She smiled, an image of Julian giving the kids reindeer rides on his back flashing through her mind. “You know what I love about you?”
“Yeah, I do. It sits about four inches below my navel.”
She laughed, gave his ribs a nudge with her elbow. “I love how sweet you are with children. I would never have imagined that the big, bad FBI agent I met all those years ago would be a teddy bear with little kids.”
He kissed her hair. “Anything good in me comes from loving you.”
She knew that wasn’t true, but she didn’t say so. She snuggled into the hard wall of his chest, allowed herself to relax and savor the moment. Neither she nor Julian had had Christmases like this as children. But together, they were discovering new joys, giving their kids the things they’d never had.
Julian’s work phone rang.
“Shit.” Julian kissed her again. “I’ve got to get this.”
He leaned forward, grabbed his phone from the coffee table. “Darcangelo.”
He stood, his expression turning dark. “Son of a bitch! How long ago?”
Tessa’s pulse skipped. She stood and followed Julian toward their bedroom, his questions and the tension on his face leaving no doubt.
Something terrible had happened.
He opened the closet, tossed his night BDUs onto the bed. “Do they know how many? Did they get out? Damn it! I’m on my way. Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”
“What is it? What happened?”
He stripped off his jeans and shirt, his blue eyes hard. “Terrorists attacked the Palace Hotel. Everyone who didn’t get out has been taken hostage.”
“What?” Tessa’s heart gave a hard knock, breath rushing from her lungs. “That’s where the I-Team party is.”
Julian tied his dark hair back in a short ponytail, and then yanked a black turtleneck over his head. “The British Consulate General was also having its Christmas party tonight. Cops on the ground say the British ambassador got away, but the bastards caught the Secretary of State and her entourage at the back exit. Reece, Kara, and Sophie were with her.”
“Oh, no.” Tessa sank onto the bed. “What about the others?”
A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Hunter broke away. He was feeding intel to Irving for a while. He told the old man that a group of combatants was setting up an M2—that’s a heavy machine gun—on the roof and that he was going to try to stop them. Irving has tried reaching him but hasn’t heard back since.”
Dear God.
Marc was Julian’s best friend. He and Sophie and Reece and Kara were like family. If anything happened to him, to any of them …
“And the others?”
Julian stepped into his pants, yanked up the zipper, reached for his shirt. “Hunter told Irving Holly was down. He didn’t know whether she was still alive or …”
“Sweet Jesus.” Tessa’s stomach knotted. “Does Nick know?”
The two were just shy of their first wedding anniversary.
“Irving didn’t say.” Julian pulled the T-shirt over his head.
“Who would do this?”
“We don’t know—yet. But we’re going to find out, and they’re going to pay.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, Julian stepping into his black boots and lacing them. He unlocked the gun safe in the back of their closet, took out a pistol and slipped it into his shoulder holster, then grabbed his rifle case and his gear bag. “I probably won’t be home tonight. Don’t wait up.”
“You think I could sleep with all of you in danger?” She followed him to the front door. “Has Megan heard?”
Megan was Marc’s younger sister. She and her husband, Nate West, lived up at the Cimarron—the West family’s mountain ranch.
“I don’t know. Call her. I’m sure she’d rather hear it from us.” He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Please come home in one piece.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Tessa watched him climb into his pickup and drive away, fear for him mingling with fear for her friends. She’d thought she’d get used to being a cop’s wife, but there was nothing easy about knowing her husband was going into danger. She’d come close to losing him more than once already.
Feeling almost sick, she walked into the living room, her gaze falling on Chase and Addy, their innocence making her heart constrict. They had no idea their parents were in mortal danger.
One by one, she carried the kids to bed, putting Chase and Addy in the big bed in the guestroom. Then, feeling wooden, she walked into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and called the Cimarron.
* * *
19:50
“Are you ready to put the star on top, Miss Emily?”
“Yes!”
Megan West sat on the sofa beside her husband, Nate, who bounced little Jackson on his lap, both of them watching while Grandpa Jack handed their daughter the family’s heirloom gold-plated star and lifted her onto his shoulders.
“Let’s put the star on top your head,” Emily teased, doing just that.
“Do I look like a Christmas tree to you? What are they teaching kids in school these days?”
Emily laughed.
Jack walked up to the tree, Emily sitting on his shoulders. “Reach out as far as you can—just like that. Now settle the star on that branch on top that’s sticking straight up. Do you see it?”
“Uh-huh.” Emily settled the star into place.
“Look at that.” Jack grinned. “The kid’s a natural. You’d think she’s been putting stars on top of Christmas trees all her life.”
Emily beamed at the praise, turned to Megan and Nate. “Did you see, Mommy? Did you see, Daddy?”
Nate chuckled. “I sure did.”
Megan nodded. “Great job, sweetie.”
“Hurray!” Janet cheered, dandling chubby Lily on her lap.
Born three weeks apart last summer, Jackson and Lily were six months old and about to celebrate their first Christmas.
“Now can we turn on the lights?”
Jack knelt down, picked up the switch that controlled the tree. “What do you say we let Janet do the honors?”
Emily nodded, took the switch, and carried it to Janet as if she were giving Janet a bouquet of flowers.
Janet accepted it just as graciously. “Thank you. Do you want to help me?”
Emily smiled and nodded.
It put a bittersweet ache in Megan’s chest to see her daughter so loved and so happy. At that age, Megan had been afraid of everyone and everything, weighed down by the constant criticism of her strict adoptive parents. It still amazed her that she was married to Nate, that the Cimarron was her home, that her children would grow up here in comfort and plenty, unburdened by the kind of hardship and uncertainty that she and Marc had known as children.
Nate stood, Jackson still in his arms. “Let me turn out the lights first.”
The room went dark, and then...
“Oh!” They all let out a collective sigh.
It was a beautiful tree, decorated with the family’s ornaments, from beautiful antiques passed down through three generations to simple decorations made by Nate when he’d been a little boy and now by Emily, too.
Megan looked over at Jackson, found him looking wide-eyed at the tree, and felt a lump in her throat. “What do you think, pumpkin? It’s your first Christmas tree.”
“Do we get hot chocolick now, Grandpa Jack?” Emily asked.
“You bet.” Jack headed for the kitchen. “On a special night like tonight, a body’s got to have hot chocolick.”
Megan and Nate shared a smile. One day someone was going to have to ruin Jack’s fun and teach the girl that it was choco-late. But not tonight.
“With marshmallows?”
“You want fifty or a hundred marshmallows?”
“A hundred!”
“Ten marshmallows, old man,” Nate called after them, handing Megan the baby and walking to the fireplace to toss on another log
. “He is spoiling her.”
The phone rang.
“I got it,” Jack called from the kitchen. “And I heard that.”
A moment later, he reappeared, the expression on his face filling Megan’s stomach with dread, sending adrenaline through her veins.
“It’s Tessa Darcangelo.” He reached for Jackson. “You two might want to take this call in my study.”
Dear God, what had happened?
* * *
19:50
It was down to one now.
Marc was out of ammo and chilled to the bone, his fingers and toes hurting with cold. He needed to end this and get indoors before he became hypothermic. But this last bastard was proving difficult to kill, keeping to the shadows, moving from place to place like a ghost. Marc wondered if he had some kind of night-vision gear. He hadn’t noticed anyone wearing NVGs, but then he’d had barely more than a glance at any of these assholes. The guy could have been carrying something. Then again, Marc’s shirt all but glowed in the dark. The bastard probably didn’t need NVGs to see him.
Keeping low, Marc circled back toward the perpetrator’s original position at the prow of the building. He could see the M2 and a case with some other gear in it. He could also see the bodies of the first two men he’d dropped. But there was every chance that his target was watching this position, waiting for Marc to expose himself in his quest for a weapon and more ammo.
If the situation had been different, Marc would simply have played a waiting game. His years as a Special Forces sniper had taught him patience. But if he stayed out here much longer, he’d be in trouble.
He found himself looking at the camo jackets on the two dead bodies and the rifles they’d dropped as they fell. And an idea came to him.
He quickly stripped out of his white shirt and crept on his belly toward the nearer of the two corpses, the wind bitter cold against his bare skin. He took the man’s rifle, checked it, then set it aside. Then he removed the man’s jacket and put it on himself. It was too small and wet with blood, but who gave a shit? It was warmer than what he’d been wearing.
Next, he took his shirt and put it on the dead man. Not bothering to button all the buttons, he dragged the body toward the parapet and propped it in a sitting position, his white shirt like a beacon in the darkness.
He quickly backed away and lay down where the corpse had been, rifle in hand, finger on the trigger. And there he waited.
But not for long.
An explosion of gunfire.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three new holes appear in his white shirt.
He slowed his breathing, held deathly still.
Footsteps.
Another burst of gunfire, this time from nearby.
His quarry stepped out of the darkness, cursing, and made straight for the dead body he believed was Marc, his boots passing within inches of Marc’s face.
In one motion, Marc rolled onto his back, raised the rifle, and fired.
Rat-at-at-at!
The son of a bitch jerked around, stared at him in stunned surprise, then toppled backward off the building.
Marc stood, strode to the edge, watched as the bastard fell eight stories to the ground. “Thanks for choosing the Palace Hotel. We hope you enjoyed our service.”
He searched the other bodies, confiscating wallets, IDs, and cell phones. He yanked a camo-style ball cap off one and put it on his head, hoping it would help conceal his face from the security cameras inside the hotel. These bastards probably had control of the security room by now, and that meant they were in a position to watch the stairs, hallways, and elevators.
Then he hurried back to the M2, saw that they had very nearly assembled it. A half-dozen belts of .50-cal ammo lay beside it. They also had a Russian RPG-7 that could take out a tank, as well as—holy shit!—a McMillan TAC-338 sniper rifle with a fucking scope and plenty of ammo.
“Oh, you beautiful baby! Come to Daddy.”
It really was Christmas.
The sniper rifle he would put to good use, but what about the rest of this shit? He couldn’t leave it here, or the bad guys might get their hands on it again, and he couldn’t stay out here and babysit it.
He dialed Irving’s number. “The roof is ours. But, hey, we have a situation.”
5
Chapter Five
19:50
Kat rubbed the ache in her back, watching from across the room while Gabe did what he could to help a man who’d been shot in the abdomen.
“We can save his life, but he needs to go to a hospital,” he explained to one of their captors, his blood-stained hands holding compress of napkins against the wound in the man’s belly. “I know you can understand me. He needs attention now!”
Some part of her worried that Gabe would push their captors too far. These men had no respect for life. No, they weren’t men. They were soulless monsters wearing the skins of men. Trying to appeal to their sense of decency and compassion might get Gabe killed. But she knew it was impossible for him to witness human suffering and not do everything he could to help.
Gabe had a reverence for all life. That’s why he was a paramedic. That’s why he’d been a park ranger. That’s why she loved him. She wouldn’t change that about him, even to keep him safe. And yet she couldn’t shake the sense of urgency.
They needed to get out of here—now.
Reece stood as close to Gabe as the bastards with the guns would allow. “Do you want more people to die? Show some compassion, for God’s sake. Let paramedics take the wounded.”
Nearby, Sophie and Joaquin were following Gabe’s instructions, cleaning the blood from Holly’s hair, while Matt sat on the floor beside her, speaking to her and holding her hand.
“I came to this party with you, and I’m not leaving without you.”
Holly moaned but didn’t open her eyes.
“The bullet made an inch-long track, split her scalp.” Joaquin was bent over her, looking at the wound on the side of her head. “There’s a big bruise, but the bleeding has stopped.”
Sophie took the handkerchief from Matt’s dinner jacket and handed it to Kat. “Can you fill this with ice from the bar or something? And bring more napkins.”
Sophie wasn’t just worried about Holly or their situation¸ Kat knew. She was also worried about Marc. No one had seen him since he’d sent Sophie off with Reece.
“I’ll see what I can find.” Kat walked toward one of the serving tables, rubbing her back, the movement helping to take away some of the pain.
One of the monsters stepped into her path. “Get back over there.”
Kat willed herself to look him in the eyes, felt anger instead of fear. “My friend is hurt. We need ice and paper towels or napkins to help with the swelling and bleeding. If you won’t let me get them, then you’ll have to get them for us.”
His gaze dropped to her belly before he motioned her on with a jerk of his head.
She found a stack of cocktail napkins on one end of the buffet table, grabbed a handful, along with another bottle of water just in case. Then she took a handful of ice from the container that held the water bottles and tied it into the handkerchief.
“How is Holly?”
Kat turned to see Kara standing a few feet away from her, two bottled waters in her hands. “She’s still unconscious. It looks like a bullet grazed—”
“No talking! You!” One of the bastards grabbed Kara by the arm, jerked her away from Kat. “Get back over there.”
Their kidnappers had forced Secretary Holmes to sit by herself at a table near the center of the room, then divided the rest of them into three groups—newspaper employees, those who’d attended the British ambassador’s party, and hotel staff and other workers. They were still looking through people’s IDs, calling people aside when they had questions about what they did for a living or why they’d come to the hotel tonight. Kat didn’t understand why it was so important to them that the three groups remain separated, but it left her feeling afraid.
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Their captors seemed to have a plan, but only they knew what it was.
Why were they doing this?
She carried the supplies back to Sophie. “I hope this is enough.”
“Thanks.” Sophie frowned. “Are you okay?”
“My back aches from all this standing.”
“I’ll get you a chair,” Tom said.
As he turned to walk away, five more armed men entered the room. They were dressed the same as the others, except for the one in front, who wore a red beret. From the way he carried himself—and the way he barked out commands to the others—she could tell he was the one in charge.
He walked over to Secretary Holmes, a sneer on his face, then glanced around at the rest of them. “Quiet! ¡Cállense!”
One of his men fired shots into the ceiling, making Kat jump.
Apart from the moans of the wounded, the room fell silent.
Reece stepped forward. “Who the hell are you? Six people are dead. Ten more are wounded. I want to know why.”
Fear for Reece made Kat’s pulse spike, the ache in her back growing sharp.
Then she felt something trickling down her leg.
She looked down, saw the trickle become a gush.
Sophie saw. “Oh, God. Your water.”
Kat stared down, her heart tripping. “I’m … I’m not due for five more weeks.”
She couldn’t be in labor—not now, not here.
* * *
19:50
Zach McBride kissed his way up his wife’s body, lingering on her faint silver stretch marks, her taste still alive on his tongue, her scent filling his head, fueling his lust.
“Don’t.” Natalie’s fingers were still fisted in his hair, and she used them to lift his mouth away from her skin.