Charade_Her Billionaire_Paris

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Breaking through would have cost time and could have attracted attention.

  Harper tapped his shoulder, cocked a thumb at the barrier. The room they were supposed to go through. Mark nodded. They would head to the drop point through another room. But thanks to Harper’s knowledge, they weren’t going to waste time.

  As they rounded another corner, there was a strong whiff of ammonia. Urine. He froze, pushed Harper back.

  A terrorist had just finished pissing in a corner of one of the big rooms—a corner they’d all been using, considering the strong stench of urine—and was closing his pants. He and Harper were exposed. They couldn’t get to any cover in the time it would take this guy to close his pants and look around. There was only one thing to do. The terrorist saw Mark rushing him, opened his mouth to shout, fumbling for the weapon hanging on a three-point sling around his neck.

  But he didn’t stand a chance. Not a fucking chance. He could have had a freaking nuclear weapon and it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  Mark closed the distance between them in less than a heartbeat, leading with the knife, punching it into the fucker’s chest with one hand while holding his mouth shut with the other. He’d have gone for the throat—one fast, deep slice of the carotid artery—but they couldn’t leave a blood trail.

  Instead, he punched his knife right between the fourth and fifth rib and twisted, tearing the heart muscle. He moved his left hand to clasp the back of the terrorist’s neck and pulled him close, so close he could hear the death rattle and see the light fade from the fucker’s eyes.

  The terrorist collapsed, held up only by Mark’s hand around the back of his neck and his hold on the knife’s haft. Mark pulled the knife out and eased the dead man down. He couldn’t see blood against the dark clothes but he could smell it.

  “Pull my lock pick set out of my backpack,” he said to Harper, and a second later it was in his hand. “Watch my back.”

  She turned and kept watch, head slowly swiveling back and forth. Mark opened the door into the wall, lifting the dead terrorist inside. He took a radio receiver from the terrorist’s pants pockets and hefted the AK-47, stripping four magazines from waist pouches.

  Man, it felt good to have firepower again.

  He stepped out from the space between the walls and touched Harper’s back. I’m here. She nodded without turning around. “No one has come by,” she said, her voice so low it was almost soundless.

  Good. Mark directed her to the entrance of the great room. They flattened their backs against the inside wall. Mark peeked around it into the corridor, not breathing, listening carefully.

  All clear. They headed out carefully. His boots were designed specifically with soles that gripped but made no noise. Her shoes, too, were noiseless. She kept pace with him perfectly, step by step. Good girl, he thought again, wanting to kiss her.

  No. Fuck no.

  Very dangerous and very stupid to think of kissing a woman on a mission. Should never happen. But he’d never been emotionally involved on a mission before. Rightly so, because it was the pits.

  It sucked. Rocks.

  Half of him was terrified that something would happen to Harper. The other half was coolly determined to keep her safe. But the half that was terrified was dangerous. Not being sharp was the best way to get her hurt.

  Never again. Never, ever again. If they got out of this alive, they’d go on vacation to Disneyworld and small, safe towns and never go anywhere dangerous. Though in this world, that was hard.

  The big corridor was very dark, not having been strung with the Christmas lights of the Gallery. It was past midnight and through the big windows he could see the internal courtyard and the black hole where the Pyramid had once stood. Shards of glass gleamed in the moonlight, something of great beauty reduced to ruins.

  Behind the black hole where the Pyramid had been was a seething mass of black bodies, police officers waiting for orders. In the distance, Mark could clearly see the light sources of cellphone screens, far away from the jamming device.

  They were massing, awaiting instructions. Knowing that a hostage situation could potentially last days.

  And in their midst were traitors. A mole or moles ready to pass on information about countermeasures, maybe planning to get the terrorists away, certainly willing to kill the hostages and blow up the Louvre.

  While the police were out there, awaiting orders, Robert’s Special Forces men were climbing the steep rooftop to drop supplies. They would enter through a remote part of the museum and muster out of sight with suppressed weapons, waiting for the signal from Mark that the hostages and terrorists were unconscious.

  Then they could quietly eliminate the patrolling guards and make it to the hostages in the Mona Lisa room. Mark knew that though they’d have a lot of firepower and explosives, they would work hard to avoid damage to the Louvre and its works of art. They were French and the Louvre was sacred.

  The mop-up of the patrol guards would have to be done quietly, one by one. No one knew who had the detonators, though Mark was certain that only the leader and two or three others had one.

  That wasn’t Mark’s problem and it wasn’t his mission. His mission was to put down the terrorists and hostages in the Mona Lisa room and to keep Harper safe.

  They were at another intersection—a huge open space with no cover at all if a patrol came by. They’d be gunned down.

  He lingered at the corner, indecisive. If it were just him, he’d make it across just as fast as he could and if he were discovered, he was now armed and he’d go down hard.

  But he had Harper with him, who wasn’t armed in any way and who would be caught in the crossfire. He looked as carefully as he could in each direction, knowing full well that the longer he waited, the greater the chance that a terrorist guard would come by on his rounds.

  Goddamn. An image of a broken and bleeding Harper was keeping him frozen.

  Shit!

  He felt an urgent tap on his shoulder and turned half around to see an exasperated face and Harper rolling her index finger forward. That wasn’t in the military manual of combat gestures but it was very clear.

  Get going!

  Stay with me, he mouthed and she nodded. One last long look in every direction and he took off. Harper followed right in his footsteps, completely silently, and they reached the other side of the intersection just as the sound of two pairs of boots came from the west corridor.

  Two men, striding together in unison. Trained and alert. They marched as if on parade grounds. New recruits, true believers. Mark pulled Harper deeper into the shadows, retreating to the back of the nearest big room.

  Mark hated doing it but he rushed them to the corner, where they stood with their backs against the wall. It was the darkest place in the dark room. Being backed into a corner was not good, physically or metaphorically, but there was no choice.

  He could faintly discern the two terrorists standing at the opening ten feet apart, backs to the room, as still as statues.

  God. Were their orders to stay there for the rest of the night? If that were so, Mark would have no choice but to rush them. He could take them down, no question, but he didn’t know if he could do it completely silently. If they’d stuck together, he could have. But if they were going to stay apart, he was in trouble.

  He could mow them down, but that would attract all the guards in the galleries and would be heard in the Mona Lisa room. The terrorists would start shooting and maybe press the detonator.

  It was possible that they’d rigged the explosives in sections, able to blow up one part, leaving the room with the hostages intact, only even more difficult to reach.

  Anything was possible.

  Mark and Harper stood, breathing shallowly, backs against the wall, and waited. Mark glanced at his watch with the non-reflective surface once. He wouldn’t do it again. Ten past midnight. He set off the stopwatch in his head and waited ten minutes, twenty.

  The drop was going to be made at 1 a.m. He
could even be late to it, but they’d expect some kind of signal that he’d picked up the load. Right now, he couldn’t signal anyone or anything. If the two guards decided to spend the night there, they were fucked.

  With the first morning light, he and Harper would be visible. Before that happened, he’d simply have to attack and kill them both, even if it brought the other guards running.

  It would likely trigger a massacre of some of the hostages, lead the terrorists to blow up at least part of the Louvre.

  This room had no internal walls, either. No hiding behind walls. No doors, nothing. Just a big empty space full of priceless paintings, with them in it.

  Harper was completely still, her hand clenched on his left forearm. There was a loud squelch from a radio. She didn’t jump but her hand tightened on his arm.

  There was no reason for the terrorists to be quiet. The one on the right lifted his arm, presumably to press the ‘talk’ button on his chest rig.

  “Ma alkhata?” he said, in Arabic. What is it?

  This wasn’t an encrypted comms set; the radio transmitted in the clear. “Any news? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No. All clear.”

  Look behind you, buddy, Mark thought. Not so clear after all.

  But neither of the men looked around.

  Mark memorized the words, the intonation of the guard, certain that he could replicate it if he had to. He was a good mimic.

  Harper’s grip on his arm loosened.

  So. Twenty minutes had gone by, meaning check-in by the terrorists patrolling the empty Louvre was not less than every twenty minutes. More likely, every half hour.

  Mark stood absolutely still, but drops of sweat formed along his hairline, a drop trickling down his spine. He’d been a sniper and knew how to wait, but waiting here with Harper, knowing that if the guards turned around they couldn’t outrun bullets, was the worst wait of his life. He could only imagine what she was going through, though she was utterly still by his side and didn’t make a sound.

  It felt like hours were going by.

  Get out, he mentally commanded the guards. Go patrol somewhere else.

  As if they’d heard him, they set off to the right.

  He and Harper waited until the sounds of the guards’ boots faded, and then quickly and quietly made their way to the entrance of the big room.

  Though she made no sound, Mark felt Harper stiffen beside him. Her cheeks gleamed silver. Tears.

  There were ten dead bodies in the corridor, each surrounded by a green lake of blood in his night vision. He’d seen them rushing in but she probably hadn’t in the darkness. Three bodies were together, holding each other, a man, a woman and a child. And a man sprawled on top of a woman, trying to protect her even in his last moment of life. The rest had died alone, people who’d only wanted to see beautiful works of art, at the wrong time in the wrong place.

  Mark had seen a lot of dead bodies in his life, and many civilian casualties, though there was something particularly affecting in these people, dead in a place that celebrated the best humanity had to offer, victims of the worst humanity had to offer.

  The sight was probably devastating to Harper, so he was prepared to give her a second or two. But she surprised him by keeping pace without faltering once, though tears poured down her face.

  Good girl, he thought for the millionth time. She was tougher than she looked.

  They quietly made their way toward their goal. Robert’s team would be making the drop and would have started staging for a counterattack, awaiting Mark’s signal.

  Finally, they made it to the huge room in the Richelieu Wing. On the west wall was an ornate fireplace with enormous wrought iron andirons. The room was a sort of a diorama of a 15th-century bedroom, with a surprisingly small canopied bed, a chest at the foot of the bed, and two tiny embroidered armchairs.

  Mark went immediately to the empty fireplace. Robert’s men knew the exact depth of the flue from the chimney pot and the length of rope was calibrated to stop right above the hearth. Nothing showed. No one would suspect that there was something there.

  Moving fast, Mark pulled out his knife, reached up into the chimney and felt the big package. He yanked the rope and the package dropped a foot, allowing him to easily cut the rope. He caught the package and pulled it out. It smelled of rubber and soot.

  There was no time to carefully unwrap. He slashed the dirty canvas packaging and pulled out the items they’d need, Harper by his side. He handed things to her, which she placed on the floor. First, two canisters that he handled very carefully. She picked up on what they were and handled them just as carefully as she placed them on the floor.

  Their eyes met, hers full of determination. A close dose of what was in that canister would be instantly lethal, and she knew that, but she looked unafraid.

  Jesus, what a woman. This was as far from her world as it was possible to get but she was proving to be as brave and resourceful as any of his teammates back in the day.

  The pump that would soundlessly propel the knockout gas into the room. Weapon—ah. He slung the terrorist’s AK-47 to his back and lovingly held the MP5 in his hands. Six magazines in the holders of a combat vest that would go over body armor. Plus, the Glock 19 with four magazines and a thigh holster. Both had fitted suppressors.

  Two sets of gloves, just as he’d asked. One a pair of shooting gloves, and a pair of latex gloves for Harper.

  Four flashbangs. They emitted overwhelming noise and light but did not explode. If this had been anywhere else, a couple of grenades would have been included. Robert hadn’t even mentioned grenades.

  Two gas masks. Mark checked them over very carefully. Any hole, even a pinprick, could prove fatal. But they looked brand new. He brought them both to his nose and they smelled new. If there was anything wrong with them and they died, Mark would come back to haunt Robert. Make his life miserable to the end of his days.

  Body armor for Harper. That went on her immediately.

  “Arms up,” he whispered and her arms went up. He slid the two plates connected by shoulder straps over her head, then carefully tied the Velcro straps at the sides, making sure it covered her entire torso. It was big, so it did. It covered her from shoulders to below the pelvic area. She was protected from major injury.

  Unless, of course, a shot caught her carotid or femoral arteries. Or both.

  Or her head.

  Fuck.

  Mark bent and held her tightly, the body armor like a carapace around her heart. He was glad it was there but he couldn’t feel her. Her warmth, her heartbeat. His head dropped to her shoulder.

  She patted him on the back, as if to reassure him, calm him down.

  Harper turned her head until her lips were right against his ear. “I’ll be okay.”

  He nodded, hoping that was true.

  “You’ll make sure of it.”

  He nodded again, knowing that was true. By God, he’d do his best to keep her safe.

  The satphone buzzed silently. He’d blacked out the screen. Robert, checking on him to see if he’d received the drop.

  He had to let go of Harper, see to the next part of the mission.

  His arms wouldn’t obey him, he couldn’t seem to let her go. Finally, it was Harper who stepped back. “Answer that,” she whispered in his ear.

  Yes. Mark wiped sweat from his brow and tapped the earbud.

  “Did you receive the package?” Robert asked. Mark tapped his earbud twice.

  “We’re still staging, but we’ll be ready by 3 a.m. Okay?”

  He tapped twice.

  “Good. Bonne chance, mon ami.”

  Mark turned to find, to his surprise, Harper had picked up the rest of the equipment, wrapping it in the tarp he’d sliced open, carrying that over her shoulder.

  He tried to take it from her but she shook her head and stepped back. “You have to keep your hands free,” she whispered.

  Mark’s heart gave a sudden extra beat. He nodded and twirled his ind
ex finger.

  Heading out.

  The way back was as horrible as the way there, only harder. Harper was carrying all the equipment on her back, which made her feel unbalanced and awkward. Mark could have carried it laughing, together with her and probably a Volkswagen. But their one chance of survival if they were caught was Mark’s ability with firearms and he needed his hands free for that. Luckily, he was now armed to the teeth with a submachine gun, another automatic weapon slung across his back which he’d taken from the dead terrorist, and some kind of pistol he wore on a holster. The weapons looked completely natural on him and he wore them as if they were invisible.

  How could she have possibly mistaken this man for a boring businessman? Everything about him screamed warrior, unmistakably. The way he carried himself, ready for anything, the way he seemed to be aware of their surroundings at all times, his ability to plan a way to take down the terrorists without a massacre…wow.

  He exuded power, it came off him in waves. Not political power or the power of money, which is what she was used to. No, this man was power, in the old-fashioned sense of the term. An alpha male, in his prime, utterly dangerous.

  Certainly, she was happier to be here in this impossibly dangerous situation with Mark Redmond, security expert, than she would be with Mark Redmond, plumbing supplies importer.

  Harper followed Mark step by step, even when they had to go out into the great hall, full of bodies. It had sickened her when she’d first seen them, in that unmistakable sprawl of death. It still sickened her, the work of monsters.

  But she couldn’t react now, their job was to stop the terrorists from killing even more people.

  She glanced at the bodies as they made their way quickly down the hall and sent up a silent prayer for their souls, gone too soon and gone too violently.

  They reached the room where they’d taken refuge, the room the terrorists had used as a urinal. Mark glanced at his watch. It had a strange kind of dial that didn’t reflect the light. Amazing. She’d never have thought of that. And yet a watch dial that gleamed was a dead giveaway.