Soldiers have to know how to burst into action in a second. They also have to know how to wait. Mark was one of those soldiers who knew how to wait. He’d once waited three days for a shot at an ISIS commander. He hadn’t eaten, he’d drunk very sparingly because he’d had to piss himself where he lay, and he hadn’t slept.
But he’d gotten the job done.
There was nothing he could do right now, not until Mike got back to him. He couldn’t take on armed terrorists in a large room, unarmed. And he didn’t know how many were on sentry duty in the Gallery. He didn’t want to get himself killed and he didn’t want to leave Harper undefended. Not going to happen.
So now it was a waiting game.
They had water and some food. They were safely in hiding. Mark knew that as soon as that video hit the media, the entire French antiterrorism force would crank into gear immediately. The DGSE was staffed with smart, tough guys, backed by a smart and tough intelligence community.
A lot would have to happen before the terrorists blew up the Louvre. They had time.
And he was with Harper, which wasn’t a hardship.
She was sitting hip to hip beside him, her head on his shoulder, but she wasn’t freaking and she wasn’t panicking. Smart as she was, she understood the danger, but she was keeping it together.
“So…what else is in the magic backpack? Besides a lock pick, enough water to withstand a siege and a special phone that has its own cellular network?” she asked, voice low.
“Well…” Mark reached out to pull the backpack toward him. He picked it up and rapped his knuckles against the back. It gave a low pock sound. “Bulletproof plate. Like having half a tactical vest. No guns because I can’t travel with them, and I knew they wouldn’t let me into the Louvre armed anyway. But I have that baton I told you about. You can defend yourself pretty well with a baton in close-quarters battle.”
She tucked a shiny lock of hair behind her ear. “Show me.”
Mark took out a small metal cylinder, pressed a button, and a long baton popped out soundlessly. Mark ran his hand from the handle up to the tip. “Stainless steel. Can break bones easily. I have one at home that also delivers an electric shock like a cattle prod. Very handy.”
She shook her head. “If you’re up against someone armed, I guess you’re out of luck.”
“In theory, yes. If you’re smart and fast, you can use the element of surprise. It’s a good impact weapon.”
“Beats my pepper spray.” She always kept a full bottle of pepper spray in her purse.
He swiveled his head. “You ever use your spray?”
“Actually, yes. At the end of a date from hell. He worked in a bank and I thought he was safe, but…”
“He wasn’t,” Mark said grimly.
Harper shivered at the memory. “No.”
He clenched his fists. “I hate the thought of some suit trying to hurt you. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
She made a small noise in her throat and looked up at him. It was amazing how beautiful she looked even in the harsh shadows of the up-light of the flashlight. It was meant to show details and it was hard light. Yet it loved her face, caressed it. Highlighted the graceful jawline, high cheekbones, smooth forehead.
In a cramped, dusty, airless storage space, turning stuffy, she was immensely precious. He kept his face expressionless but if he ever found out the name of that fucker who worked in a bank and tried to hurt her, he’d rip his head off.
Mark kept one eye on the cell screen, watching what was unfolding in the room. The leader was agitated. This was a large-scale attack on one of the most famous buildings in the world. They had their goal and had stated it but the leader would understand that as soon as that video hit the media, they’d be surrounded by the largest law-enforcement deployment in France’s history. Though the leader held most of the cards, some of them were wild cards.
There were over a hundred hostages in the room being held by twelve armed men. If those hundred hostages had been former Rangers or SEALs or Deltas, the guard dogs wouldn’t stand a chance. No twelve men could hold a hundred Spec Ops warriors. But the hostages were women and children and untrained men.
Still, you never knew. In that group could be some dangerous men, like himself. And though the terrorists were armed and the hostages weren’t, a hundred people were a lot of people to keep an eye on.
Fuckhead was in charge right now, an armed fanatic who was presumably prepared to die a martyr, and he could make good on his promise to shoot the hostages one by one. On live TV.
French soldiers could lay siege but no siege would withstand a dead body an hour. Not to mention the fact that the leader would choose pretty young women and children to shoot. On camera. These kinds of men were merciless and never missed a trick.
Right now, the leader was pacing the perimeter of the room, speaking with his men.
Nothing was happening and Mark guessed that nothing would until the video was released and someone in authority set up comms, or tried to.
One of the terrorists pulled something out of a backpack. A laptop. Two laptops. He opened them up and set one to France1, the main French news station, and the other to CNN. They were expecting the news to hit at any moment.
Five men surrounded the laptops, jabbering excitedly in a mixture of Syrian Arabic and Iraqi Marsh Arabic. Their guard was down. Mark could have taken them down if he had his old team with him. But he didn’t. Going after them single-handedly would just get him killed and would leave Harper alone.
The Moscow theater hostage crisis lasted 4 days. The Beslan school siege lasted 3 days. This hostage crisis, though in a country that wasn’t willing to sacrifice hostages, could last days, weeks. If Mark went out and sacrificed himself, Harper would be left to starve or die of thirst before it ended.
He had a few ideas but they would have to wait.
“So,” Harper said, looking up at him. “A plumbing supplies importer?”
He looked at her and smiled.
“How did you come up with that?”
“It’s the most boring job I could think of. Actually, my dad had a plumbing supplies import business. A really big one. I could bore you senseless comparing French and Italian zinc tubing. The job is the kiss of death. No one wants to hear about it. Another boring job is tax software manager.”
“You’ve used that one, as well?”
Mark nodded. “And logistics expert a couple of times. That’s a big yawn, too.”
She put a hand on his chest, her fingers finding the knot of tissue that was a bullet scar and he’d told her was from a practice stick. “Those scars are not from practicing martial arts in dojos.”
“Nope.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“So…who are you? I could make a couple of educated guesses. And if you are what I think you are, you probably can’t say much. But the truth is that we could die here. We’ve…been to bed together. I think I deserve to know who you really are.”
They had had sex, and Mark wanted to have sex with her again. And again and again. But it wasn’t just that. He wanted to simply spend time with her. She was so beautiful, so graceful and so very smart. Every minute with her was a pleasure, and he wanted a lot of those minutes. So if they were going to be together, yes, she deserved to know who he was.
But it went against his every instinct to tell her the truth. He hadn’t told anyone outside the service and his business who he really was for years. His company employed two anti-social media experts who worked night and day to keep him and his business out of the news. He operated best in the dark. He hadn’t been photographed other than for IDs since he was 22. Revealing his identity was almost like slicing open his chest and showing his beating heart. His throat felt tight.
When he didn’t say anything, Harper looked down at her hands. “Is Mark Redmond even your real name?”
His throat opened up a little. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a start.”
This was surprisingly hard. Being naked with her, with all his scars, was nothing in comparison. Mark didn’t know how to continue. Foreign territory. He’d never opened up to anyone, ever. The people he worked with knew who he was, what he could do. The rest of humanity stayed in the dark.
Once he started, though, it became easier. Sitting with his back against a dusty wall, not knowing if they’d live to see another day, with murderous terrorists on the other side of the wall, he told this beautiful woman who fascinated him the truth.
“I wasn’t brilliant at school, but I loved military history, had excellent hand-eye coordination and was really good at martial arts, which made the military an obvious choice. I think my dad would have wanted me to take over his business—boring as it was¾when he retired but it was clear to him by the time I was ten that wasn’t going to happen. What I said about the dojo was mostly true. I have been around dojos since I was a kid. I swept and changed towels at my first dojo in exchange for some lessons. My dad didn’t want to pay for them, he wanted me to do accelerated math, which interested me but not as much as martial arts. He paid for my lessons finally and then ended up buying the dojo. We bought about ten of them after that, which I ran while I was in high school. I was…pretty single-minded.
“I joined the military after college where I got a degree in computer science, and turned the chain of dojos over to a good friend. The chain is doing really well, and always has. When we started training in hand-to-hand combat in boot camp, I knew what I was doing. Same with firearms. I was in Special Forces for eight years, doing things I can’t talk about unless you have clearance for it. When I got out, I set up a company of my own as a security consultant. We’re the people you call when you have a problem that can’t land in the newspapers.”
“The company must be doing very well,” Harper said. “Private limo, the Ritz.”
“Yeah.” His company was one of the biggest in the world in that business.
The satellite phone vibrated soundlessly. Mark put the earbud in and tapped it twice. “Yeah, talk to me.”
Mike’s voice was calm. “Thank God you were able to get a shot of the leader before he put the ski mask on. He’s been identified as Pierre Hamidou, third-generation Algerian. Mentally unstable. He joined the police force in 2013 but proved too unstable and he was forced out. But evidently, he recruited some men. Four of the men are either current police officers or were in the police force. Bad business.”
“Yeah.” Mark thought through the consequences. “We don’t know how high up this goes. Tell our contact at the DGSE not to share with any of the police authorities.”
“Hard. But agreed.”
“Mike…” Mark hesitated. This was unusual. He never hesitated when he spoke. But this was important.
Silence. Mike was waiting.
“I’m with a civilian here. She must be kept safe. I don’t want her caught in the cross fire.”
This was the first time—whether in the military or in his eight years running his company—that he’d had any consideration beyond the mission. Whatever Mike thought, Mark was deadly serious. He was not doing anything to endanger Harper.
“Roger that,” Mike said.
“Your word.”
“My word.”
That was good enough for Mark.
“So. Is there a plan?”
“We’re still working on one.”
“Because I have one.”
“I’m not surprised. Talk.”
“The Dubrovka Theater scenario. Modified so it doesn’t kill hostages.”
Silence.
“And I need to be armed. I could grab one of the attackers and get his weapon but the leader, this Pierre Hamidou, keeps checking in with his men. I could make it look like an accidental death but nothing would explain away a lost weapon. They’d tear down the building looking for it and someone sooner or later will think of the hollow walls, which is where we’re holed up right now.”
“I’ll talk with our guy at the DGSE,” Mike said. “He’ll be in touch soon.”
“Roger that,” Mark said and disconnected.
“The Dubrovka Theater scenario?” Harper asked.
Harper was smart but she was a civilian. She was nearly overwhelmed as it was—trapped behind walls, with murderous terrorists just feet away. A thousand ways to die. Mark didn’t want to flood her with data on something that might not be viable. He hugged her closer, putting his mouth close to her ear again.
“One of many possible scenarios,” he said. “We’ll have to wait and see. And—” He stopped, looking at his cellphone screen.
In the room outside, the two laptops came to life. CNN and FRANCE1, both.
The sound was adjustable. Mark used the screen to direct the tiny microphone toward the laptop showing CNN. He didn’t want the distraction of French.
BREAKING NEWS was on the red chyron scrolling across the bottom. THE LOUVRE UNDER ATTACK.
The opening words of the anchorwoman were lost. Mark finely adjusted the tiny directional mic. Suddenly, the anchorwoman’s voice was as clear as if she were speaking next to him, the FRANCE1 anchorman’s voice a dull background noise.
The red chyron below the FRANCE1 anchorman read: DERNIERE MINUTE: ATTAQUE TERRORISTE A LA LOUVRE.
CNN. “For those just now tuning in, there is a developing hostage crisis at the Louvre, in Paris, France. This morning at 10:35, there were shots at the entrance to the world-famous museum, under the Pyramid. The shots were closely followed by the sound of explosives as the entrance was blown up and buried under glass and stone. The famous Pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre is no more.”
On the screen appeared a helicopter shot of the internal courtyard of the Louvre with a jagged hole in the center. Mark heard Harper’s sharp intake of breath as she realized what it was—the place the graceful glass Pyramid used to be. Her fingers dug into his thigh and he tightened his arm around her.
“As you can see, the Pyramid of the Louvre has been destroyed. Attackers swarmed through the famous museum and there are reports of many casualties. Exactly how many is unknown since the security cameras inside the museum have been turned off. We do have footage of the start of the attack from visitor cellphones. Some sent the footage to the police authorities. We are showing a selection of them. Warning—some of the footage is very graphic. Parents, be advised.”
What followed was a gruesome montage with a soundtrack of screaming, terrified tourists. Running full out were men dressed in black with black balaclavas, shooting as they ran. Tourists falling. Some of the men were dressed in police uniforms.
People falling on the grand staircase, blood on the white stone, the images shaky, the sounds heartbreaking.
An apocalypse.
Harper watched wide-eyed, face pale, tears tracking down her face.
Even Mark, a battle-hardened soldier who’d seen plenty of blood spilled, felt his heart clench. These were civilians, innocent tourists. Men, women and children falling. Someone had had the time and decency to pixelate the faces of the children, but that did nothing to soften the blow of seeing their small bodies crumpled on the ground.
CNN cut back to the grim-faced anchor. “As you can see,” she said, “it’s a massacre. That is the only footage we have from inside the museum because at 11:10 a.m. all communications from cellphones inside the Louvre ceased. It is assumed that the terrorists effected a cellphone-coverage blackout.”
She kept her voice even but her hands were gripping the sheets of paper on her desk.
“Here are some tourists who escaped from the terrible attack.”
The screen cut to eyewitness accounts from shaken tourists. None of them came from the Gallery.
“The terrorists are now in the Salle des Etats, the room in the Louvre with eight world-famous paintings, including the Mona Lisa. And now—” She stopped, head down, hand pressed against her ear. She looked up into the camera. “Now for breaking news, we go to the CNN correspondent in Paris, Lyle Parsons, at the Élysée Palace. We have just been told that the president of the French Republic is going to be speaking.”
The monitor switched to a scene in a great ceremonial room, huge chandeliers mirrored along the ornate walls.
Under the screen was another chyron. Hervé de Montigny, President of France, addresses the nation.
The president began talking and Mark followed the subtitles.
“Today all of France is under attack. An attack on the Louvre is an attack on the heart of all French women and men. It is an attack on the world. There are dead men and women lying in the halls of the very symbol of French civilization, and a number of people are being held hostage in the Salle des Etats, under the Mona Lisa, which was attacked as well.”
The video shifted to the shot of Pierre Hamidou looking like he was going to behead the blonde tourist, instead swiveling and slashing the painting behind him.
The screen cut back to the president. “To the despicable men now holding hostages in the Salle des Etats in the Louvre, we say this: we will never negotiate with barbarians, with terrorists.”
The screen cut back to the studio, the anchorwoman looking somber. She’d clearly been briefed on the threats coming from the terrorists. “What the president didn’t state was the requests of the terrorists. CNN has sources saying that the Louvre attackers wish to swap the hostages for terrorists being held by French law enforcement. To understand the situation better, we have terrorism expert Manuel LaVarga in our studio. Mr. LaVarga, how would you describe the current situation in the Louvre?”
Mark studied LaVarga’s face carefully. He’d had dealings with LaVarga before and found him to be tough and smart.
“Well, I’d say right now that this is a classic stalemate. The attackers have managed to fortify themselves in the middle of a huge building where they would have ample notice if French soldiers were to attack. Word is that they have planted explosives, and besides wanting to keep the hostages safe, I can say that there isn’t a Frenchman alive whose heart doesn’t quake at the thought of the destruction of the Louvre. And there isn’t a Frenchman alive who isn’t heartbroken at the destruction of the Pyramid.
“So the attackers—and we don’t know their affiliation as of this moment, whether they are ISIS or Al-Qaeda or any of their offshoots—are in a way protected by hundreds of thousands of square feet of building that law enforcement and the military do not wish to see harmed. They are holding over a hundred hostages and will no doubt start killing them if their demands are not met. And you have just heard the French president say that France does not negotiate with terrorists. So—stalemate.”
“Is that French policy? Not negotiating with terrorists?”
LaVarga nodded. “It is. The French over the course of the past decade have taken a hard line on terrorism, having suffered numerous attacks on their citizenry. The French president means it. No negotiation. But that doesn’t leave the authorities many cards to play.”
“Thank you for that analysis, Manuel.” The anchor swiveled a little in her chair and faced forward. “That about wraps up what we know at this time. Over one hundred hostages are being held in the Louvre by terrorists who shot their way in, leaving behind hundreds of dead bodies. At this moment, we have no idea exactly how many victims are lying dead in the halls of the museum. The terrorists have defaced the most important painting in the world, the Mona Lisa. They have blown up the famous entrance to the museum, the glass Pyramid. They threaten to kill the hostages and blow up the world-famous museum if their demands to free what they call political prisoners are not met. Stay tuned for further news on the ongoing hostage crisis at the Louvre.”
The FRANCE1 anchorman was still talking. Mark slipped his earbud to Harper and positioned the mini mike so that it was picking up the French channel clearly.
His satphone vibrated. Mike. “What do you have for me?”
“The head of Action Division of the DGSE on the line.”
Mark wanted to know one thing. “Do you trust him? Him personally?”
“Yes,” Mike answered, “I do. Absolutely.”
That was enough for Mark. Mark’s expertise was the Middle East and Mike’s was Europe. “Can you patch me through?”
“Roger that. Hold.” There were a series of clicks and whistles, most of which were encryption and decryption. They were being routed from satellite to satellite and station to station. “Okay, Mark, you’re a go. You’re speaking with the director of Action Division, Serge Robert.” Mike pronounced it Roh-ber.
“Mr. Redmond.” A deep voice with a faint accent came online.
Harper must have realized that something was going on. She’d been listening carefully, taking notes in a little booklet of notepaper, but now she looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
He kissed her gently on the forehead and rotated his finger. Tell you later.
She nodded and went back to listening to French TV.
“Mr. Robert,” Mark answered. He had a ton of respect for the DGSE. They were tough and smart and hard-asses, every one. “You understand the situation.”
“I do,” the deep voice answered. “And I’ve seen the video.”
“I’m going to send all my videos, if you give me your number.”
“Excellent.”
Robert gave his number and Mark sent him everything his cellphone had recorded. It would be a lot more intel than the propaganda video broadcast. It would give the number of terrorists in the room, weaponry, position with regard to the hostages. Not to mention the uncovered faces.
“Received. Excellent intel. I understand you’re in a concealed position,” Robert said.
“We’re in a concealed position.” Mark met Harper’s eyes. “There are two of us, myself and a woman. Her safety is paramount.” Mark was willing to go on the attack if they could arm him but only if he could mount that attack far away from Harper.
“Understood,” Robert murmured. “Can you state your position?”
“We are inside the walls of the Mona Lisa room. The walls have an internal space. We’re fairly well concealed, but the entrance to most of the side rooms of the Grand Gallery are covered by armed men.”
“Understood. We’re working on a plan. We are also considering your proposal of the Moscow Dubrovka Theater scenario.”
Good. So far it was the only way out that Mark could see. Except for the fact that in Moscow, people died at the hands of the police rescuing them. And in this case, the police could also be part of the problem.
“Do you understand why I had Mike contact you and not the police?”
“I do.” Robert’s voice turned grim. “Excellent call. Not only is the ringleader a former police officer—though for only a few months—but we’ve identified three of the men in the video you sent me. The intel just came in. They are all in some way connected to the police force. Two were briefly agents, one applied but didn’t make the grade. I’m sending you their police ID photos and the job application photo of the one who didn’t make it into the police.”
On Mark’s screen were mug shots of young police recruits. They were clean shaven and the men on the other side of the wall all had beards, but he could see the matchups.
“It means they’ll have some tactical skills.”
“Not as good as ours,” Robert vowed.
Yes, the agents of the DGSE were notoriously capable and well trained. They had a rep as fierce and effective and if they had to overstep some laws to get their guy, so be it.
“Sir,” Mark said. “I’m here. Use me. Just make sure my companion is kept safe.”
“Roger that, Mr. Redmond. Make sure we know if and when you move.”
“I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”
Mark disconnected and put both arms around Harper. She was shivering though it was warm inside the walls. One way to help her was to keep her busy.
“What did they say on the French TV channel?”
She licked dry lips and Mark handed over a small water bottle. There was no way of knowing how long they’d be trapped here but for now, he wouldn’t stop her drinking her fill. He could do without. But she just sipped and handed him back the bottle.
He refused to take the bottle. “Drink more.”
Harper shook her head. “I don’t want to finish our water supply too soon. We don’t know how long we’ll be here.”
That was true but Mark didn’t think the siege would last days like the Beslan or Moscow theater sieges. It was too big a thing. Public opinion would be like a tsunami bearing down on the Interior Ministry’s walls.
“Plus,” Harper looked up with a small smile, holding out the bottle to him again, “you need to drink some water, too.”
Something squeezed inside his chest. Terrified and shocked, having witnessed something that nauseated a battle-hardened warrior, she still thought of him. He gently pushed the bottle back to her.
“Don’t worry about me.” Mark ran the back of his forefinger down her cheek, marveling again at the softness of her skin. “I’ve been trained to go without water longer than most people can stand.”
“And have you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes in the dim light glowed silver.
He nodded. Oh yeah. Yeah, he had. Three and a half days was his limit, when he started showing strong signs of severe dehydration. Headache, dizziness, orthostatic hypotension. When immediate hydration became necessary, at the risk of permanent organ damage.
That was when he knew he had to break cover and seek water. He’d done it and survived.
She tapped the water bottle against his chest, hard. “We’re going to share this bottle, and even that is unfair. You’re twice my size, you should be getting at least two thirds of the water.”
He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back and tapped the bottom of the bottle insistently against his chest again.
“You’re serious,” Mark said, surprised.
“Damn right I am.” She held the half-empty bottle up and he took it. “I want to see you finish it.”
“I only have four bottles.” Mark shook his head.
“That’s four bottles more than I have. I didn’t even think to bring water with me. It’s thanks to your foresight that we have water at all. And,” her mouth tightened, “something tells me that this will come to a head soon. I don’t see the French allowing a prolonged siege.”
She was right. Mark upended the bottle and finished it. He felt instantly refreshed. She’d been right about that, too.
Something else tapped against his hand and he looked down in surprise at the protein bar. Half of one, anyway, which she was holding out to him.
He batted her hand away but it returned back to his mouth like iron to a magnet.
She narrowed her eyes as him. “We’re sharing this, too. And don’t argue.”
She sounded for a second like his first drill instructor. Like the Voice of God, only a whispering soprano instead of a bellowing basso profundo. A voice you never, ever disobeyed.
“Yes, ma’am.” He took it and they both finished their halves quickly.
Harper reached out and cupped his chin. “I don’t want you suffering because of me.”
This was all wrong. He was the warrior, the protector. No one ever worried about him.
Mark moved her hand up over his chin to cover his mouth and kissed the palm of her hand. There was something about this—the extreme danger on the other side of the wall, twelve armed murderers ready to kill at a moment’s notice, and tenderness on the inside of that wall—that touched him deeply.
In danger, he always switched straight into battle mode. A way of being that allowed him to think and react to danger without any emotions getting in the way. He’d always gone into battle having made peace with the idea that he might not survive. All warriors did. You couldn’t feel in battle. Feelings were dangerous, toxic even.
And here he was, swamped with them. Pierced by feelings thumping around in his chest, all of them having to do with the beautiful woman sitting hip to hip beside him.
He kissed her hand again, held it.
“I’m not suffering.” Truer words were never spoken. Even with the imminent danger they were in, there wasn’t anyplace in the world he wanted to be other than right here, right beside Harper Kendall.
“Good,” she said. Her hand curled tightly around his own, eyes locked on his.
“Tell me what they said on French TV.”
“Okay.” She caught a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The French channel essentially just kept repeating what we know. The Pyramid was blown up, an unknown number of terrorists swarmed the Denon Wing, which is where we are, explosives were set along the monumental staircase and at the entrance to the Grand Gallery. Nobody knows how many bodies are lying along the corridors, but 6,504 tickets were sold for today and by the time the attack started, 4,752 people had entered the museum. Many people escaped before the police arrived, but nobody knows exactly how many. Estimates of the dead range from the hundreds to the thousands.”
Privately, Mark thought it was closer to thousands of dead rather than hundreds. The terrorists had moved fast and they had automatic rifles. He was certain that it was a true slaughterhouse out there, particularly at the entrance. And it could become a slaughterhouse in the Mona Lisa room, too. He would do everything in his power to stop that.
“The news program interviewed the mayor of Paris, the head of the Louvre and the head of the police force.”
Mark huffed out his breath in disgust. “Who presumably didn’t mention that a number of the attackers are former cops. And that some of them were in police uniform.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.” Harper stared at her knees and sighed. “They didn’t add anything of substance, either. Shock that this has happened, convinced that the forces of law and order will prevail, the country will stand firm… Rhetoric, really.”
She shook her head, shiny hair slipping over her shoulder. Every time she moved he could smell her perfume and shampoo, delicate fragrances that brought life and beauty into this dusty wall.
Even covered in dust and scared to death, she was still so beautiful. Part of it was pure genetic luck, part of it that bone-deep classiness, refined and discerning. Not a woman designed for the field.
He’d been the tip of the spear so many times. Out in the field, life was raw, crude. When he came back from the bloodiest missions, it took him a couple of days to shake the chaos and ugliness of the world from his soul.
This was the first time he was near terrorists with a woman he cared for and it shook something deep inside him. It wasn’t right that she should be here—a wall away from murderers, blood-crazed thugs one step up from animals. It upset him at a deep level. She belonged far away from this. She belonged somewhere safe, writing books and thinking about design. Doing things that could be done only because the peace was kept by warriors. This wasn’t her place at all.
But here she was.
Mark lifted her chin. Her eyes rose to his. The narrow, intense flashlight beam lit her face up from below, caressing the elegant bones. He bent to kiss her, intending a short, reassuring kiss.
But there, in that small, dark space, with murderers right on the other side of the wall, desire rose—swift, sharp, unbelievably intense. A force he was unable to resist. If he was holding her in his arms, she was safe. While he was alive and close enough to touch her, she’d be safe.
And kissing her felt like an antidote to all that was on the other side of that wall. Her mouth tasted delicious, she smelled like flowers in warm sunshine, she felt as soft as silk.
Harper was clutching his shoulders, shaking. She was scared. He tightened his arms around her, meaning it to be reassuring, like a hug. But it didn’t reassure him, it aroused him. Her breasts flattened against his chest and he remembered what those breasts felt like naked. Her skin had been hot, her scent rising from it like a cloud last night.
Last night they’d both been wide open. The world had faded to a dream beyond the hotel walls. Anything he could have wished for and desired had been right in that room, in his arms.
But now danger loomed beyond the stucco walls, monsters right outside, willing and able to hurt them, kill them. They had killed maybe a thousand tourists already and were threatening to massacre over a hundred more.
But crazily enough, that wasn’t important while he kissed her. The danger beyond the walls inflamed him, was like a spear at his back, spurring him on.
He left her mouth to nibble along her jawline and felt more than heard her sigh. That narrow rib cage lifting and falling as her long neck lay open to him. He ran his lips and then his tongue along the tendon of her neck, feeling her shudder, then brought his mouth back up to her jaw, behind her ear.
Her scent was concentrated there, in the hollow behind her ear, her hair forming a perfumed curtain that cut off the world even more.
Mark nipped her, gently and carefully, but with enough force to make her jerk and gasp. Exactly the way a stallion nips his mare, to make her hold still, to make her remember who she belongs to.
She belonged to him.
He’d found her, he was going to keep her.
Their heads aligned and now they were kissing deeply, wildly. Harper’s arms locked behind his neck and she pulled as if wanting him as close to her as possible. Fine, because he wanted the same thing.
Closeness. Skin to skin. Touching that smooth fragrant softness all over. Closer, closer, because everything good in the world was right there, right with her, right in her.
Mark shifted, put his hand behind her head to cushion it and shifted them down inside the small corridor, him atop her. One hand still cupping her head, he pulled off the short wool jacket then pulled her silk sweater up and off, unhooking her bra, lifting his head up just enough to see her.
She was so beautiful she nearly blinded him. The flashlight was blinding him, so he shifted it slightly so it wasn’t right in his eyes.
God. Just look at her, he thought.
The bright beam of the flashlight picked out the bright highlights of her hair that surrounded her head like a halo. She was staring up at him, eyes glowing almost silver, half closed with desire. Her mouth was red, swollen from his kisses, branded by him. There was a tiny mark under her ear made by his mouth. All that smooth skin, those small, perfect, upright breasts with the pale pink nipples…he wanted to just gobble her up.
Though he wanted to kiss her mouth again, kiss her until they both passed out from lack of air, he wanted to kiss her breasts even more. He remembered their taste, like salty vanilla; he remembered her nipples hardening against his tongue; he remembered sucking strongly, hearing her deep panting in time with the pulls of his mouth.
Oh yeah.
He wanted that again, he wanted that right now.
Mark dipped his head, kissed his way from her chin, down over her neck, to her breasts. Harper was amazingly responsive and he was paying close attention. Real close attention. She was like a map where the waystations moaned. She let him know clearly what pleased her. Everything pleased her but some things pleased her more.
The space under her ear, for example. All he had to do was suck a little there and she’d arch her neck. A little nip right where her neck met her shoulder and she’d jolt. And when he licked her nipples and blew on them, she’d catch her breath and forget to breath out. He’d have to go to her mouth and kiss her briefly so she’d breathe again.
How could a woman be so perfect?
The light here was both dim and harsh. Military flashlights weren’t built to caress skin, but it did hers. Her skin actually glowed, like pearls in the dark. And there was enough light to see where she changed color. Like her nipples, turning bright pink. Like the flush that covered her from her face to her breasts when she came.
Fuck, he had to see that color again, there was nothing like it. When Harper came, it was a feast for every sense—the colors, feeling her muscles tighten, that burst of scent that came from her skin and her sex.
The confines of the space between the walls and the imperative need to stay silent made it somehow more exciting. In some dim part of Mark’s normally disciplined brain he realized this was madness—sex while terrorists with guns stood mere feet away from them was insane. But he couldn’t have stopped, not for anything in the world, not even with a gun to his head.
He had to be inside Harper. Or die.
But first…
Mark licked one nipple, then sucked, hard. Her left breast trembled from her fast-beating heart. He could see it and he could feel it.
He slipped her panties off, this delightful little silky lace thing, sliding it right down her legs, tossing it to the side. Now she was naked except for her skirt, which somehow made the whole thing even sexier. He couldn’t see her sex but he could feel it. He cupped her between her legs, waggling his hand a little to make her open her legs wider. She obeyed instantly, her heels sliding along the dusty floor making a little scraping sound.
Mark ran his finger around her sex. He had rough skin on his hands and hoped he wasn’t hurting her. He lifted his mouth from her breast to look at her. She didn’t look like she was hurting. Her eyes were half-closed, light gray eyes looking like slices of a dawn sky. She was breathing heavily, that narrow rib cage rising and falling fast, nipples hard and cherry red, one glistening from his mouth.
“Mark,” she whispered, and lifted her hand to the back of his head and pressed. It was a command, and he obeyed happily, bending back to her breast. When he pulled at her nipple, she sighed and arched her back.
She was already wet, ready. He wanted her even more ready and slipped his finger inside her. Harper’s breath left her in a whoosh and he abandoned her breast because he wanted to watch her face. He slid his finger in, then out, watching her carefully. She let him know where she loved to be touched, without words. They didn’t need words. He just watched her beautiful face, watched the color rise, her eyes flutter, her mouth open to take in more air.
His hand speeded up, moving in her faster and faster, and when his thumb touched her, right there, she shuddered, took in a breath, and he pulled his free hand from the back of her head and clamped it over her mouth as she came, feeling her convulse around his finger, while also feeling her panting against the palm of his hand.
At the last second, she realized she shouldn’t be making any noise, but a few raw groans escaped as her orgasm rippled through her.
His turn.
All he had to do was unzip, slide his briefs down and move on top of her. Mark slid a second finger inside her, opening her up, and slid into her, not bothering to go slowly. He didn’t have the control to enter her slowly. He planted his hands on either side of her head and pumped into her, fast and hard, his mouth covering hers. She was still coming as he moved in her, her hands clutching his shoulders, ankles locked over his buttocks, riding him.
It was too intense to last. A streak of electric heat ran down his backbone, through his balls, out his dick, which swelled and exploded. He came and came and came, spurting every drop of liquid in his body as he shuddered and shook inside her, completely out of control. Static filled his head, wiping out any thoughts that may have been there.
He stilled, closed his eyes, dropped his forehead to her shoulder. Harper’s ankles unlocked at the small of his back and her legs fell to the sides. Her arms, too, slid down as if she didn’t have the strength to hold him for even a second longer.
Mark waited for his heartbeat to slow down, for his breathing to even out, for the slight tremors running through his body to still.
It took a while. But finally, after a billion years, he sprawled over her, wiped out.