Chapter 8 No.8

"Step away from the female!" the lead officer bellowed.

Hunt stared down the barrel of the pistol. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes.

"She's sick," Hunt barked. "She was drugged."

"Hands on your head! Now!"

An officer rushed forward, grabbing Hunt's arm and twisting it behind his back. The force slammed him into the tiled wall.

"Get off me!" Hunt roared.

Another officer threw a towel around Elle. She was sliding down the wall, shaking violently.

"Don't hurt him," she slurred, reaching out a trembling hand toward Hunt. "I want him..."

The female officer guiding her away exchanged a look with her partner. Stockholm syndrome, the look said. Or trauma bond.

The handcuffs clicked around Hunt's wrists. The metal was cold, biting into his skin.

"Do you know who I am?" Hunt demanded as they shoved him out of the bathroom.

"Yeah," the officer said, pushing him toward the door. "You're the guy facing a felony sexual assault charge."

They marched him down the hallway. Lance was being loaded onto a stretcher, his face a ruin of bandages and blood.

When Lance saw Hunt, he pointed a shaking finger. "That's him! He attacked me! He stole her!"

Carlyn was screaming at a sergeant near the elevators. "He saved her! Check the cameras!"

"Ma'am, stay back!"

Hunt was shoved into a squad car. The flashing lights painted the street in chaotic bursts of red and blue. Paparazzi swarmed the barricades, cameras clicking like a thousand insects.

Hunt ducked his head, but he knew they got the shot. Hunt Noble, in cuffs, wet and disheveled.

At the 19th Precinct, they put him in an interrogation room. It smelled of stale coffee and fear.

Detective Miller tossed a folder onto the metal table. Photos of Lance's face.

"You did a number on him, Mr. Noble."

"He drugged her," Hunt said calmly. "Check the glass. Check her blood."

"We are. But right now, I have a billionaire beating a man to a pulp and dragging a woman into a hotel room."

"I was helping her."

"That's not what Mr. Ford says."

The door opened. Preston walked in, flanked by three men in sharp suits. The Noble Media legal shark tank.

"My client will not be answering any more questions," the lead lawyer said. "And if you don't un-cuff him in the next thirty seconds, I will have this precinct sued into the stone age for unlawful arrest."

Ten minutes later, the door flew open again. Chief Sterling, the head of the precinct, rushed in. He was wearing a pajama top under his trench coat.

"Uncuff him! Jesus Christ, Miller, are you insane?"

Sterling fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking. "Mr. Noble, I am so sorry. A terrible misunderstanding."

Hunt rubbed his wrists. Red marks encircled them.

"Where is she?" Hunt asked. His voice was quiet, dangerous.

"Ms. Allison is in the infirmary. The drug screen confirmed Rohypnol."

Hunt stood up. "I want Ford destroyed. I want him to rot."

"We're processing the warrant now," Sterling promised, sweating.

Hunt walked out.

Elle was sitting on a bench in the hallway, wrapped in a grey police blanket. She was asleep, her head lolling against the wall.

Hunt stopped. The anger that had been fueling him evaporated, leaving only a dull ache in his chest.

He walked over and picked her up. She weighed nothing.

She mumbled something in her sleep, a soft, broken sound, a name he couldn't quite catch that sounded like a plea.

Hunt's jaw tightened.

He carried her out the back exit to the waiting black SUV.