Dead by Midnight

  “Why not?” He pressed his lips to her belly again.

  “You can’t seriously find stretch marks sexy.”

  As horny as he was, it took a moment for him to shift gears. He’d known she felt self-conscious about the changes pregnancy had made to her body, but he hadn’t realized it bothered her this much. She ought to be basking in the post-orgasmic glow, not feeling ashamed because carrying an eight-pound human being inside her had left its mark.

  Or maybe your oral sex skills aren’t quite what you think they are.

  “What if I do find them sexy?”

  She gave a little laugh. “That’s sweet of you to say, but—”

  “No, I mean it.” Shit. How could he explain this? She was the writer in the family, not he. “When I see your stretch marks, I think of how good it feels to come deep inside you. I think of us making a baby together. I think of everything you went through to bring Aiden into the world—morning sickness, swollen ankles, eighteen hours of labor. These changes in your body tell a story, and I’m at the heart of that story. I’m the cause. God, Natalie, don’t you get it? Those little silver lines tell me you love me—and that turns me on.”

  He didn’t wait for her response, but kissed her slow and deep, his hand moving to caress her breasts, his thumb teasing a puckered nipple. “Those ten extra pounds you can’t seem to lose? They’re all in the right places. Your breasts are fuller, your hips and ass are a little rounder. Can’t you feel how much you turn me on?”

  He nudged her hip with his erection, then lowered his head, drew a nipple into his mouth, and sucked, reaching down between her thighs to stroke her. She was so incredibly wet—the result of his mouth and her climax.

  She moaned, arched into his hand, spread her thighs wide, her fingers gripping his cock, tugging him, telling him where she wanted him to be.

  Somewhere in the background, his cell phone rang again.

  He ignored it.

  He settled himself between her parted thighs and sank into her, their moans mingling as he filled her, then withdrew and thrust again. “When I see those stretch marks, angel, I think of this.”

  Her eyes were shut, her lips parted, her dark hair fanned against her pillow, breath leaving her in little moans. How could she imagine for a moment that she was somehow less attractive to him? He loved her body, worshiped it, was amazed by it.

  “Natalie.” He leaned down, pressed his lips against her pulse.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, her nails digging into the muscles of his bare ass, urging him to go faster, harder. He was only too happy to oblige. He was on fire for her, every inch of him burning with need, his cock slick with her wetness. But he didn’t want to come, not yet, not before she’d come again.

  He thrust hard, buried himself deep inside her, then ground his pubic bone against hers, putting pressure where she needed it most. Her moans turned to whimpers, a pink flush stealing over her breasts as it always did just before she came. Then she cried out his name, her inner muscles clenching around him.

  God, yes.

  He picked up where he’d left off, driving into her fast and hard, wanting … craving … needing. “Natalie.”

  Orgasm hit him with the force of a blast wave, pleasure scorching through him, leaving him spent, his mind empty, his heart full.

  Afterward, they held each other, her head on his chest, their legs tangled beneath the sheets. They’d both begun to doze off when his cell phone rang again.

  “Shit.” He kissed her hair, scooted out of the bed, then shuffled into the kitchen, buck naked. “McBride.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” It was Teresa Rowan, U.S. Marshal for the Colorado territory—his boss.

  He figured it was best not to answer with the truth. “I was asleep. What’s up?”

  “Terrorists have taken over the Palace Hotel. There are casualties. I don’t know how many are dead, but the bastards have more than three hundred hostages, including the Secretary of State and your buddies Lt. Gov. Sheridan and Marc Hunter.”

  “Jesus.” He turned back toward the bedroom.

  “The FBI Hostage Rescue Team is taking the lead on this one, but they haven’t arrived yet. Denver’s SWAT team is on the scene, along with FBI SWAT. I thought you’d want to be there, too.”

  “I sure as hell do.”

  “They’ve set up an incident command center at United Nations Park a couple of blocks south of the hotel.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  He found Natalie sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  He picked up the TV remote and turned to CNN, then started getting dressed. “Terrorists have taken over the Palace Hotel and have taken hostages. The Secretary of State is among them. So are Sheridan and Hunter. They have reports that some people have been killed, but there aren’t any details.”

  Natalie stared at the screen wide-eyed. “Everyone is there—most of our friends. Tonight was the I-Team holiday party. Oh, God!”

  * * *

  19:51

  Pepe looked at Sheridan’s arrogant face and wanted to cut him to pieces, to make an example of him for the others so that no one would dare talk to him like that. The cabrón still thought he was giving the orders. But he was wrong.

  Pendejo de mierda.

  But Pepe needed the man, so killing him now was not an option, even as an example to the others. But he didn’t need the bastard’s wife.

  Before Sheridan could react, Pepe backhanded her, almost knocking her to the floor, his knuckles splitting her cheek.

  Gasps. A cry. Silence.

  Sheridan caught his wife, held her, hatred unmistakable in his eyes when his gaze again met Pepe’s.

  “Next time you speak to me without respect, I’ll turn her over to my men.”

  The hatred in Sheridan’s eyes grew sharper.

  Happy with the way his striking the bitch had gotten everyone’s attention, Pepe looked around him, then spoke to their most honored guest. “Madam Secretary, I am Commander Moreno of La Fuerza de Liberación de Colombia. You arranged for my cousin’s abduction from Colombia, but tonight you’re going to make up for that. If you do as I say, no one else will die.” Not right now, anyway. He needed them as leverage. “There is plenty of food, thanks to the British ambassador, who, sadly, managed to run away from our little party. So relax and enjoy the food and wine.”

  The bitch glared at him, dried blood on her cheek. “The US government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Let us hope you are wrong—for your sake.” He glanced around at the others. “The rest of you, keep your mouths shut, and do as you are told.”

  “What about the wounded?” asked a man Pepe hadn’t noticed before. He knelt beside a guy who’d been shot in the gut, his hands pressed against the man’s belly. “I’m a paramedic. We can save this man’s life if we get him to a hospital.”

  Pepe didn’t give a damn about saving lives. As far as he was concerned, everyone in this room was already dead. But these American men were soft.

  “If you let the wounded and the women go, it would be taken as a sign of good faith,” Sheridan said, his tone less haughty, his eyes still blazing, his wife behind him, beyond Pepe’s reach.

  Of course the malparido would want the women to go free. He wanted to protect his whore of a wife. But Pepe wasn’t that stupid. The women were the key to controlling the men. Besides, he’d already made up his mind about who would go free and who would stay, who would live and who would die.

  “Juandi, see to it that the wounded and the dead are taken down to the loading dock. Watch for cops pretending to be EMTs.” Then he turned to the hotel staff, many of whom were Latinos, and switched to Spanish. “Ustedes son libres de irse también. La lucha de la FLC no es con la clase obrera.”

  You are free to go as well. The FLC has no fight with the working class.

  Disbelief showed on their faces. They looked at one another, some translating for those who hadn’t understood, none of them
brave enough to walk past him out the door.

  The sheep always needed a shepherd.

  He turned to Jhon, still speaking in Spanish. “Show them to the loading dock. Make sure they get out safely.” He pointed to the paramedic, switched back to English. “You help them get the wounded out, then find someone to help you carry the dead.”

  The paramedic looked boldly up at him. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”

  Pepe didn’t like this man any more than he did Sheridan. The whoreson was far too bold, too impertinent. “Who is your wife?”

  The paramedic met his gaze but said nothing, too clever to answer.

  Pepe turned to his men, switched back to Spanish. “You three help Juandi. Make sure this malparido gonorrea leaves with the wounded. If he refuses, shoot him.”

  His cell phone buzzed. It was the text he’d been waiting for.

  El regalo de Navidad en el sótano está listo.

  The little Christmas present they’d been assembling in the basement was ready.

  Tavo appeared at his side. “We’re almost done checking the rooms. Most of the guests escaped because of the fire alarm.”

  Pepe acknowledged him with a nod, his body revved on adrenaline.

  Why hadn’t he heard from Luis? The last text he’d gotten from the pendejo said he was having trouble putting the machine gun together in the dark. Pepe shouted to Camilo to head up to the roof to help him, then took out the mobile phone he’d prepared for this special moment and dialed 911, speaking clearly and slowly.

  “This is Commander Moreno of La Fuerza de Liberación de Colombia. I have taken control of the Palace Hotel. Put your chief of police on the line.”

  * * *

  19:55

  Holly opened her eyes, found herself looking up at Joaquin.

  “How do you feel?”

  Why was he whispering?

  Someone was holding her hand. Matt?

  Sophie was there, too, looking down at her, worry in her eyes.

  “What—?”

  Joaquin pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh. The hotel has been taken over by terrorists. We’re all hostages. These crazy motherfuckers killed six people. An AK round grazed your head, knocked you out.”

  Bits and pieces of it came back to her. The server with the AK. Her calls to Nick and 911. The guards. The fire alarm. And now a rotten headache.

  Freaking perfect.

  She tried to sit, but Joaquin held her down.

  “They’re letting the wounded go. Stay still, and we’ll get you out of here.” He slowly rose to his feet, then said something in Spanish.

  Her friends moved aside as a man dressed in woodland camo pressed in. He looked down at her, then turned and spoke over his shoulder to someone else.

  Joaquin responded, again in Spanish, an urgent tone to his voice.

  The man in the camo shouted something at Joaquin, then walked away.

  Joaquin knelt down, his dark eyes filled with rage, lowered his voice to a whisper. “They won’t let you go. One of them said he saw you pull the fire alarm.”

  “Oh, that,” she whispered back.

  She pushed aside the knot of fear that had formed in her stomach, ignored the despair. Yes, she wanted to see Nick again, to feel his arms around her, to apologize for her part of their argument. At the same time, she couldn’t let herself be taken to safety, not while her friends remained in danger. None of them had her training. She would rather be here doing whatever she could to get them all safely home again than watching it unfold on TV, powerless to help.

  She sat up, wincing at the pain in her head, dizziness making her nauseated. “Why are you all still here? Didn’t you get my text message?”

  “Take this.” Sophie pressed a handkerchief filled with ice into her hands. “I didn’t see your text until after the shooting had already started.”

  And Holly remembered that Sophie and Marc had been … busy.

  Holly held it to her head. “Who are they?”

  “The FLC—Fuerza de Liberación de Colombia,” Joaquin whispered. “The Colombian Liberation Force.”

  Dear God.

  Adrenaline shot through her, making her pulse spike.

  There’d been no need for Joaquin to translate. She knew about the FLC. They had nothing to do with liberation and everything to do with cocaine smuggling, kidnapping, and murder, using guerilla tactics against those in the Colombian government who couldn’t be bought. Their leader, who called himself La Culebra, The Viper, was a sociopath, known for being ruthless. Rumor had it that he’d gotten his nom-de-guerre by tossing his victims to vipers and then watching as they died slow, excruciating deaths. If he was behind this…

  Oh, Nick.

  The FBI Hostage Rescue Team would have to bring their best game to this fight, or she would never see him again.

  6

  Chapter Six

  19:59

  Nick stood inside the FBI mobile command center, Tower, McBride, and Darcangelo beside him, listening while Chief Irving played back the recording he’d made of that son of a bitch Moreno.

  “The US failed to stand by its agreement, so we are taking back what’s ours. The Secretary of State will order the release of my cousin, Oscar Moreno Ortíz, from your Supermax. You will bring him to me safely here at the hotel by helicopter before midnight, together with the thirty-five million dollars you stole from us. When he is in the air and on his way, have him call me at this number. I’ll tell you what to do next. If you do exactly as I say, no one else will die. If you try to rescue the prisoners, I will kill every last one. If my cousin is not free by midnight, I will execute one prisoner every five minutes until they are all dead.”

  Chief Irving paused the playback. “That gives us four hours.”

  Special Agent Dixon, the commander of Denver’s FBI SWAT team, motioned for Irving to continue the playback.

  “As a gesture of what you call ‘good faith,’ I will release some of the prisoners, along with the wounded and the bodies of the dead. Their families will want them back. It is almost Christmas, after all. I will allow ambulances to come to the loading dock in ten minutes.”

  The bastard’s tone of voice was smug, so very arrogant, his words sending shards of fear through Nick.

  Hunter had told Irving Holly was down. Was she badly hurt? Was she dead?

  No. No, she couldn’t be.

  “Though the US government did not keep its promise to my cousin, I will keep my promise to you,” Moreno said.

  The recording ended.

  “If he keeps his word, he’ll start releasing the wounded in five minutes,” Irving said. “I asked for volunteers. We’ve got a dozen ambulances on standby around the corner from the hotel.”

  “I volunteer to go in with the ambulance crews,” Nick said.

  Irving shook his head. “I know you’re worried about your wife, but the EMTs don’t want any LEOs going in with them. They’re concerned that a law-enforcement presence might spark a firefight.”

  Nick bit back words he knew he’d regret.

  “If she’s wounded, we’ll soon know,” McBride said softly behind him.

  Dixon looked over to a man in a suit. “Who is this Moreno son of a bitch, and what the fuck is he talking about?”

  The suit held out a file. “Moreno is the nephew of Oscar Duarte Moreno, known as El Culebra, the elusive head of the FLC, a paramilitary drug cartel. Five years ago, his older son, also named Oscar, murdered a DEA agent and his wife in cold blood. Three years later, the son was taken in a joint, top-secret op between the Colombian special forces, CIA, and DEA that was orchestrated by the State Department.”

  That’s why they’d gone after Secretary Holmes. She’d been the one to authorize the op that had landed little Oscar’s ass in prison.

  The man in the suit went on. “Oscar Junior was brought to the US, where he cut a deal with prosecutors—a single charge of second-degree murder and a ten-year sentence in exchange for intel that would bring his father’s operati
on down. The kid wouldn’t give evidence that DEA investigators found useful, so the judge threw out the deal. The son was tried, convicted, and sentenced to two life terms. He’s serving his sentence at ADX here in Florence, Colorado. The State Department seized all of his family’s US assets.”

  “So his cousin is here to spring him and retrieve the money,” Dixon said, stating the obvious.

  “That’s what it sounds like.”

  “There’s more you need to know.” Chief Irving took a swig of coffee. “My SWAT captain is on the inside. He and his wife were attending the newspaper’s Christmas party. Somehow, he got away, but she’s still a hostage. He’s been sending me intel via text. He reported at least twenty-four combatants, all wearing woodland camo. He saw some of them heading up to the hotel’s rooftop with what he thought might be heavy weapons. He took out four men on the roof who were trying to put together a Browning M2. We hold the high ground.”

  Nick gave a low whistle.

  “Holy shit,” McBride muttered.

  “Way to go, Hunter,” Darcangelo said.

  “He’s still up there, freezing his ass off in a tux, trying to keep them from retaking the position. He was grazed by a round but says he’s okay. He has requested we send a helo to haul away the weapons so they don’t fall into enemy hands again. He also has wallets and four cell phones from the assholes he took out.”

  They’d better give Hunter a medal when this was over. Those cell phones held a wealth of intel that might make the difference for all of them. If they could use them to tap Moreno’s phone...

  Dixon shook his head. “We can’t risk landing a helo up there. Moreno would hear it, interpret it as a rescue action, and start killing people. We—”

  Nick cut him off. “CIS has a specially outfitted Little Bird in our Centennial Airport hangar that we can put at your disposal.”

  Smaller than a regular helicopter and fitted with special stealth features, the Little Bird could do the job without Moreno hearing a thing.

  Dixon’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”