“Um,” he said.
“Can I come with you? I would really love not to be alone right now. I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”
Stan shrugged out of his combat vest, setting it on the floor. It didn’t mean he was going to stay. It just meant it was warm in here with it on, that was all.
He picked up her flack jacket from where she’d dropped it. Thank God she’d remembered to wear . . .
“Stan?” she called. “Are you still here?”
“Uh, yeah,” he called back.
Holy shit, she’d been hit. The bullet was there, flattened and stopped by the bulletproof mesh.
He pushed the bathroom door open. It hit the wall with a thump. “Why didn’t you tell me you were shot, god damn it?”
“I wasn’t shot.” She turned off the water.
“A bullet connected with the jacket you were wearing. I don’t know what you call that but—”
“Will you hand me a towel?”
“Teri, you’re driving me crazy,” Stan said. “How badly were you hurt?”
“It knocked me over,” she said, reaching out an arm and grabbing a towel without his help. “Knocked the air out of me. I’m a little bruised. But I wasn’t shot.” Her voice shook. “Frank O’Leary was shot.”
“Okay,” he nodded, giving her that. “You’re right. There’s a definite difference. But you were hit. I know what that can do. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
She pulled back the curtain and stepped out of the tub, swathed in a towel. “I’m okay.”
She would have breezed right past him but he shifted left, blocking her.
Stan didn’t say a word. He just looked at her.
She lifted her chin. “You know, if you really want me out of this towel, you’d get a lot further by kissing me.”
He still didn’t move.
Teri reached up to loosen the towel, suddenly modest. She pulled it back, just enough to reveal her right side—the whole long expanse of her leg, her hip, the soft curve of her waist, all that skin, still damp from the shower. The effect was far sexier than if she’d simply flashed him. She pulled the towel farther up, and there, just beneath the soft underside of her breast, was a spectacular rainbow-colored bruise about the size of his fist.
Stan winced. “Christ, that must’ve hurt.”
“It hurt a lot less than it would have if I hadn’t been wearing my jacket.”
She probably would’ve died. Stan looked at the place where that bullet would’ve entered her body and drew in a long, shaky breath. “Have I thanked you yet for wearing your jacket?”
She laughed as she pulled the towel back down around her. “Have I thanked you yet for making me wear it?”
He shook his head. Damn, he had to get out of here. The way she was looking at him, the way she was standing there with nothing on but a towel, close enough for him to reach out and touch, all that warm, soft skin . . . All he had to do was reach for her. Or say one word. If he whispered her name, she’d drop the towel and be in his arms in a heartbeat. She wanted him that much—he could see it in her eyes.
And he wanted her, too. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything or anyone, more than he wanted to breathe.
“Is there any chance you can stay?” she whispered. “Because I really want you to stay.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I really want to stay, too, but . . . Teri, I’m good at problem solving, but this . . . this is out of control. I just can’t come up with an option where everyone wins.”
“I can,” she said, and she let go of her towel and kissed him.
Teri kissed him, and Stan swept her up into his arms and carried her to her bed.
She kissed him and, like magic, his clothes seemed to fall away.
She kissed him, and time slowed as he kissed her, as he touched her, loved her.
Slowly this time, with an awareness of every second that ticked past—with their eyes wide open.
He sat on the edge of her bed as he covered himself, as she lay back, waiting and breathless, dying to kiss him again.
He took his sweet time then, looking and touching. Heating her with the gentle touch of his fingers and the desire in his eyes. Kissing her, tasting her. Smiling at her, at the sounds of pleasure she made.
His mouth was soft and warm, his tongue teasing her slowly, sensuously until the sounds she was making became words. His name. She called his name over and over. Please. Stan, please. She wanted . . . She needed . . .
Finally, as he held her gaze, he filled her, still moving so deliberately slowly, as if they had all the time in the world.
She wasn’t in control. Each time she reached for him, to touch him, to urge him faster, deeper, he gently pushed her back. He finally pinned both of her wrists up above her head, holding her easily in place with one of his hands.
“Please,” she gasped, pressing her hips up toward him.
But he pulled back. Every time she tried to move with him, to push him more deeply inside of her, he pulled away.
“I want you to feel what I felt this morning,” he told her. “I want you out of control.”
It wasn’t until she lay back and just opened herself to him that he pushed himself all the way home. “That’s right,” he murmured. All the time he kept moving slowly. Maddeningly, heart-stoppingly, deliciously slowly.
If she moved at all, he pulled away. It was only when she relinquished all control that he gave her exactly what she wanted.
She watched his eyes as she gave herself completely over to him. And as her release began, as it built and rolled through her in wave after endless exquisite wave of sensation, pure pleasure and intense satisfaction flashed across his face.
And only then did he release her hands. “Now,” he said. “Come on, Teri, take me with you!”
His hoarse words were enough to push her over the edge again, and she clung to him, moved with him, locking her legs around him and driving him harder, more deeply inside of her.
She was in control again, or was she? The sensation of being completely at the whim of another’s desire, the feeling of flying without instruments into a fog, completely blind, of losing her sense of which way was up, remained. She held on to Stan as tightly as she could, but still she flew apart, shattering around him as he shouted her name, and she knew without a doubt that she was never going to be in control again.
It was a surprisingly freeing thing—to lie back and give in to everything she was feeling, instead of fighting it, instead of trying to hide it from everyone, from him, and from herself. She loved him. Whether he wanted her to love him or not, it was too damn bad. It was out of her hands—she loved him.
Her world hadn’t ended today.
But maybe, just maybe, it had begun.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twenty-one
It was nearly dawn.
Another night had come and gone, and they were all still here, on this stinking airplane.
Bob had fallen asleep in the pilot’s seat, his arms wrapped around his automatic weapon. Al was in the co-pilot’s seat, also dozing, thank God. Gina didn’t think she could stand another minute sitting here with his eyes on her.
She didn’t think she could stand another minute of this, period.
She didn’t understand. Max had all but promised that something would happen. Soon, he’d said.
So where was the cavalry, coming to the rescue? All night long she’d sat here, waiting.
If he’d said a week, she could’ve hung on for another week. But he’d said soon, and she’d been so sure soon meant before another morning dawned.
And now she didn’t think she could bear another day.
“Max,” she whispered through her tears, certain that he could hear her. “They’re sleeping. Do it now, Max.”
Of course he couldn’t answer her.
And she knew from the glimmer of light on the horizon that no one was coming. Not for an
other day. Somewhere, somehow, she’d find the strength to bear it.
She’d have to bear it.
But the hijackers were sleeping, and even if Max—for whatever reason—wasn’t able to help her right now, maybe she could help him.
She wiped her eyes, wiped her nose on the short sleeve of her shirt.
“Each of the men has an automatic weapon,” she whispered, “but I think some of them don’t have any ammunition. I’ve been watching and it looks like only a few of them have clips attached to their guns—I think that’s what they’re called.”
“Magazines,” Bob said. “They’re called magazines.”
Oh, shit, he was awake.
He sat up. “Who are you talking to?”
“Myself,” Gina said quickly. “I’m just talking to myself. I’m just making mental notes—I’m going to write a book after it’s all over, so . . .”
“ ‘Do it now, Max’?” he repeated. The friendly student was gone, and the cold-eyed man who’d threatened to shoot her if Max didn’t go into the terminal was back, and Gina knew with a cold certainty that the game playing was about to come to an end.
She risked everything by reaching up and turning on the radio. Bob had turned it off last night, cutting Max off midsentence, proclaiming himself to be bored. But Bob didn’t shout at her now. He just smiled as he stood up and stretched.
It was not a very nice smile.
“This is flight 232,” Gina said into the microphone, praying for something, anything to interrupt them. “Is there any news? Over?”
Max came instantly back. “Good morning, flight 232, hope you had a pleasant night. We hope to get the details of when Osman Razeen will be arriving very soon. Come back.”
Bob took the microphone from her hand. “We were just talking about you, Max. Although I think I don’t need to talk into this microphone for you to hear me, no? Shall we try?”
He dropped the microphone and raised his gun, firing several bullets into the panel inches from Gina’s head. She shrieked and cowered. “Stop! Stop! Bob, I’m sorry! Please, don’t! Please . . .”
She was an instant waterfall of tears and snot, her ears ringing from the noise of the gunshots. Just like that, all the calm dignity she’d been faking for so long dissolved. And she knew. She wasn’t going to die well, with a knowing smile on her lips like Princess Leia facing down Darth Vader. No, she was going to die begging and pleading and sniveling, too scared and desperate even to hate herself for doing it.
“I’m sorry, Bob.” Max’s voice came back completely unperturbed. “I think I missed most of that. Can you repeat? Come back.”
One of the hijackers from the cabin poked his head in. Bob gave a terse order and the man disappeared again, closing the door tightly behind him.
“He’s good, huh? This Max,” Bob said to her in his nearly perfect English. “Let’s see how good.”
He picked up the microphone. “I think our hostage is getting a little tired of us. And we’re getting tired of her, too.”
“That’s easy to fix, Bob. Trade her for me. I’m here. I’m ready. You win millions of goodwill points by letting her walk off the plane. Over.”
“And how many points do we get for dumping her dead body off the plane?”
Sam awoke to the sound of running feet.
Ah, fuck, he’d fallen asleep, right here in the terminal. He’d sent his team back to the hotel after Max Bhagat had gotten into a shouting match with his superiors in Washington. Bhagat had insisted that they send the SEALs in, that it was time to go, but they’d ordered him to drag this thing out for at least another twelve hours. Which would bring them to morning, which meant they’d probably have to wait another twelve hours.
Bhagat had been like a wild man. Starrett had never seen him so upset. He’d actually put his hand through the freaking wall. The timing was right, he kept saying. The hijackers were on the verge of meltdown. They were exhausted, the SEALs were ready. They could do this now and it would all be over by morning. Why did they have him here, if they weren’t going to let him run this operation?
But Washington said that the world was now watching. And the world would think the swift and deadly takedown of flight 232 was retaliation for the hotel massacre. Not that that was a particular problem, but Washington was afraid something would go wrong and more civilians would die as the world watched. Apparently Washington didn’t have the balls to stand behind its own highly trained, highly skilled professionals.
Sam had stuck around, waiting for Bhagat to cool down, hoping to get a chance to talk strategy. When would the timing be right? Tomorrow night? Tomorrow afternoon? He wanted to keep drilling his men, keep ’em fresh, but he didn’t want to wear them out.
He now followed the sound of voices into the negotiators’room. Lieutenant Paoletti was there, looking like he’d been up all night. God knows he probably had been, dealing with sending O’Leary’s body back home and making arrangements for the wounded to be shipped to a real hospital in a country where they believed in the sterilization of surgical instruments.
“Bob, I need you to talk to me,” Max was saying. “Pick up the radio microphone and talk to me. No one’s dead yet, don’t cross that line. Come on back.”
Jesus, one of the minicameras was picking up the action in the cockpit of the plane. One of the tangos was standing with his weapon aimed right between the girl’s eyes.
“Bob, talk to me, man,” Max said as calmly as if he couldn’t see what was going on. “Come back.”
“But wait,” the tango said. “I better not waste the bullet, right? After all, we don’t have much ammunition.”
On the screen, he shouldered his weapon and turned, saying something to the other tango in the local dialect—something no one but languages expert John Nilsson could’ve understood.
And what do you know? Nils was there. Leaning over Bhagat’s shoulder, murmuring a translation.
Sam didn’t need to hear it to know that the first tango had ordered the second to hurt the girl.
Tango Two took off his weapon, obviously preferring to use his fists on anyone female and under thirty.
This was going to be bad.
Max was talking nonstop, trying to get the first bastard to pick up the radio microphone, and the girl was trying her damnedest not to cry, also talking, but in a voice that shook—“I thought, you know, if we’d met somewhere else that we’d be friends”—and backing away, but she had nowhere to go.
She had nowhere to go, and when Tango Two hit her, when she cried out, her fear and pain rang in the room.
Sam was going to be sick.
Because, oh shit, this guy was going to kill her while they could do nothing but stand here and watch. He hit her again, and Jesus, she must’ve landed on the microphone because the sound went out. The video was still running, and they could hear faint, ghostly cries from the microphones out in the main cabin—picking up the sounds of her pain from a distance. It was surreal.
The position of the camera on the floor made for a hideous angle as she landed right beside it, her lip bloody, one eye swollen.
She lay there stunned as Max continued to talk, broadcasting over the radio. Somehow he kept his voice steady. Sam didn’t know how he did it, how he managed.
Especially when, on the screen, the girl was flipped onto her back. Especially when, on the screen, she began to struggle. The way she was fighting, the intensity, the desperation, meant only one thing. The motherfucker was going to rape her before he killed her. And because Washington had told them to stall, they weren’t ready to go in. And because they weren’t ready, they were going to have to stand here and watch.
Sam threw up. Right there in the fucking wastebasket.
She thrashed so hard, the picture went out. It was impossible to say if she’d just covered it with her hair, or if she’d actually taken out the camera. Either way, they couldn’t see.
They could still hear her, though. Faint crying and pleading. And then, Jesus, just crying.
Max threw his radio against the wall. “Where’s Helga Shuler?” he shouted. “Someone fucking find me Helga Shuler!”
The news wasn’t good. “Cell phones aren’t working. We should have temporary access to landlines in several minutes, sir!”
Max pointed at Lieutenant Paoletti. “I want the SEALs ready to go in. I want them here in five minutes!” He turned around to face his silent staff. “Someone give me a goddamn radio!”
It was there, in his hand, almost instantly.
Troubleshooters 03 Over The Edge Page 40