by Pamela Clare
Reece turned to see Hunter, arms over his head, weapon in hand.
“I’m a police officer,” he shouted, his gaze meeting Reece’s for just a moment. “My duty badge is clipped to my waistband.”
One of the security guards started toward him.
Reece caught the man by the arm, stopped him. “It’s okay. I know him. He’s captain of DPD’s SWAT team and a friend.”
Hunter pointed behind him. “Sophie’s in the bathroom. Can you get her out?”
Kara looked up at Reece, and he answered, “Of course.”
“Thanks, man.” Hunter backed up, opened the door, and a moment later Sophie emerged, Hunter’s dinner coat and cummerbund tucked under one arm. She gave his hand a squeeze, then hurried over to Kara.
The two women embraced, but said nothing.
The security guard motioned them forward. “Let’s keep moving.”
With two security guards in front of them and one following behind, they made their way through a door to a stairway, Kara holding tightly to Reece’s hand. No one spoke as they went down two flights of stairs, the blare of the fire alarm echoing in the stairwell.
One of the guards pushed the back door open, cold night air rushing in.
Rat-at-at-at!
Blood sprayed across the door behind the guard, who fell lifeless to the ground.
Screams.
On instinct, Reece grabbed Sophie’s hand and drew both Kara and Sophie back toward the stairs, some plan half-formed in his mind about finding safety in the basement. “Secretary Holmes! This way!”
His foot hadn’t so much as hit the first step when men in dark green camo rushed up the stairs, rifles pointing straight at Reece.
Heart slamming in his chest, Reece stood his ground, drew Kara and Sophie behind him, some part of him certain they were all about to die.
Then one of the men hitched his rifle over his shoulder and started up the stairs, a grin on his face. “You can’t leave our little rumba now, Lt. Gov. Sheridan. It is just getting started.”
* * *
19:37
“Goddamn it!” Marc took cover behind a corner pillar, gunfire seeming to come from every direction, including the rear exit. He’d been grazed on his left rib cage, pain making him swear, his shirt torn, blood staining the cloth.
Sophie.
He counted four—no, five—assailants near the top of the stairs, all wearing camo BDUs and armed with military-grade assault rifles, and another fourteen or fifteen down in the lobby. Where the hell had they come from? With the one who lay dead outside the Grand Ballroom, that made for as many as twenty perpetrators.
This wasn’t a random shooting. It was a fucking terrorist attack.
Marc was outgunned and outnumbered. If he’d had a rifle or some stun grenades… But he didn’t. He had a pistol and six rounds.
From the Grand Ballroom came gunshots and screams.
Marc peered around the pillar, and then he saw her.
Holly! God, no.
She lay unconscious on her back not far from the fire alarm, blood spilling from a head wound.
She’d seen the shooter, sent a text to warn them, then gone for the fire alarm. Had those first shots been intended for her?
Damn it, Holly. Did you have to be a hero again?
Marc’s first impulse was to run to her, but there was no way he could reach her without being seen and shot or taken captive. Then the door Sophie had walked through only moments ago flew open, and five more assailants entered with prisoners.
Sophie!
She and Kara were huddled together, Secretary Holmes walking in front of them, Sheridan in the rear, the barrel of what looked like an HK G36 pressed into his back.
At least they were all alive.
They were all alive.
One of the attackers aimed his weapon at the ceiling and fired, debris raining down on terrified hotel staff. “All of you! On your feet! Get back into the ballroom!”
Men and women lurched to their feet and ran, some sobbing, Marc unable to do a goddamn thing but watch as all of them were forced into the Grand Ballroom.
Son of a bitch!
He’d sent Sophie out that way. And now these bastards—whoever they were—had her. They had all of them—Sheridan, Kara, Secretary Holmes.
And Holly?
He glanced around the pillar. She still hadn’t moved.
Jesus.
He felt a pang in his chest when he thought about Nick getting the news, but quashed it. He didn’t have time for emotions.
Do your job, Hunter.
He took out his cell, sent a text message to Chief Irving, trying to think of all the most important details.
Counted at least 24 armed perps in woodland camo BDUs. Hostage situation. Secretary Holmes, Lt. Gov & his wife in hostile hands. Dozens of civilians also captive, incl. my wife. Some injured. Several dead outside the ballroom.
He thought about it for a moment, then sent another message. If it were Sophie, he’d want to know.
Holly Andris is down. Can’t get near her. Inform Cobra. They have resources, can perhaps join the fight.
Marc knew the feds would step in now. With the US Secretary of State’s safety on the line, they’d send in the HRT—the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team.
Movement down below caught his eye. In the hotel lobby, a several men were busy rigging something to the doors. Explosives.
He sent another text.
Perps are setting charges on main doors.
Four attackers broke off from the main group and headed for the elevators, carrying a heavy case between them.
The elevator closed, moved upward.
And it hit him.
They were headed for the roof. That case probably held some kind of machine gun—or maybe RPGs.
If he didn’t reach the roof before they did, they would hold the high ground. And they’d be able to mow down every cop, every paramedic, and every SWAT officer Denver could throw at them.
But how could he make it to the roof?
He glanced around, noticing for the first time the iron grill work that made up the balustrade of each floor of the hotel from the mezzanine to the very top of the atrium. If he’d tried to climb that, he’d be exposed to every shooter in the lobby. Then again, he didn’t have to climb all the way to the top, only to the next floor, where he could grab an elevator. With any luck, the assholes were too busy setting booby traps to notice him.
With no other option and the clock ticking, he tucked the pistol into its pocket holster, stepped up onto the railing, and started to climb.
Where the hell was Rossiter when you needed him?
* * *
19:40
Where the hell was Hunter?
Gabe watched the bastard with the AK pace back and forth in front of the door, talking in Spanish on his cell phone.
“He’s telling them we blocked the door,” Joaquin whispered from behind him. “He’s saying they have control of the room and everyone in it, but he’s asking someone named Pepe what to do now.”
The moment the shooting had started, Gabe and Joaquin had run to the doors and closed them, then carried one of the heavy dining tables over to bar them. He’d turned around, started toward the windows, thinking that one of them must open onto a fire escape. Then Kat had shouted for him.
He’d turned to find that two of the servers had assault rifles—and both were pointed at him.
He’d thought they were dealing with a lone shooter.
He’d thought wrong.
He had no idea how many terrorists were in and around the Grand Ballroom. There were two of them in here, and more than a hundred newspaper staff. If Hunter were here, they might be able to come up with a plan and overpower the bastards. As it was, Gabe was the only person in the room with law enforcement experience.
“I’m worried about Holly,” Matt whispered. “If she saw them—”
“Hey, pendejo. Shut up!” The one who wasn’t on the phone glared at Matt.
“No talking.”
Gabe was worried about Holly, too—and Marc and Sophie, who had disappeared. He hoped the three of them had gotten out. But more than that, he was worried about Kat. This stress couldn’t be good for her or the baby. He’d seen terror in her eyes for that brief moment when she’d believed he was about to be shot.
And that’s why you’re going to sit here and be a good little hostage.
His job was to keep her safe and alive, not to get shot to death in front of her in some half-baked escape attempt, leaving her to raise their kids alone.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”
She nodded, but he could feel the tension in her body.
If he’d had his cell phone, he’d have done his best to send Hunter a text, but the sons of bitches had confiscated everyone’s phones, along with their wallets, watches, and cash. He had no way of knowing what was happening outside those doors—or who would come through them when they opened.
The one with the phone ended the call and turned toward them. He flagged Gabe and Joaquin with his AK, motioning toward the door. “You. Move the table back.”
Gabe gave Kat’s hand a squeeze and walked with Joaquin to the table.
“Whatever you have in mind, count me in,” Joaquin whispered.
Gabe met his gaze, gave a slight shake of his head to let him know that he had nothing planned. Now wasn’t the time.
They’d both taken one end of the table when the guy with the phone moved in on Kat, saying something to her in Spanish, the muzzle of his weapon pointed at the floor.
Gabe almost dropped his end of the table, the impulse to shove that bastard away from her overpowering.
She glared up at the man. “I don’t speak Spanish. I’m Diné. Navajo.”
“India Navaja.” He grinned, pointed to her belly with the muzzle, the sight knotting Gabe’s gut. “You’ve got a baby. Don’t worry. We won’t hurt you.”
Gabe wanted to kill him. He set his end of the table down, walked with Joaquin back to the group, stood face to face with the son of a bitch. He spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable. “Stay away from her.”
For a moment he thought the man was going to punch him, his body tensing for a fight. Then the other one opened the doors and started shouting.
“On your feet! Stand up! Move!”
They were herded out into the hallway, around the corner onto the balcony and toward the Great Ballroom.
Gabe took Kat’s hand.
A flurry of gasps. A cry.
“Oh, my God!”
There were dead and wounded lying on the floor outside the Grand Ballroom just as he’d feared there would be.
“I hope our photographer is getting photos of this,” Baird said.
Gabe put his arm around Kat’s shoulder, drew her close. “Look at me.”
He would do what he could for the wounded—if they’d let him—once he felt certain Kat was safe.
From a few feet in front of him, he heard Matt. “Holly! God, no!”
Joaquin pushed past Gabe, cursing in Spanish.
There on the floor lay Holly, and it looked like she’d taken a round to the head.
“Jesus!” Gabe started toward her, Kat standing rooted to the spot, wide-eyed, hand over her mouth.
“Get back!” one of their captors shouted, pointing his rifle at Matt and Joaquin, who had almost reached Holly’s side.
Joaquin shouted something in Spanish, kept moving toward her.
Matt was right beside him. “She’s my friend. I’m going to help her, and you’re going to have to shoot me to stop me.”
Gabe raised his hands over his head. “I’m a paramedic. I can help her.”
Joaquin quickly translated. “Es un paramédico.”
The three of them knelt down beside her, and Gabe saw that she was breathing. He felt for a pulse, found it strong and steady. “She’s alive. It looks like a graze. She might have a concussion or even a skull fracture.”
Damn it!
He didn’t have the equipment to deal with this.
One of the assholes started shouting again, motioning for them to go into the ballroom. But Gabe wouldn’t leave her here no matter what they aimed at him.
“Matt, you carry her legs. Joaquin, carry her upper body, and try to keep it stable. I’m going to support her head and neck with my hands. Lift on three. One. Two. Three.”
Slowly, carefully, they carried Holly into the ballroom.
4
Chapter Four
19:40
Marc stopped, fought to catch his breath, pressing a hand against the pain in his ribs. His fingers came away bloody. There was nothing he could do about that now. He had bigger problems. He could just hear the bad guys talking to one another somewhere on the roof above. He wouldn’t be able to sneak up on them breathing like he’d just run up seven flights of stairs.
That’s why they call it FAT Tire, Hunter.
Yeah, too much beer—and too little time in the gym.
He’d ditched the idea of taking an elevator when the doors had opened with a loud ding that had made every asshole in the lobby look up. He’d had to take off his dress shoes because the soles made so much noise, every step echoing in the stairwell. Now he was running around with a pistol in his hand and wearing nothing but socks, tuxedo pants, a starched white shirt stained red with his own blood—and a fine black tie.
Just like James fucking Bond.
His heartbeat and respiration slowed, Sophie’s lingering scent reminding him with every breath exactly what was at stake tonight. He did his best to put her out of his mind. He wouldn’t be able to help her or anyone else if he didn’t focus.
Sheridan will keep her safe. She’ll be okay.
So, what now?
He leaned back against the cold concrete wall, mulled over the possibilities.
There were four of them, and he had four bullets left. Even if he snuck up on them, he doubted he’d be able to squeeze off four rounds with absolute accuracy using only a pistol before one of them lit him up. What he needed was a way to eliminate all four of them at once without giving himself away.
Dream on, buddy.
He slowly climbed the last flight of stairs, stopping to the left of the open door, frigid night air pouring in from the darkness. He glanced around the corner.
Nothing.
He stepped outside. It wasn’t as dark as he’d thought it would be, security lights on the parapets casting an eerie yellow glow. He glanced around, pistol raised, finger on the trigger. The hotel’s triangular roof was a maze of external ductwork, enormous ventilation and air conditioning units, what looked like a greenhouse and…
Beehives?
Keeping low, he made his way around the bulkhead and along a long line of ductwork, aware that his white shirt made him highly visible in the darkness. A movement. Voices.
He froze.
All four of them were gathered at the south end of the building, near its prow where the Palace overlooked the star-shaped intersection of Broadway, Seventeenth, and Court Place, with its public park and bus stops. They were bent over something with flashlights. One of them moved, giving Marc a quick view.
A Ma Deuce.
The bastards had a fucking Ma Deuce—a Browning M2 machine gun. If they managed to get that thing up and running, they would have enough firepower to take down targets up to two thousand yards away.
Marc’s SWAT team would be fish in a barrel.
He took a moment to think, trying to ignore the fact that he was fucking freezing, the frigid wind cutting right through him. He made his way back along the ductwork to a place he felt was secure, and then pulled out his cell phone to send Irving a text.
Four perps on roof setting up a Browning M2 .50 cal. May have RPGs, etc. I’m going to try to take them out.
If he failed, at least Irving and Marc’s team would be warned.
Quickly and quietly, he retraced his path along the ductwork, moving in closer t
his time, trying to make up for the limited range of his pistol. He tried to line up a shot, felt himself shivering.
Get a grip, Hunter!
He willed his body to relax, surrendered to the cold, then set it out of his mind.
He lined up his shot and … squeezed the trigger.
Bam!
One down.
Shouting at one another, the others grabbed their weapons, one aiming into the darkness and spraying bullets in Marc’s general direction, rounds slamming into the ductwork around him with a dull thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack.
Bent low, he ran, taking cover behind some AC vents and peering out at the three men, ignoring the vibration of his cell phone. Two perps had gone back to work on the M2, while the third stood sentry, rifle over his shoulder, cell phone in his hand, thumb moving over the screen. He was probably calling for backup.
Well, Marc couldn’t let him get away with that. He took aim, fired again.
Bam!
Another one down.
The others had laid their weapons aside to work on the Ma Deuce.
Marc saw his chance.
He rushed them, stopping to fire at the first one to aim a rifle at him.
Bam!
A miss.
Shit!
Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, Marc dove for cover.
* * *
19:45
Tessa Darcangelo turned the lights down low and snuggled against her husband, Julian, the sight of four sleeping children and the twinkling Christmas tree making her smile. Chase had crashed on the recliner, a Lego thingy of his own creation clutched in his hand. Maire lay next to the tree. Addy had fallen asleep with her face in her Santa coloring book. Little Tristan was curled up on the dog bed with his blankie and Shadow, their nine-month-old German shepherd puppy.
“At last,” she said. “Silence.”
Julian chuckled, his fingers threading through hers, his lips brushing her cheek. “Think we can slip away for a little adult playtime?”
She laughed. “Marc and Sophie will be here soon.”
They were watching Chase and Addy tonight so that Marc and Sophie could go to the newspaper’s holiday party. It had been a happy kind of chaos, the house taken over by four kids ages seven and under. Together, she and Julian had managed to feed them all, keep them entertained, and prevent them from hurting themselves or each other. It felt like an accomplishment.