Crossfire

by Niki Savage

“When I was sure you had a good start, I staged a little explosion, and made them think I had been caught in the middle of it. They quickly lost interest when the whole place looked ready to explode.” A sardonic laugh echoed down the line.

  “Then what happened?” Stefan asked, smiling at his cousin’s devil-may-care attitude.

  “Well, I followed them, just in case they caught up with you. They ended up at a small post office, and for a moment, I was worried. But the body they dragged out of there belonged to Mohammed Rashid, little brother of Ahmed, and he had more holes in him than a dartboard. Let me tell you, Ahmed was beside himself, wailing and howling like a bloody woman. You’ve done well, my friend. That almost compensates for Hans and Friedrich. I managed to save their bodies from the fire, and got them out of sight. We’ve buried them on La Montagne, with full honors.”

  “Good work.” Stefan tried to remember what had happened at the post office. Had he shot the man? Surely, he would remember it. But he didn’t remember asking Marcelle for help either. Had the concussion given him selective amnesia? “Karl, did you check the place afterwards?”

  “Yes, I found a pool of blood and seven 9mm casings, which I identified as our brand. It’s not like you to waste ammunition like that. Where are you? Can I send some men to fetch you?”

  “No, I’m safe for the moment. I’m not well enough to travel yet.”

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t send a few men to protect you until you’re better?”

  “No, I’m safe and receiving good care. If circumstances should change, I’ll contact you again. Station three men in Paris, in case I need them. I need you to stay at headquarters and run things in my absence. If any assignments come along, put a senior man in charge of them and say I’m involved elsewhere. And I want you to find out the whereabouts of Ahmed and his associates. But don’t do anything; I’ll handle this one personally.”

  “Sure, I’ve been making enquiries, but nothing so far. We’ll keep trying. Kris is here and wants to speak to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hello Stefan, what are your injuries?”

  “Concussion, a cut to the temple, a bullet through the left side, and another through the left shoulder. No damage to major organs, but I nearly bled to death. The person who found me saved my life.”

  “Do you want me to come out there?”

  “No, I’m fine. I have a doctor taking care of me. We need you out there for the men, Kris. I’m over the worst.”

  “Can you trust this person and the doctor?”

  “Yes, they’ve put their lives at risk to save me. I owe them everything. I’d rather not say their names, even over this secure line. Tell Karl to run a trace to pinpoint my position.”

  Karl came back on the line. “I’ve done that already. Are you sure you want to be there, after what happened?”

  Stefan laughed mirthlessly. “If I could choose, I wouldn’t be here, but I guess life has a way of forcing us to face our demons. I’ll be fine.”

  “When will we see you?” It was Kris’ voice again.

  “I’ll recover fully within the next few weeks. I won’t contact you unless necessary, but let me know the minute you have a location for Ahmed Rashid.”

  They said goodbye, and he switched the phone off to conserve the battery. His mind went over all the possible scenarios. How had Mohammed Rashid ended up dead? Had Marcelle killed him? Why couldn’t he remember it? Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t taken him to a normal hospital. The police would have asked too many questions. For a high profile person such as herself, it would be a feeding frenzy if the press got hold of it. Though he knew appearances could be deceptive, he couldn’t believe the young widow capable of killing a man. Did he dare ask her?

  When Marcelle came back, Stefan was still frowning.

  She caught his mood. “Bad news?”

  “No, Karl is alive. He’s back at headquarters.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “He’s under the impression I had killed one of the terrorists, and left his body for his friends to find.”

  “Oh.”

  He couldn’t read much into her noncommittal reply. “Marcelle, what happened at the post office?”

  She shrugged. “I dragged you to the car, and got out of there as quick as I could. Why, what’s the matter?”

  “So you know nothing about the dead man?”

  “I didn’t see anyone there. Then again, it was dark, and my attention was focused on you.”

  He wouldn’t let her off that easily. “Marcelle, I didn’t kill him. Did you?”

  She looked taken aback, and he was sorry he had asked. But it was too late.

  “I can’t believe you would try to drag me down to your level,” she retorted heatedly. “From where I stand, there’s only one killer in this room!”

  Before he could answer, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.

  * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Later in the evening Marcelle looked in on the Stefan, and found him asleep. She regretted her overreaction earlier. He had made a logical deduction, and her anger had been unjustified. If only she had told him the truth from the start.

  She returned to her room and took a warm shower before pulling on an oversized T-shirt that had belonged to Jean-Michel, and a pair of shorts. She went to the study, and sank into the comfortable leather chair behind the desk. A pile of correspondence lay in the centre of the desk. She had sent one of the guards to empty her post box, determined not to return to the scene of her crime for a long time to come. She sorted through the letters. Most were business letters, except for one from Jean-Michel’s parents, and she saved it for last.

  The tone of the letter was friendly. Christina and Remi Deschamps wanted to know when she would visit them again, and she smiled sadly, her thoughts with the elderly couple. Her late husband had been one of a pair of identical twins, an unexpected bonus for his parents, who were never able to have more children. Tragically, Jean-Michel’s brother had died at the age of eight in a freak accident. A badly traumatized Jean-Michel had survived, raised as a cherished only child. Upon his death, twenty-five years later, his parents had come to regard his widow as the daughter they never had.

  She was fond of them, and visited them often on their wine farm in the south of France, spending at least a month with them during the off-season. They were kind to her, and didn’t expect her to spend the rest of her life mourning their son. In fact, they had more than once suggested she should find herself a friend, but she had decided she didn’t want to go through the pain of losing someone ever again. Once in a lifetime was enough.

  A framed picture of Jean-Michel stood on the corner of the desk. She picked it up, and set it down in front of her. This room was where she felt closest to him, sitting in the leather chair where he had sat so often.

  The many pictures Marcelle kept of her late husband lined the walls of the study. Some showed the two of them in happier days, but she didn’t always like to look at them. On the photos, she could see the love of life she had lost, and the sparkle in her eyes that had now grown dull. Though she could feel life ebbing from her with every passing day, she couldn’t help herself. Healing could never begin while those terrible dreams plagued her, when she lost Jean-Michel again every night.

  She tilted back in the leather chair, and swung her feet up on the desk. She took the photo of Jean-Michel and propped it against her bare thighs. Her husband’s handsome face laughed back at her, his warm brown eyes dancing mischievously. She gazed at the picture, the hunger to feel his warm flesh under her fingertips threatening to consume her. Her fingers brushed over the cold glass of the portrait, tracing the line of Jean-Michel’s strong jaw, touching the firm outline of his lips. His even white teeth contrasted with his tanned complexion, with the usual five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. Rebellious black hair fell onto his forehead, and she longed to push the glossy locks back, as she so often did.

  Jean
-Michel had been a fun-loving, generous person who had viewed the world with childlike innocence. The champion driver had believed he could do anything with his powerful Formula One car, and walk away from an accident.

  No doubt, his fearlessness had led to his death. He had pushed the car further and further, until the laws of physics ceased to support him. But Marcelle knew her husband hadn’t been ready to die. Watching him trying to fight the inevitable remained a major source of her pain. She hugged the portrait to her chest, her thoughts straying back to a time when they were happy, and together. Minutes later, she was lost in her world of memories as she detached herself from the present. Eventually she fell asleep, resting snugly in the big chair.

  She often slept in the study when she felt too uneasy to go to bed, fearful of the nightmares waiting in her subconscious. When she slept in the chair, her sleep was never deep enough for dreams.

  ~ . ~

  Marcelle woke four hours later, feeling terrible. While she had slept, the ice had taken hold again, and she shivered from the chill in her chest. She sat up, and replaced the picture on the desk. Her heart fluttered like a trapped little bird, and she found it hard to breathe. She stumbled to the door of the study. The apartment was dark and quiet, adding to her panic. She put a hand to her chest, trying to still her breathing, but it only made things worse. For a second she wondered if she should try another session in the gym, but instinctively knew she had passed the point of no return. The ice would have to run its course, but she didn’t want to face it alone. Even sitting with a sleeping Stefan would provide some comfort.

  The moon shone through the open curtains, lighting the room in a silvery glow as she entered. Stefan was asleep. She felt guilty about disturbing his rest, and considered leaving, but the ice had already penetrated her entire body. She collapsed onto the carpet next to the bed, crushed to the ground by the weight of the ice. Frantic with fear, she reached up for Stefan’s hand, desperate for a link to carry her back to sanity.

  ~ . ~

  Stefan wasn’t sure if he had woken because of the cold hand that gripped his hand, or because of the labored breathing coming from the carpet next to his bed. It took him a moment to orientate himself and see Marcelle lying on the carpet. She seemed to be in some kind of distress, and he could hear her breathing coming in shallow gasps. He reversed the grip of the icy hand clutching his, and tried to pull her towards him. She was on his good side, but he didn’t have the strength to lift her inert weight.

  “Marcelle, what’s wrong? Let me help you.” He tried a few more times before he seemed to make an impression on her. She looked up at him, and he drew a sharp breath at the suffering etched on her features. Her pupils were huge, obliterating the color of her eyes, looking like black holes descending into hell. Her mouth was wide open, sucking in shallow breaths that seemed insubstantial. Though she had clearly come to him for help, she had collapsed before she could wake him.

  He tried again to pull her onto the bed. “Please Marcelle, you have to help me. I can’t lift you.”

  She shook her head. “Can’t move...ice...too heavy...too cold.”

  What that meant he couldn’t even imagine. He tried to tempt her. “I’m warm. I can melt the ice. If you can get to me, you can be warm too.”

  Some of that seemed to get through to her. The hopeful look on her face made him feel wretched. She pulled her hand from his, and used both hands to try to push herself to her feet. After a few failed attempts, she made it to her knees. He lifted the covers invitingly. Moving like an old woman, she managed to crawl onto the bed, and curl up next to him. He covered her with the blankets, using his good arm to pull her closer to him, so that she was nearly on top of him, fully in contact with his warm body.

  The sensation was unpleasant, because her skin was ice-cold, and the violent tremors that shook her body caused him great discomfort. He pressed her head against his chest, trying to soothe her. “Shhh. You’ll be warm soon. Try to take deeper breaths. Breathe a little slower.” He could sense her trying to comply, but she didn’t have enough control yet. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  She tried to speak, but between the rapid breathing and chattering teeth, she had no chance, and gave up, instead pressing her body closer to his, as if she wanted to get beneath his skin.

  Stefan realized her affliction would have to run its course before he would get anything out of her. He stroked her hair while whispering soothing words, trying to ignore the twin points of her nipples pressing against his chest.

  She calmed down in stages. The shaking became less and finally stopped, as did the chattering teeth. The tension started leaving her, though he noticed that every few minutes she would flinch, and cry out against his chest, as if some sharp pain tormented her. But eventually her breathing slowed and became more substantial as she relaxed against him. A glance at the bedside clock told him that the entire process had taken nearly an hour. Her skin was warmer, but still she squirmed against him, trying to get closer to his heat. He didn’t mind, though his wounds protested against the movement and friction.

  He jumped in surprise when her knee pushed in between his thighs, so that her bare thigh pressed against his penis. Blood immediately rushed to the site, and apparently, she enjoyed the heat, because she rubbed her thigh harder against it, the movement sending pleasurable sensations through his groin. While he wondered what to do about it, her breathing deepened as she fell asleep.

  Stefan relaxed his grip and allowed her to slide off his body, settling her next to him with her head in the crook of his arm. He lay awake for a long time, thinking. Though he would never tell her so, he had seen enough television interviews of Marcelle to remember the woman she used to be. He had always thought her attractive, though not classically beautiful. Her beauty came from the peculiar gray eyes that reflected her every emotion, and the rosy lips that could curve in an easy smile.

  Now that he had met her, he sensed that she had changed in a few subtle ways. While the smile was still there, it couldn’t erase the sadness in her eyes. He remembered the massive television coverage of the funeral. Marcelle had collapsed at the graveside, and an ambulance had rushed her to hospital. She had remained there for a week. Still, all this had happened more than two years ago. By now, she should have shaken the effects of the tragedy. But this evening’s episode pointed to some serious problems, no doubt related to her husband’s death, and he wasn’t sure how to help her.

  The unaccustomed activity had tired him out, and it wasn’t long before sleep claimed him once more. He didn’t resist, comforted by the warm female body snuggled so trustingly against him.

  ~ . ~

  Marcelle woke during the night, feeling warm and light. There was no trace of the ice, and she remembered the painful process as Stefan’s body heat had banished the cold. She had heard the ice cracking and popping as it melted, but it had left its sting as the blood supply returned to her heart and lungs. The pain had been excruciating, but it wasn’t the pain of defeat, rather of rebirth. Stefan’s voice had soothed and encouraged her throughout, and she instinctively knew that they now shared a bond that could never be broken. He had healed her. She fell asleep again, warm and secure.

  ~ . ~

  Stefan woke early. He gazed at Marcelle’s sleeping face, marveling at her long eyelashes, and her skin that was so smooth it didn’t appear to have any pores. She nestled in the crook of his right arm, clinging to him in sleep, her right arm embracing his chest, a careless leg draped across his lower body. Her firm breasts pressed against the side of his chest, and while he enjoyed it, he was sure she would feel embarrassed when she awoke. The warm womanly scent of her body, mingled with the floral scent of her shampoo, left him wishing for a few more hours of her company. He drew a deep breath, trying to imprint the memory on his consciousness.

  Marcelle sighed, and her eyes opened slowly, as if unwilling to return to the real world. They widened as she saw him, and realized how intimately she had intertwined her body w
ith his. She immediately started to disentangle herself, though she was careful not to hurt his wounds.

  A soft blush appeared on her cheeks when she noticed him watching her. “Sorry...I...I didn’t mean...I hope...I didn’t hurt you.”

  He smiled. “I hope you’re feeling better this morning.”

  “Yes, thank you, I’m fine now.” Embarrassment clouded her tones as she pushed back the covers.

  He reached out with his right hand to stay her a moment. “What happened to you last night?”

  She hesitated. “Sometimes I have bad dreams. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Thank you for comforting me.”

  The answer didn’t satisfy him. Last night had pointed to more than just a bad dream, but before he could pursue the subject, the sound of the elevator intruded. It was Louis Gautier.

  She used the diversion to free herself from his grip. “We must have overslept. I have to get some training in while the doc’s here.” With that, she fled to her bedroom.

  Marcelle had just closed her bedroom door when she heard Louis’ voice in the passage.

  “Morning, chéri,” he greeted her cheerily. “Are you ready to go?”

  She opened her door to a crack. “Hi Doc, I’m sorry I overslept. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”

  “Of course, no problem,” Louis answered, entering Stefan’s room.

  Marcelle sighed in relief, not ready to face the doctor in her disheveled state, nor did she want him to know that she had spent the night in a strange man’s arms. She hoped Stefan would be discreet. But nothing had happened between them.

  Then why was she so flushed, she accused herself as she walked to her dressing table. She sat on the stool, picked up her brush and started restoring order to her tangled hair. The high color in her cheeks accused her even more, and she flung the brush down, breathing hard, furious with herself. She had suffered a massive panic attack last night, and Stefan had helped her. He had melted the ice, and healed her. That’s all that happened. Then why did she feel so guilty?