The way back was as horrible as the way there, only harder. Harper was carrying all the equipment on her back, which made her feel unbalanced and awkward. Mark could have carried it laughing, together with her and probably a Volkswagen. But their one chance of survival if they were caught was Mark’s ability with firearms and he needed his hands free for that. Luckily, he was now armed to the teeth with a submachine gun, another automatic weapon slung across his back which he’d taken from the dead terrorist, and some kind of pistol he wore on a holster. The weapons looked completely natural on him and he wore them as if they were invisible.
How could she have possibly mistaken this man for a boring businessman? Everything about him screamed warrior, unmistakably. The way he carried himself, ready for anything, the way he seemed to be aware of their surroundings at all times, his ability to plan a way to take down the terrorists without a massacre…wow.
He exuded power, it came off him in waves. Not political power or the power of money, which is what she was used to. No, this man was power, in the old-fashioned sense of the term. An alpha male, in his prime, utterly dangerous.
Certainly, she was happier to be here in this impossibly dangerous situation with Mark Redmond, security expert, than she would be with Mark Redmond, plumbing supplies importer.
Harper followed Mark step by step, even when they had to go out into the great hall, full of bodies. It had sickened her when she’d first seen them, in that unmistakable sprawl of death. It still sickened her, the work of monsters.
But she couldn’t react now, their job was to stop the terrorists from killing even more people.
She glanced at the bodies as they made their way quickly down the hall and sent up a silent prayer for their souls, gone too soon and gone too violently.
They reached the room where they’d taken refuge, the room the terrorists had used as a urinal. Mark glanced at his watch. It had a strange kind of dial that didn’t reflect the light. Amazing. She’d never have thought of that. And yet a watch dial that gleamed was a dead giveaway.
They slid into the room, backs against the wall. That heavy bag of gear she was carrying slid silently to the ground.
She couldn’t see them, but she knew that the room was filled with masterpieces. Works of art that had inspired millions but that could be destroyed at any minute. One monster pressing a detonator and they would be lost forever, together with the lives of the hostages, and their own lives. She had no idea how a human being could do that but she also had no idea how they could have shot those innocent tourists.
This wasn’t humanity as she knew it. These were beasts, monsters.
This was what Mark did. Fight monsters.
As if he knew she was thinking about him, he turned his head with those weird goggles that made him look like an alien insect. It was too dark to see his expression but he held up his thumb.
Everything okay?
You didn’t need to be a soldier to understand it. She lifted her own thumb.
Everything’s peachy.
Her back and knees hurt from carrying all that weight. She was exhausted and filthy and terrified, but damned if she’d show him that. He was brave, so by God, she was going to be brave too. Or at least pretend to be.
He nodded, and she could see that he’d dismissed her from his mind. Damn right. She didn’t want to be a distraction or burden in any way. If they were going to get out of this alive, if they had any hope of saving those hostages and saving the Louvre, it was all on Mark. On his combat skills, intelligence, instincts, focus. His bravery.
He was studying his watch and swiveled his head toward her. What was he trying to communicate…?
Oh. The two guards were coming back, boot heels clicking loudly on the parquet flooring. They didn’t have to be silent. They thought they’d already won.
Think again, you sons of bitches.
She surprised herself with the red, raw rush of hatred that rose up and clouded her mind for a moment. She’d have strangled them with her bare hands at that moment if she could.
But she couldn’t. She could only be as silent as possible and wait for them to go away, back on patrol.
If she understood correctly, an army of commandos was gathering, ready to take the terrorists down as soon as she and Mark released the gas in the Mona Lisa Room. They were going to have to be fast and brutal, so no one had a chance to set off the explosives.
But the first line of defense here, the one indispensable person, was Mark. He was the one who was going to make that rush possible.
She reached out unconsciously to touch his arm, reassure herself. He was so silent she could only know he was there in the darkness by his body heat, by the denser darkness that was Mark.
He picked up her gloved hand, brought it to his mouth and kissed it without looking at her.
It was like an infusion of power, a sudden rush of it. Power and heat racing through her body, light in darkness.
They waited for what felt like forever but was probably only ten minutes. The concept of time was gone. There was no light to see her watch. The feeble light in the corridor barely penetrated the opening of the room.
Her heartbeat was no longer a timekeeper. Hers was racing, irregular and fast. All she knew was that it felt like she was suffocating in the timeless darkness as they stood frozen. Mark didn’t move a muscle, so neither did she. The two terrorists would have had to move into the room and pace the perimeter to find them.
They didn’t do that. They stood at the entrance, backs to the room, and exchanged quiet words.
Suddenly there was a loud squawking sound that made her jump a little. Mark touched her arm reassuringly and she was ashamed of herself. It was only their radio or walkie-talkie. One of the terrorists moved his arm and spoke quietly into the receiver. A minute later, they walked back out into the corridor, back on their rounds.
She let out her breath in a silent whoosh, unaware that she’d been barely breathing. Mark held up a hand, listening hard. When they couldn’t hear the boot steps, they moved quietly to the entrance and out into the big corridor, across the intersection, into the Gallery.
One big room, two, three. Finally, they reached the room where they could enter the walls and continue to the Mona Lisa room undetected. Mark moved right to the side wall and took out his lock-pick set.
He was working fast, unable to completely muffle the small metallic sounds of the lock pick working its magic.
Two men’s voices sounded out in the Gallery and Harper tapped frantically at his shoulder. Mark nodded but otherwise gave no sign of urgency, merely continued working at the lock.
The voices were becoming louder.
They were shielded by the darkness but not completely hidden. If one or both of the patrolling terrorists had very keen hearing and decided to look in, they’d see two shadows darker than the night.
Mark couldn’t keep watch, all his attention was taken up with the lock, so it was up to her to be his lookout. She turned her back to the wall and stared with every ounce of attention at the entrance, a slightly lighter shade of dark.
The voices grew even louder. They weren’t speaking loudly, she knew that. It just felt loud, the voices seemingly impinging on her skin. If they were discovered, they wouldn’t be the only ones to die. It might actually trigger the massacre of the hostages, the detonation of the explosives.
God, no.
She wanted to whisper hurry! to Mark but that would be useless and distracting. Mark was working as fast as anyone could. He knew the dangers and the risks. His hands were steady from what she could hear in the gloom.
A last light click of the lock and the door swung open—just as the two terrorists made it to the entrance of the room. She could tell because of the echoing sound their voices made. They were exactly opposite them, in full view if there was light. She hunched her shoulders and tensed her muscles, which would be amazingly useful against machine-gun fire.
The sound of the terrorists’ boots came loud and clear and Mark ushered her in with a strong hand on her shoulder. He followed her immediately and shut the door soundlessly with not a second to spare.
Harper thought her heart would hammer its way out of her chest. It was completely lightless inside the wall but she dropped the bag stepped into his arms without hesitation as if they were in broad daylight. Once again magnetic, their two bodies coming together unerringly with an audible click, the two sets of body armor meeting.
Harper burrowed, holding Mark tightly, wondering if he could hear her hammering heart shaking against the armor. She trembled and he held her more tightly, as if he could absorb her shock and sorrow and, yes, terror.
It worked. Embracing the heat and strength of his strong, hard body somehow transmitted something—courage? hope?—to her, and the trembling died down. She could draw in a breath that wasn’t painful. Her jaws unclenched. Her heart stopped trip-hammering and began beating steadily.
Her arms relaxed. She held him instead of clutching him.
Mark’s head bent down to her. The scruff of beard he’d developed itched against her cheek and she welcomed the small bite of it. It grounded her.
“Okay?” he whispered in her ear and she nodded, stepping back. A little ashamed, but not too much. He’d just lent her a little bit of his bravery.
Mark led them both farther down the corridor between the walls, far from the door he’d opened, and he pulled out the flashlight. His arm rose up and she felt more than saw him remove the goggles and then switch on the light.
The narrow beam was bright after the darkness and she blinked.
“Give yourself a minute and let your eyes adjust to the light,” he said, voice low. She nodded, watching him as he slowly came into focus, seeing his face again clearly after the hour of semi-darkness.
Strong cheekbones, clean features, slight beard.
In the past hour, he’d killed a man and saved her life, safely brought them to the drop-off point and back, and was now going to save the lives of the hostages.
“What?” he asked, dark eyebrows drawing together in a frown.
“You’re magnificent,” she whispered, and rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek.
“Nice to know,” he whispered back. “Say that to me again when it’s over.”
There was nothing to smile at. They were in deadly danger. Murdered men and women were outside in the Gallery terrorists were holding over a hundred hostages at gunpoint. But she smiled anyway.
“You betcha.”