Everyone froze.
The guards slowly turned their flashlights toward the heavy curtains. The fabric wasn’t still. It was moving.
The assassin wasn’t dead. And he was standing right behind me.
Before Vikram could raise his weapon, a hand shot out from behind the curtain, grabbing me by my hair and yanking me backward with brutal force. A cold, sharp blade pressed tightly against my jugular.
“Back off!” a raspy, blood-choked voice snarled into my ear. “Back off or I cut her throat right now!“
Vikram and his guards raised their weapons, their faces tight with tension. “Drop the weapon! You have nowhere to go!“
“I go through the front door, or she dies!” the assassin screamed, dragging me backward toward the balcony, the blade cutting a tiny line into my skin. A warm trickle of blood ran down my neck.
I gasped, looking frantically across the room at Arnav. He was still slumped in his wheelchair, playing the part of the unconscious, paralyzed husband. His eyes were half-closed, his head tilted back.
