The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Amy held Eve tightly. “I miss Mommy terribly,” she said.

  “I know, sweet.” Eve looked at the Bear. “I miss her, too.”

  It was going down as if it had been choreographed.

  The GIK, despite their pricey costumes—the raincoats and shades, at twilight for crying out loud—were standard issue dumbfucks. They came creeping out of their van like a pack of kids playing ninja, as if the setting sun made them invisible.

  Sam was right next to WildCard, who was having trouble not laughing aloud. Sam would’ve had the same problem if it weren’t for Alyssa Locke.

  Despite his efforts to stay as far away from her as possible, she’d somehow ended up right beside him. She didn’t want to be there anymore than he did—he could see that news bulletin clear as daylight in her eyes.

  When the order came to go, to move stealthily forward and out-ninja the ninjas, he was more than ready for some action.

  But it was unsatisfyingly easy. The GIK tangos were totally outmatched by the team of SEALs and FBI. They were down on the ground, their weapons taken from them, in a matter of seconds.

  And somehow—Jesus Christ, give him a break, please—Alyssa was right beside him again. Close enough to catch a whiff of her clean-smelling shampoo.

  Apparently one of the tangos caught a whiff of it, too. The son of a bitch no doubt took one look at Alyssa’s pretty face and slender physique, and pegged her as the weak link in the chain.

  Lopez had grabbed the bastard’s Uzi out of his hands, and Muldoon had delivered a blow that should have sent him face first onto the driveway, but the fucker bounced. He was up again in an instant, hitting Alyssa hard, with a bone-jarring crunch, right in the chest.

  She went down, and Sam turned fast. They’d taken the dumbshit’s Uzi, but Jesus, he could have a hunting knife or a switchblade. Or he could be one of those commando wannabes who’d managed to learn to break a neck with a single swift twist of an opponent’s head.

  Alyssa hit the pavement with another solid-sounding thud and a muffled, pain-filled shout.

  If he’d stuck her with a knife, this fucker was going to die.

  But Sam didn’t have a chance to extract revenge. Alyssa took the tango down with her, despite the fact he was nearly twice her weight. It only took a heartbeat, a few short seconds, tops, and she was straddling the guy, shouting for him not to move, her side arm jammed neatly up beneath his chin.

  It was difficult for the bastard to not move seeing that he was writhing in pain. Seeing that Alyssa had kicked him in the balls so hard he was going to need a doctor to pull ’em back down from where they’d lodged near his spleen.

  Sam faded back, fast, so that she wouldn’t see he was one of the men who’d leapt to her aid.

  The FBI cleanup team was fast. They had those assholes searched, cuffed, Miranda-ed, and loaded into a properly nondescript van in record time. Another agent impounded the tangos’ vehicle, driving it swiftly away.

  Alyssa didn’t look at him as they got themselves the hell out of there, too. She was breathing hard, she’d torn the elbow of her jacket, and she was trying to hide a limp.

  It took every last ounce of willpower he had to keep his distance. But he knew he was the dead last person she’d want checking up on her right now. As he watched, she shook off Lopez, the team medic—just brushed right past him.

  “Man,” WildCard said in admiration. “Did you see that? Let that be a lesson for us all. Don’t ever, ever, get Locke mad at you.”

  Too late.

  Twenty-two

  NILS PACED AROUND the motel room, double-checking the fact that the room had only one entrance.

  No, there wasn’t a window in the bathroom. There was actually a small coin-operated machine attached to the wall that sold condoms—classy place—but no window.

  He went back into the other room, where Meg looked ready to jump out of her skin.

  In fact, she did jump when Nils’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open, turned it on. “Nilsson.”

  “Yeah, it’s Paoletti. We just bagged seven GIK terrorists in the parking lot. So far there’s been no sign of any more of ’em, but we’ll be out here watching for as long as it takes.”

  “Thanks, L.T.”

  “We’ve got surveillance set up to record and trace any phone calls that come in, and we’re continuing to keep watch, but that’s it.”

  In other words, this room didn’t have any cameras or listening devices.

  “I thought you’d appreciate that information,” Paoletti continued. Lieutenant Tactful.

  “Yeah,” Nils said. Meg was watching him, dying to find out what the phone call was about. She was sitting on the edge of the bed that was farthest from the window, her body pointed toward that beige telephone.

  Please, Jesus, for her sake, let the Extremists call this evening. Let them call now.

  The phone didn’t ring. And then it still didn’t ring.

  “Thanks, L.T.,” Nils said again. “Look, Lieutenant, I know I owe you an explanation for—”

  “You do,” Paoletti interrupted. COs could get away with interrupting whenever they wanted. “After this is over, you will be spending a good long time in my office. With the door closed. While I go down a list. A very long list.”

  “L.T., I am sorry—”

  “Yale, right, Nilsson?”

  “Uh, yes, sir, I went to Yale.”

  “In that case, Ivy League Genius, do you really need me to define after for you?”

  Nils closed his eyes. This was going to be okay. He was going to get yelled at. Or even worse—he’d get Paoletti’s quiet “I’m disappointed in you” speech. It would be hard to stand through, but he could endure anything short of getting kicked out of the Troubleshooters squad. And as long as the CO was calling him faintly insulting names, he was still at least slightly beloved. “No, sir, you do not.”

  “Good.” Paoletti was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. “You do know, Johnny, that in the next twenty-four hours you could well be facing the ultimate no-win scenario. That little girl could be dead. She probably is. And I know you’re good—you’re one of my best officers. I know you’ve got this ‘nothing is impossible’ mentality, and I applaud it, you know I do—even when it gets you into trouble. But even you can’t bring a child back to life.”

  “I know that,” Nils said. “I’m counting on luck and maybe even a miracle, sir. I’m counting on getting there before she’s harmed.”

  The lieutenant didn’t argue. He just sighed again. “Tell Meg my prayers are with her and her daughter and grandmother tonight.”

  “I will, L.T. Thank you.”

  Paoletti cut the connection, and Nils snapped his phone shut. “They got all the GIK out of the way,” he told Meg.

  “That fast?”

  “Yeah. We can relax a little bit.” He sat down across from her, on the other bed. She looked like the poster girl for high stress. “It might be a good idea to try to get some sleep.”

  She glanced at that beige motel telephone. “You can turn out the light if you want.”

  And leave her sitting bolt upright on the other bed, strung too tight even to close her eyes? No way. As bone tired as he was, he wasn’t going to do that.

  “If the phone rings, I’ll hear it,” Nils told her gently. “Even if I’m asleep. I promise.”

  She had her arms crossed in front of her as if she were cold, or as if she were holding on to herself for dear life. She looked at the phone again.

  “They’ll call,” Nils told her. “They will. They want Razeen. They’ll definitely be in touch with you.”

  “I know that.” Meg nodded. “I understand that. I just . . .” She shook her head. “What if they don’t? What if they just never do? How long are we going to wait here? A day? Two? A week? A month?”

  She was starting to shake, and she tried desperately to stop, tried holding herself even more tightly.

  “What have I done?” she said. “What if the Extremists find out I�
�ve turned Razeen over to the FBI? They’ll kill Amy and my grandmother right away. This is a mistake, John. I don’t think I can do this.”

  Nils crossed the little aisle between the two beds and sat next to her. “Yes, you can,” he told her. “Don’t start thinking about worst case scenarios. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  “I can’t help it.” She was trying hard not to cry and her breathing was ragged. “I just keep thinking, what if they don’t call? Or what if they do call, and God! What if they kill you then, too?”

  “They’re not going to kill me. There are a lot of people working with us, Meg, making sure the Extremists aren’t going to kill me. Or you. And as for the Extremists finding out about Razeen—there are very few people who know he’s been taken into custody. Max Bhagat and about two other FBI agents. My SEAL team knows, too—I trust those guys with my life all the time. I’d trust them with your life, too. And Amy’s.”

  Nils wanted to touch her. He was dying to take her into his arms and hold her, to try to soothe her, calm her down. But she’d set up this invisible boundary around herself with those crossed arms, and he didn’t want to trespass over the line, didn’t want to move into the realm of potentially inappropriate.

  They were locked together in a motel room, trapped in wait mode, sitting on a bed with not a whole hell of a lot to do.

  He didn’t want her to think he had a list of ways they could entertain themselves quite nicely in the course of the next few hours.

  Even though, damn it, he did.

  “You’ve got a whole pack of highly trained experts on your side, Meg,” he told her instead of reaching for her. “And you’ve got me, for what it’s worth. I’m here. I’ll be here—whatever happens—whatever we have to deal with.”

  “You think they’re dead.” She looked at him searchingly, as if trying to prove her own statement wrong.

  Nils gave her what she wanted. It was the least he could do. “No,” he said. “I don’t. Not really. I think Amy and your grandmother are still alive.”

  She both laughed and cried at that, her tears finally escaping. “You are such a liar.”

  She reached for him then. She unwound her arms and reached out for him, giving him all the permission he needed to take her into his own arms. He held her tightly, glad she’d chosen to let him in, to lean on him, to share her fears and apprehension with him this way.

  “I want them to be alive,” he told her, stroking her hair. “And as long as there’s a chance, I’m choosing to believe they are still safe.”

  “Is there really a chance?” she asked. She pulled back slightly to look into his eyes again. “I need you not to lie to me, John.”

  “Yes, there’s a chance.” It was a slim chance, but there was a chance. He wasn’t lying. Nils took her hand and placed it on his chest. “There’s always a chance. Cross my heart and . . .” Hope to die. Wrong thing to say tonight. “Cross my heart.”

  “What are the real odds here?” she asked. “Truthfully. In terms of going face-to-face with the Extremists and coming out alive?”

  “I don’t know about odds,” he admitted. “I’m not much of a gambler so I don’t think in terms of odds. Is it going to be dangerous? Yes, it is. Is there a chance we might be killed? Zealots and weapons are a bad combination, Meg. Bullets tend to fly when the two get together. And whenever bullets start flying, yes, death is a possibility. This is why I’d like to send in a female FBI agent in your place and—”

  She put her hand over his mouth. “No. No more replacements. No more lies and no more replacements. Okay?”

  He nodded. And when she took her hand away, he leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn’t a real kiss—just a brief touching of his lips to hers. Still, he knew it startled her.

  “No more lies,” he agreed.

  He didn’t give her a chance to respond or react. He pulled her with him, so that they were sitting on the bed, leaning back against the pillows and the headboard, his arm around her, her head against his shoulder.

  “Tell me about Amy,” he said. “Tell me about what she’s been up to in the last three years.”

  He could feel her surprise at his question. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say.

  “Tell me all the good stuff,” he continued. “Does she still like to draw? She’s ten now, right? Does she still wear her hair long or did she get it cut? Is she in middle school yet—or is she going to start that next year?”

  Meg exhaled—just a brief burst of air. Nils just held her and waited. Come on, Meg. Talk about Amy.

  “Actually,” she said, her voice breathless, “I’ve been . . . I’ve been thinking about taking Amy out of the public school and enrolling her in an all-girls school in September. I want to move out of the city—I know she does, too, and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “What does she want to be when she grows up?” Nils asked, trying to keep her in the here and now, trying to keep her out of what if land.

  Meg tipped her head to look up at him and smiled. It was shaky, but it was a smile. “She’s ten. She wants to be an astronaut. Or the next Britney Spears.”

  “Astronaut or . . . pop star? I’m not sure I get the connection.”

  Another smile. “The connection is that she’s ten.”

  “Ah.” Nils smiled back at her, loving the life that was coming back into her eyes, into her face.

  Meg’s smile faded, but her eyes stayed warm. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For talking about her as if she’s got a future. As if she’s going to have a September.”

  “She is,” he told her. No lying. He corrected himself. “She probably is. And right now—tonight—she definitely is. Tonight she’s still alive. Even if she’s not, Meg, we don’t know it yet, so we can give her one more night of life. One more night with a future. You know?”

  Tears were back in her eyes, but she smiled at him again, reaching up to touch his face. “Thank you.” She settled back against him, resting her head on his shoulder, holding him tightly, her arms around his waist. “She still wears her hair long,” she said. “Although she’s been talking about getting it cut for the summer. The humidity makes her curls go wild.” She laughed. “Oh, God, did I tell you that she’s taking karate?”

  Nils ran his fingers through her hair, loving the way it slipped through his fingers. “No way!”

  She smiled. “She just started, but she loves it.”

  “That’s so great.” Please, God, keep this child safe.

  “She’s still really small for her age,” Meg explained. “She’s pretty annoyed about that. I think she wants to be able to pull a Jackie Chan and beat up the boys who tease her for being flat chested.”

  Nils had to laugh. “Give me a break—she’s only ten. I hope she’s still flat chested.”

  “That’s what I tell her,” Meg said. “That she’s got plenty of time to . . .” She stopped.

  “She’s got plenty of time to be a teenager,” Nils finished gently for her. “Does she like boats? After this is over, maybe the two of you could come out to California. I’ll take you out on my boat. Bet she’d like that.”

  Meg didn’t answer. She just held him tightly. Just breathed.

  Nils talked about his boat, talked about California, talked about the places they could go, the things Amy might want to do and see when they visited. When. Not if.

  And finally, slowly, her death grip on him loosened. Her breathing slowed.

  She was asleep.

  Nils stared at the beige phone as he held her.

  Come on, god damn it.

  Ring.

  “Yo, Locke!”

  Alyssa turned to see WildCard Karmody waving to her from the other side of the hotel lobby.

  He was with Jenk and Muldoon. And Sam Starrett. They must have come in the other entrance. Karmody bore down on her now like a heat-seeking missile. He had a mad scientist look to him even when he wore black BDUs. It might’ve been the way his dark hair stuck out in all directions—as if he’d been p
ulling it while he sewed together some monster made with various body parts. Or maybe it was the gleam of near-crazed intelligence in his eyes. He’d been blessed with a brain that most men would kill for, but unfortunately for him, it came with a piss poor lack of judgment and an inability to keep out of trouble.

  Karmody caught up to her by the elevators. She pushed the up button, praying that she wasn’t going to have to ride up to the twentieth floor in an elevator with Starrett, who was straggling behind with Jenk and Muldoon.

  “Good job out there today,” Karmody said.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a purposely cool nod. “You, too.”

  “Nice defensive moves,” Karmody said. “I think that guy’s going to be singing soprano for about a week.” He winced in sympathy. “Ouch.”

  Ouch was right. Her elbow was bleeding, and she’d wrenched her ankle pretty badly when she’d been knocked over. She stared up at the elevators’ lights, willing one to go on, signaling her escape.

  “We’re heading over to the restaurant,” Karmody told her. “We’re starving and it’s still early, barely even eighteen hundred hours. Wanna come?”

  “I’ve got a roast beef sandwich and an ice cream sundae with my name on it,” Jenkins chimed in.

  Ice cream sundae. Oh, God.

  Locke looked up to find Sam Starrett watching her.

  And just like that, she was hit by a vivid memory of Starrett looking into her eyes that very same way as he . . . as they . . . Oh, God.

  She quickly looked away. She had to clear her throat before answering Karmody. “Thanks, but no.” She held up her elbow as an excuse. “I need to get cleaned up, and . . . Thanks, anyway.”

  Ding.

  The elevator doors opened, and she jumped inside.

  “What’s up with Locke?” she heard Jenk wonder as the doors slid closed.