Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  “You stupid cow,” snarled the bald man. “We’re going to make every last one of you motherfuckers worm food, unless those bleeding wankers out there clear off.”

  “Do you think they will?” she asked, keeping her voice noncommittal. Please, please let Scotland Yard pull back and let these men leave.

  “They will,” Eric said, “unless they want fourteen dead bodies in this museum. Sit the fuck down.”

  She obeyed, kneeling next to Floyd. She mouthed, “Tell them where the loading bay is.”

  He shook his head frantically, motioning her to be quiet. “Shh. They’ll hear you.”

  She understood his desire to escape the attention of the gunmen. Still, if it got them to leave . . .

  Eric came to loom over Shelby’s terrified little group and pinned Shelby with a glare. “I change my mind. You seem to have the biggest mouth around here. Do you know where the back door is?”

  Shelby shook her head, not daring to look at Floyd. “I don’t know.”

  Trevor strode over. “I’ll get it out of her, if she knows anything.”

  “Why you?” asked Crawley. He pulled his knife and let it dangle from one finger, then twirled it in a lazy circle. “I bet I could get it faster.”

  Both craziness and malevolence burned in his eyes. Shelby sent a wide-­eyed plea in Trevor’s direction.

  His lip curled as he watched Crawley. “We want answers. We don’t want her catatonic.”

  Crawley bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, she thought. “Ain it don’t hurt she’s a looker. Is your John Thomas aching for a bit of rumpy pumpy?”

  Chapter Six

  TREVOR GRITTED HIS teeth hard. He tightened his hand on the grip of his Heckler & Koch short-­barreled carbine until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to kill Crawley. The man was a serial killer. A sadist, pure and simple.

  And he’d seen Shelby. In no universe was that acceptable. Once Crawley set his sights on something—­or someone—­nothing swayed him.

  The dislike was mutual. The man was as mean as a rabid wolverine, but he had good survival instincts. Crawley didn’t trust Trevor. And nor should he, despite Eric Koller’s endorsement.

  “Eric, leash your pet,” he snapped. He ended the argument by reaching down and grabbing Shelby’s upper arm, hauling her to her feet.

  Eric’s brows snapped down. “Crawley, get the hostages together. We’re moving out into the lobby.”

  There was an office behind the ticket counter; Trevor dragged Shelby into the lobby, staying well back from the windows, and crossed behind the counter to the office. He might have been too forceful in opening the door, because Shelby flinched as it banged back against the wall. He shoved her inside and kicked the door shut with a foot.

  Free of his grasp, she took several steps before turning to face him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he rasped.

  “I came to see the surrealist exhibit—­”

  “No. What are you doing in London?” He balled his fists in frustration. “Why aren’t you still in Azakistan?”

  Instead of answering, she shook her head, puzzlement in her eyes. “Trevor, what’s going on here? Who are these men?”

  “They’re dangerous. I need to get you out of here.” Even as he spoke, he sorted through his limited options. He could simply unlock the doors and push the hostages out—­but he’d lose Eric’s trust, and that was the only thing keeping him in the group. And the probability was high that Fay or Crawley might simply shoot him in the back.

  Never in a century could he have envisioned putting Shelby in harm’s way, however unintentionally. Conflict and frustration roiled inside him. He had a mission to complete, and that required him to keep Eric believing he was one of them. But he’d be damned if he’d let any of the anarchists lay a finger on any of the hostages.

  Especially Shelby.

  Was it simply because he knew her, while the others were strangers? Or because they’d once been lovers. His pleasurable memories of that night were tainted by the clock in the face she’d given him less than a week later while he lay in a hospital bed. Still, life often buggered up one’s emotions. As a career soldier, he needed to put his feelings aside and accomplish what he’d been sent to do.

  “All of us, Trevor. There are fourteen of us.” Stubbornness flashed in her eyes. “Not just me.”

  He raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “I know.”

  “What’s your mission?”

  She sounded remarkably calm. He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth. “You mean you don’t believe I’ve become an anarchist?”

  She shot him a don’t be stupid look. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  He sobered. No, they didn’t. “Tell me what you know about the hostages. The museum. Anything.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “The curator is the man who was next to me. Floyd Panderson. He’ll know where the other exits are. Museums have protected access points to load and unload artwork. Three of the hostages are docents. I don’t know anyone else. They were just here to enjoy the exhibit.”

  “Will we be able to exit that way? The protected area? Do you know?”

  “I only know about my experiences as docent at the Huntsville Museum of Art. Huntsville was small, so we were also trained to move and pack objects. In a museum this size, there will be a dedicated packing room. Special exhibits like this one require a lot of coordination and care. The transportation area will be close; art pieces need to be moved as little as possible. Probably a double door for larger pieces, and it will be below ground if possible, to keep the artwork at as stable a temperature as possible. Also, for insurance purposes, there will be cameras both in the packing room and in the loading area.”

  “Okay, good. What’s Panderson like?”

  Shelby snorted her disgust. “Well, he was hiding behind me. That should tell you something.”

  “Are you . . . close?” The question stuck in his craw. He had no claim over Shelby. She’d made that crystal clear when she visited him in the hospital. The memory still churned in his gut.

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “We’ve been dating.”

  Are you sleeping together? He clamped his mouth closed over the question.

  Both heard the sounds from the lobby at the same time. Eric was moving the hostages. They had mere moments before he would send someone to check on them. Shelby evidently came to the same conclusion.

  “Hurry,” she whispered. She backed herself up against the desk. “Come here.”

  He came close, frowning down at her. “What are you—­”

  “Undo your pants.” She reached for his web belt, jerking him close and tearing at the button fly, then tugged his shirt from the waistband.

  What the devil was she doing? Before he could say anything, she reached up, tearing the lace sleeve of her dress at the shoulder. “Put your hands in my hair. Mess it up.”

  “What the hell?”

  She wrapped her legs around his waist and yanked him in. He ended up leaning over her, eye to eye, his hands braced on either side of her head, his pelvis snugged tight against her heat. For half a second, he lost himself in her amber eyes, which had haunted his dreams for almost a year. Then reality snapped him back. Shelby had both hands in her hair, messing the neat waves.

  “Shelby, this is dangerous—­”

  “It’s what they expect. You know it as well as I do.”

  The door opened, and suddenly Shelby was pushing at his shoulders, crying and struggling to get away. Trevor stood so abruptly his watch snagged in the lace at her shoulder, further tearing it. He glared at Crawley.

  “Get out.”

  Crawley leered at Shelby, who swung her legs off the desk and put it between herself and the two men. Trevor stepped in front of Crawley, blocking his view of her. “I said scram.”
<
br />   Crawley’s laugh was nasty. His hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. “You don’t order me, Willoughby. If that’s even your proper name. You being with Eric in Northern Ireland doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  Trevor shrugged, boredom in his face. “You’re a gnat’s ass in my world, Crawley. Now get the hell out of here before I squash you.”

  Crawley sneered. “Eric wants you out front. Bring your bit of fluff out with the others.” He turned and left.

  Shelby and Trevor looked at one another.

  “I’m sorry.” Shelby tried to arrange her dress so that it didn’t look quite so torn, and rubbed her eyes, effectively smearing her makeup.

  “I am, too,” Trevor said. “I’ll get you all out of this, Shel. You have my word.”

  She gave him a tired smile. “What can I do to help?”

  Her courage awed him. She’d deliberately made it look as though he’d attacked her, knowing it would explain away their alone time. Knowing that it would bring her to the anarchist’s attention, but she hadn’t hesitated. He felt a swell of pride for her.

  “Keep out of Crawley’s way,” he said. “He likes to use that knife of his, and not to slit open box tops.”

  “All right. Let’s get back out there.” She settled the matter by turning and walking toward the door.

  “Shelby, wait.” In seconds, he was around the desk and heading her off. “Come out behind me. Look cowed.”

  “Not a hard stretch,” she mumbled.

  He grabbed her hand, pulling her with him until he cleared the office doorway, then gave a sharp yank. She stumbled after him. He shoved her. It hadn’t been rough, but she played it up, staggering away from him. “Get back with the others.”

  In the time they’d been talking, Eric had moved the hostages into the main lobby. They now stood, shoulder to shoulder, across the front panes of glass. The asshole was using them as human shields.

  The anarchists stood toward the back of the room, near the ticket desk.

  “Well?” Eric turned to him expectantly. “Did she know anything?”

  “Yeah. She says there will be a loading area of some sort, underground or under cover in some way for when they ship paintings and stuff back and forth.”

  “Shit, I already knew that.” Jukes showed the fine-­tuned contempt of a teenager. He swiveled his laptop around to show Trevor a series of cameras. “It’s here. I just don’t know where here is.”

  Trevor shook his head. “She doesn’t know anything else.”

  That would satisfy Jukes. No way was he bringing another hostage, Panderson, to Eric’s attention unless it was absolutely necessary. “Send Nathan and Crawley to search. This is a small museum.”

  At least it would get the odious little man out of his sight.

  SHELBY TOOK HER place in line next to Floyd. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. It was obvious what he thought. What they all thought, because that’s what she’d intended them to think. Their glances were pitying, skittering away before meeting her eyes. It was no more or less than she’d expected, but she’d needed to talk to Trevor, to try to figure out what was going on.

  As soon as she’d been alone with him in the office, her fear had evaporated.

  “Have they said anything about what they want?” she asked softly.

  Floyd shook his head. “They mutilated Memories of the Gods. Tore it to shreds. Bastards.”

  “Are they looking for something?”

  He gave her an impatient sideways look. “I don’t know.”

  Shelby looked out the window, at the confusion of police cars and uniforms swarming the parking lot. “Tell them where the loading bay is. They’ll leave.”

  “Not necessarily. They might just shoot us. Or me, for trying to help them.” Floyd hesitated. “That man. The one who . . . you know. He’s taken an interest in you. Maybe you could, you know, be nicer to him. Use your influence to get us out of here.”

  Shelby gaped at him. Had he just suggested . . . “Are you insane?” she hissed. Memories swamped her. Instead of Floyd by her side, it was Bruce. “Make them want you, Shel. Use what you got to get us where we want to be.” Where he’d wanted to be. His not-­so-­subtle hints to seduce important politicians had ended their relationship, such as it had been. What Floyd now suggested was equally monstrous.

  “I’m not insane,” he said, turning to look at her. “If it can get us out alive? Why would you even hesitate?”

  That she had ever considered him charming burned like bile in her gut. They’d only been dating a few weeks, but this was the first time she’d seen the real Floyd Panderson.

  “Why don’t you tell them where the loading bay is?” she hissed, anger leaking through so that her voice came out louder than she intended. “That will get them out of here just as quick.”

  His face whitened, the coward. She barely suppressed a snort of disgust.

  Behind them, Eric shouted, “Who works here? First person to tell me where the back door is goes free.”

  At that, Floyd half turned, looking over his shoulder.

  “You,” Eric shouted, advancing on him. “You work here?”

  “I do.” Floyd finished the turn, chin lifting. “Look, I agree with your philosophy. The government is corrupt and ineffectual. We need to free ourselves through a major societal shake-­up. We’re on the same side here.”

  Eric laughed. “You think we’re even in the same hemisphere? You look like a politician, you in your fancy suit. Gobshite.”

  “But I can tell you where the back door is—­”

  “Won’t help,” Jukes interrupted him. “Cops are already back there. We can’t get out that way.”

  Eric swore.

  Floyd wiped his palms on his trousers. “I’m the curator of this museum. There’s . . . another way out. A private door that’s not on the blueprints. I had it installed last year.”

  Eric came over to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where is it, then?”

  Floyd squared his shoulders. “I’ll take you to it, if you keep your word you’ll release me.”

  Shelby jerked around to stare at him. Release him? Not all of them? The rat bastard!

  Eric grinned, the odd light in his eyes making her nervous. Like Crawley, there was something wrong in his eyes. “Done. You take us there, you go free.”

  “We should leave the rest of ’em behind,” Trevor said, voice carrying clearly. “Slow us way down. We don’t need that kind of baggage.”

  “Sure, Trev. As long as we can get out without the coppers knowing.” Eric gave Floyd a hard look. “But if you’re jerking my cock, I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

  “It’s there, I promise you,” Floyd said. “It’s in the basement, at the end of the hall just before you—­”

  “Save yer breath. You’re going to show me, aren’t you?”

  Floyd stepped toward him. “Follow me, then.”

  The five anarchists and Trevor walked with him across the floor. Before they exited the lobby, Fay swung around. “What if it’s a trap? We can’t leave these ­people here. We need to keep them between us and the coppers.”

  Eric stopped and thought about it for a long moment. “You’re right. We don’t know what we’re heading into. All right, you lot! Line up in front of us. Leave your damned purses.”

  The hostages were slow to obey until Fay swung her rifle in their direction. “Move, you godless dogs!” she screamed.

  Thirteen scurried to obey. The fourteenth, the elderly woman whom they’d found in the bathroom, lagged behind as she took slow, painful steps.

  “Move, it, grandma,” Fay snarled.

  “Leave her,” Trevor said. “She can’t keep up.”

  Eric waved an irritated hand. “Fine. The old biddy can stay. Tie her up.”

  Fay swung her firearm around. “Why don’t I just shoot her?
”

  The woman straightened her spine and lifted her chin, looking Eric full in the face. His gaze faltered. He swung around to glare at Fay instead. “She’s just an old woman. No threat. Tie her up and leave her. The rest of you, move it!”

  The unlikely group trailed Floyd as he took them to the very back of the museum, to a double-­wide door set discreetly into the wall. He took out a key ring and unlocked it. Eric shoved him through first, then Shelby and the rest of the hostages.

  This private area of the museum consisted of a wide landing, a freight elevator in front of them, and a set of stairs off to the left. Several doors to the right were evenly spaced along a hall. The walls were plain cement, with no adornments of any kind.

  “Now where to?” Eric asked.

  “Turn left and go down the stairs.”

  Pushing and prodding, Eric got the whole group down the stairs, which ended in a huge room filled with crates, padding, and long tables.

  “This is the packing room,” Floyd said. “When artwork is brought in or sent out, this is where we handle it. It’s all very carefully orchestrated. The delivery door is there.” He pointed to the other end, where a rolling metal door stood closed and padlocked.

  Eric glanced around with zero interest. “Where’s this magical door, then?”

  Floyd pointed to the right. “My private office is along that wall. Around the corner is an access door that leads into the ser­vice tunnels. I had a door installed at the end. It comes out on Chipper Lane.”

  Nathan’s brows wrinkled. “Why the hell would you put a door in access tunnels?”

  Floyd’s face reddened. He half glanced at Shelby without quite meeting her eyes. “There are times I prefer a discreet means of entry and egress.”

  Crawley barked out a laugh and went to the office door, pushing it open and peering inside. “That’s one hell of a couch in there, divvy. Does your wife know you got this posh shag-­room down here? That her picture on the desk?”

  Shelby stared at Floyd in shock. “You’re married?” she blurted out.