance floor. Shouldering his way inside took some effort, but eventually he’d made it far enough in he should have been able to see Cora and Ana.

His stomach tightened when he didn’t see her at first. His casual saunter through the crowd gained momentum, until he was shoving people aside, his heart beating furiously.

And then Cora popped up out of nowhere, like she’d been crouching on the floor. He was still about three yards away from her, but relief made his fingertips prickle.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered to himself as he again headed for her.

Where was Ana? Shit, had the girl gone and left Cora alone?

But no…Cora wasn’t alone.

As he came closer, he saw a man standing in front of her, his back to Bailey. Cora was talking to him, gesturing furiously.

A brave cocktail girl made her way up to Cora, and held out a bottle of tequila. Cora made a shooing gesture toward the man in front of her, and then tipped her head back so the waitress could pour a shot into her mouth.

It looked like the last shot too; when someone beside Cora asked for a drink, the waitress shrugged and wriggled the bottle.

What the hell?

When he glanced back at Cora, it looked like she was dancing with the stranger. Not like she and Bailey had—Cora flush against him so he could feel every curve of her body—but a foot away from each other.

This brought him to a stand. He’d been gone less than a minute, and she was already dancing with someone else?

Confusion surged up inside him, but he stamped it down with ruthless determination.

Why the hell was he surprised? She’d made it damn clear that despite loving him she was happy to make him share her with two other men. And he’d been okay with that. Fuck, he’d been ecstatic that she’d ever consider him as anything more than a hired gun.

But this?

Dancing with a stranger? What was next?

Bailey’s hands bunched into fists. People bumped into him as the music grew frenzied, but he hardly noticed.

As much as he wanted to walk away, to leave her there with her new friend and never look back…he knew he couldn’t.

He’d be happy to have just a sliver of her, if it meant he could be with her. It was fucking ridiculous—he was a grown man—but it didn’t make it any less true.

His heart ached for her love, even if that love was just a fragment of the whole.

Fuck, maybe it was all he deserved after his betrayal. But that wouldn’t stop him kicking the living shit out of the guy who thought he could try and make a move on her.

He surged forward, but a crackle from his radio made him pause. He hurriedly unclipped it, raising it to his ear.

His imagination?

How much time had passed?

“Mike, this is Bravo, come in!”

The DJ decided it was the perfect time to drop the bass.

“Milo, can you hear me?” He held the radio to his ear.

“…get…Lars…fucking…”

Cora was facing the DJ box now, arms in the air, yelling. The man behind her was standing a few paces away, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. Instead, he was scanning the crowd.

Of course; he’d probably mistaken Cora for someone else. She wasn’t the only woman with a sugar-skull painted on her face; he’d seen a handful of other girls wearing similar make up and outfits tonight.

“Hold on,” Bailey yelled into the radio. “I can’t hear you, over.”

He shouldered his way out of the crowd again, ignoring the cusses thrown his way.

When he reached the outskirts, he radioed in to Finn again. This time, the man’s reply was clearly legible.

“Man down! Get Cora the fuck out of here!”

The beer fell from Bailey’s fingers. He spun back, this time sending party goers sprawling to the floor if they didn’t move out of his way fast enough. Shocked cries and angry yells traced his path of destruction through the crowd.

He fought his way to where he’d last seen Cora.

She wasn’t there.

“Cora!” He didn’t care if anyone heard. He had to find her. “Cora!”

Bailey spun around, rising to his toes to give him as much height over the crowd as possible.

But he already knew what he’d see.

Cora was gone.