“Move it, Mike,” Kit growled, facing down Benson when the head of security thought twice about letting him into the aerie. Kit brought one arm up to keep the elevator doors from closing again. “I’m in no mood to play games with anybody.”
Benson locked eyes with the retired scout, then grunted once and wisely stepped aside. Skeeter sank, shaking, into the nearest chair, having been on the receiving end of Kit’s rage once before, but after a moment’s utter panic, he realized what Kit’s presence here meant.
Kynan Rhys Gower had sworn an oath of fealty to Kit, several months back. The retired time scout had rescued him from Portuguese traders intent on burning the Welshman and Margo as witches on a beach in sixteenth-century East Africa. Kit was therefore obligated to speak on his behalf as the Welshman’s liege lord. Kit Carson might, yet, take Skeeter apart for involving his vassal in something as serious as murder, but for the moment, his attention was rivetted on Ronisha Azzan.
Then he spoke, voice flat with anger, and darted a glance at Skeeter’s manacled wrists. “Was it really necessary to cuff him?”
Benson snapped, “I thought so! There’s half a dozen dead men down there—“
“And damned near a dead little girl!” Kit’s lean face ran white with barely controlled fury. “That poor kid’s been raped and beaten unconscious! Rachel’s staff said they’re not even sure she’ll come out of surgery alive!”
Skeeter blanched.
“Take the cuffs off, Mike! Skeeter’s not going to attack one of us. And even if he did, I could throw him through the nearest window without batting an eyelash, which he knows!”