Keeping Secret: Secret McQueen, Book 4 by Sierra Dean

stopped almost instantly. “And you’re going to be fine.”
    She nodded, still whimpering like an injured puppy.
    “Put pressure on this.” I squeezed her arm gently. She winced but did as she was told. I stood, and she grasped at my free hand.
    “Don’t go.”
    “I have to.”
    Pulling away, I moved to round the corner when another shot went off, but this one had no silencer and came from behind me. Mercedes had her elbows braced on the edge of the white loveseat and her backup revolver aimed at me.
    But not at me, at the space six inches to my left where my would-be assailant cried out in pain and was calling her a stupid bitch as he dove for cover behind the dividing wall with one hand cupping his injured arm. I skirted the wall after him, my gun raised and ready, but when I got to the other side, there was nothing but a streak of blood on the ivory carpet. A thump and a wail called my attention back to the main room, and I followed spots of blood to the commotion.
    The assassin, still wearing his ski mask, was holding one of the younger salesgirls in a chokehold with his gun nestled in her auburn hair. She clawed at his arm, black rivers of mascara staining her cheeks as she stared at me with a pleading urgency.
    “Let the girl go,” I said, my own weapon trained on the sliver of ski mask visible from behind his hostage’s head.
    “I don’t want her. I came for you.”
    Dozens of gazes focused on me with new interest. I was the reason they were in this horror show, and now they all knew it.
    “Too bad she’s not alone,” Mercedes said, her gun leveled at him from the side, where she could easily get a shot through his skull and still avoid hitting the girl. “NYPD, motherfucker, you have the goddamned right to remain silent.”
    Panic flashed in the gunman’s eyes. He was caught and he knew it. There were two guns trained on him. No way in hell was he getting out of this with his job complete. He took the gun off the salesgirl and shoved her at me using brutal force. I caught the girl before she fell and held her as she cried into my shoulder, never letting my aim waver.
    Then, with a speed neither Mercedes nor I had anticipated, the failed assassin pressed his own weapon to the underside of his chin and pulled the trigger, raining a mist of pink, red and gray all over a display of haute couture gowns and the women hiding beneath them.

Chapter Thirteen
    Two hours later I was the proud owner of not one but nine wedding dresses.
    The lace number I’d been wearing, the ruined gown worn by the young bride, and the half-dozen monstrous-looking dresses that now had assassin brain smeared on them. Plus one simple, elegant, tulle-and-blood-free gown with a strapless bodice and subtle beading that happened to be the right size for me.
    Police connections and a hundred and fifty thousand dollar payout went a long way to getting forgiveness for a bloodbath at a bridal salon.
    I was sitting in the passenger seat of Detective Tyler Nowakowski’s black Nissan SUV, still wearing the bloodstained lace wedding dress. Police lights flashed in front of the boutique, and uniformed officers were gathered together collecting witness statements while others kept the goggling eyes of locals and tourists from taking photos as the ambulance took the injured bride away and the coroner did the same with the assassin.
    Tyler was talking to Mercedes, and they both kept turning to look at me as they spoke. Neither of them appeared particularly happy. Cedes was going to have to file paperwork and give a statement to Internal Affairs to justify shooting the dead man before he could shoot me, but every witness statement agreed he had been the one to kill himself.
    Officially, we were calling it a kidnapping attempt gone wrong. As the bride-to-be of a world-famous billionaire, I was a target for those looking to make a quick buck on my ransom, and this guy hadn’t expected half the bridal party to be armed. As a licensed P.I., I was