Martin was waiting outside the restaurant when a commotion arose down the street. From the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, a man ran into the road, traffic skidded to a stop, and horns blared. The guy was yelling something, but Martin was too far away to hear the words. He saw great dramatic gestures, though, and, even from this distance, recognized fear.
Pushing away from the wall, he rubbed the back of his neck as he took a few steps in that direction. The rub didn’t ease the sudden discomfort there. Neither did the distant wail of sirens. He glanced down the street in each direction. People were gathering, making their way toward the end of the block, talking excitedly among themselves. He should see Juliet among those people. It was nearly noon, time for her to meet him here. If she’d driven, her car should be among those stopped in the street. If she’d walked…
He began running, dodging people, pushing into the street where there were fewer obstacles. Just as he neared the cars where two cops had taken cover, a gunshot sounded, its noise muffled by all the surrounding sound but shattering just the same. Bystanders screamed, dropped to the ground or ran away. Martin ran even faster toward the commotion.
“Smith!” One of the cops grabbed him, yanked him down behind a car. “He’s not going to hurt her. She’ll be all right.”
Twisting around to face the office building, he saw what the fear had already known, what the ache in his neck had meant. Maxwell Brown was struggling with the door of the building. The gunshot had been a warning to the officers not to try anything while he forced his hostage inside.
His hostage. Juliet.
Finally Brown succeeded, dragging Juliet inside and out of sight. The last thing Martin saw before the door was kicked shut again was her face. Her eyes. Her terrified, pleading blue eyes.
He sank to the pavement, sick inside. He’d known better than to involve her in this mess. He’d worried about her safety, but he hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t backed off and done whatever was necessary to keep her out of danger. Now, thanks to him, she was in more danger than either of them had ever imagined. Now, thanks to him, she might die. Then he surely would.
How had Brown known? They had never come face-to-face with him. They had never done a thing to attract his attention. Sure, he’d seen her car parked out in front of his house one night, but people parked on the streets, even in his neighborhood, and he hadn’t seen them. What in hell had made him suspicious of her?
Just then his gaze connected with someone in the crowd, and he knew he had his answer. There was such distress on Hal Stuart’s face. Such guilt.
Martin surged to his feet and shoved through the crowd. At the same time, Hal began walking away, excusing himself politely at first, then shoving people out of his way. He was near the intersection when Martin caught him, grabbing handfuls of his suit coat, pushing him against the wall. “What the hell have you done?”
“I— I haven’t— I didn’t—” Hal drew a breath, then pulled his indignation around him like a cloak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The man is obviously crazy. Your little friend apparently angered him, and he—”
“Yeah, right.”
Still holding Hal, Martin turned to see a boy of about twelve leaning against the wall nearby. “You see what happened?”
“They came out of the building together—him and that other guy. The woman was just walking by, and he—” he jerked his head toward Hal “—grabbed her and shoved her at the other guy, then ran away.” The boy’s voice turned scornful. “He used her to get away.”
For a moment Hal tried to bluster his way through. Then his shoulders sagged. “He had a gun. He would have killed me.”
Martin could kill him. It would be so easy to wrap his hands around the bastard’s neck and squeeze the life out of him one precious breath at a time. He could snap his neck, or he could just beat him to a bloody, lifeless pulp right here on the street. So easy.
But he didn’t. He leaned forward, closer than he’d ever been to anyone but Juliet, close enough to make Hal flinch and try to press himself right into the stone at his back. “Big mistake, pal,” he whispered. “Because if he kills her, if he hurts her in any way, I’ll kill you, and it won’t be as quick and easy as a bullet to the head. I’ll make you suffer, you worthless son of a bitch. I’ll make you beg to die. Do you understand?”
His expression one of pure terror, Hal managed a nod.
Martin backed off a step or two, released his hold on the coat, smoothed the wrinkles, then clamped his fingers around Hal’s arm. “Get over here. The police will need your help.”
Other officers had arrived and were blocking off the area, moving spectators back. One tried to block Martin’s way, but took one look at his face and stepped aside.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Chief Sanderson demanded.
“We have a hostage situation, sir,” one of the first two cops on the scene volunteered.
“You told me that on the radio. What hostage? What situation? Where are they?”
“They’re in Stuart’s office building,” Martin replied. “Seems Maxwell Brown got a little ticked off with Hal.”
The chief looked from him to Hal, then back. “If he’s ticked with Hal, why does he have someone else as hostage?”
“Being the big man that he is, Hal grabbed a woman walking by and used her so he could escape.” Martin’s voice dropped a tone or two and became thick with emotion. “It’s Juliet.”
The chief gave him a look of sympathy before turning to Hal. “Is anyone else in the building?”
“My assistant has gone to lunch.”
The chief grunted acknowledgment, then began shouting orders. Officers started to evacuate the surrounding buildings. Others pushed the crowds back even farther, and still others began clearing the traffic stopped on the block preparatory to setting up barricades.
Martin stood where he was, staring at the building and listening to Hal explain the layout to the chief. The building was two stories and maybe fifty feet wide. Hal’s offices occupied the first floor, and the second floor was empty, used only to store some cartons. Years ago a dance school had filled that space. There were a few cubicles in the corners—an office and dressing rooms—but the rest of the floor was open, one large expanse of hardwood floor with mirrors on the two long sides. The stairs came up at the back—half a flight, a large landing, then the remaining half flight.
Brown had taken Juliet to the second floor. Martin was convinced of it. There were two windows at the front of the building where he could keep an eye on what was going on out here, two windows covered with blinds that denied a rooftop sniper even a glimpse into the room. There was only one way in—the stairs—and the way Hal described them, it would be virtually impossible for anyone to sneak up them unnoticed. Even if he managed, cardboard cartons didn’t provide much cover, and there were the mirrors, reflecting every move he made.
There was no phone on the second floor, but Brown, being the consummate businessman, had his cell. Once they’d located the number, the chief called him. “Maxwell, son, I don’t know what’s going on here, but this is no way to deal with it. Let my computer programmer go, put the gun away, and we’ll talk.”
What was going on? Martin wondered as he stared at the second-floor windows. What had happened to make Maxwell Brown panic? Why had he gone looking for Hal Stuart with a gun, apparently intending to kill him? Maybe the Big Blue shipment had been diverted by untrustworthy employees. Maybe it had been discovered by the authorities. Maybe Hal had finally connected Brown to Olivia’s murder and had threatened to go to the police. Maybe he’d tried to blackmail Brown. Maybe—
The touch of a hand on his arm startled him. He jerked around to see Stone standing beside him.
“She’ll be okay,” the detective said quietly.
Martin wanted to believe it, more than he’d ever wanted anything. While one part of his mind had been fixated on the situation, the other part had been frantically praying, offering God whatever deals were necessary to keep Juliet safe. He would leave her and Grand Springs, would give her up completely and live the rest of his life missing her if that was what it took. Or he would stay, would stay here forever, would marry her and spend the rest of his life loving and keeping her safe. He would do anything, would trade places with her, would trade his life for hers.
“She’ll be okay,” Stone repeated. “Maxwell Brown—”
“Is a killer.”
Stone stared at him. “How did you—”
Now it was Martin’s turn to stare. How did you know? the cop had been about to ask. Not, Why do you say that? Not, Are you crazy? Not, Brown is a respectable businessman, but, How did you know? Which meant that Stone knew, too. Which meant— “You found Dean Springer, didn’t you?”
Stone’s gaze narrowed. “Nobody outside the department is supposed to know that we picked him up this morning in Denver. Did Juliet tell you?”
Martin shook his head. No doubt she would have once she’d reached the restaurant, but thanks to Brown—and Hal—she’d never made it.
“Then how do you know?”
“We’ve been trying to prove a few theories of our own.”
“Such as?”
Martin dragged his hand through his hair and watched the chief for a moment. Sanderson didn’t seem to be making any progress with Brown. “We think Brown is using his trucking company and his car dealership and his airplanes to smuggle drugs. The mayor found out, and he had her killed.”
“And you came to this conclusion based on…?”
“Instinct.”
“You’re right. Springer admitted everything.” Stone’s look was part chagrined, part disbelieving. “Instinct. A man without a past and a woman who eats, breathes and sleeps computers, and your instincts are better than the combined resources of the Grand Springs PD.”
Staring at the building again, Martin shrugged. “I think…maybe I had some experience with drug smuggling.”
Stone didn’t immediately discount his words the way Juliet had. Of course, Stone was a cop, which was just another way of saying a cynic. He was paid to look twice at people, to not take them at face value, to look at actions and suspect motives. Juliet was an innocent, a woman who knew machines better than people, a woman in love. She wanted to believe the best of him.
“If Brown lets Juliet go, will the chief let him walk?” he asked abruptly.
“He ordered the murder of our mayor,” Stone reminded him, then reluctantly answered his question. “I don’t think so.”
Martin didn’t like the answer, but it didn’t surprise him. That wasn’t the important question, anyway. What mattered—all that mattered—was whether Brown was desperate enough to kill Juliet. If he knew he had nothing to gain by holding her, he might let her go. But if he knew he had nothing to gain by freeing her, he might kill her. It would be his last defiant act, his last chance to flout the law.
Because, without Juliet, Martin would have nothing to gain by showing restraint, nothing to lose by venting his rage. He would have no choice at all.
He would kill Brown.
* * *
The air on the second floor was stifling and dancing with dust. Juliet sat in the middle of the floor, fifteen feet from the front of the building, in a straight-backed wooden chair, one of a dozen that had lined one wall. Her hands were tied behind her back with a length of faded pink ribbon, left behind by some long-ago ballerina, and her ankles were secured to one wooden chair leg with Maxwell Brown’s silk tie.
She was hot. Hungry. Thirsty. And she had to go to the bathroom.
She tried to smile mockingly, to make fun of her urgent needs. She hadn’t been here more than an hour, and it looked as if she would be here a lot longer, but suddenly everything she felt was intensified. The mild hunger she’d felt before leaving her office was now ravenous. Her throat was as dry as if she’d been days without water, and the bathroom… Well, the others might be exaggerated by the situation, but she really did have to go to the bathroom, more with each passing minute. As long as she concentrated on that, she didn’t have to think so much about the situation she was in.
Brown stood at the front of the room between the two windows. Twice he’d talked to someone on his cell—the police, she assumed—and both times he’d hung up in anger. Another half-dozen times he’d listened to it ring repeatedly before finally shutting off the power and laying it on a nearby chair. Since then he’d stared at the wall.
She would be absolutely terrified if Martin wasn’t outside. As it was, she was pretty damn scared. After their first excursion to the trucking company warehouse, she’d thought she wanted more excitement, thrills and danger in her life, but she’d been wrong. All she wanted now was to lock herself inside her pretty little house with Martin and Hunter and never come out again. She never wanted to be excited again. God help her, if she lived through this, she would never go looking for danger again.
“Excuse me.” When Brown gave no sign of hearing her, she cleared her throat and spoke louder. “Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Forget it.”
“Forget it? It’s a natural function of the body. It occurs whether you want it to or not. I can’t forget it.”
“There’s not a bathroom handy.”
“Oh, please. This was a dance studio. Little kids came here for dance classes that lasted an hour at a time.”
Finally he gave her a derisive look over one shoulder. “And your point is?”
“Kids go to the bathroom at the drop of a hat. They have to go all the time when they’re supposed to be doing something else. One of those little rooms has to be a bathroom.”
Acting as if she were more trouble than she was worth—and if that’s true, then, please, God, make him let me go!—he checked first one corner, then the other. The third door he opened led into a bathroom.
He untied her hands, then stood guard while she undid the tie around her ankles. Nudging her with the gun, he followed her to the small room, backing off only when she closed the door.
The room was tiny and dusty. There was no window and only the flimsiest of locks on the door—probably so teachers could rescue small children who locked themselves in. If she’d ever been forced to take dance lessons, that was an option she would have considered.
After taking care of business, she washed her hands, then caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face was white, her cheeks bright crimson, and her eyes had doubled in size. She looked scared half out of her mind. She was scared. Maxwell Brown was a cold-blooded killer. He’d had no qualms about ordering the murder of a woman he’d known most of his life, a woman he’d chaired committees with, danced with at charity balls and publicly declared a friend. Apparently, he’d been ready to deal the same fate to Hal until she’d had the misfortune to walk past. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, too, if he thought it necessary.
Tears welled in her eyes. She was too young to die. She had too much unfinished business. Who would take care of Hunter? Who would finish the work she’d started? Who would deal with her house? And who would love Martin?
The doorknob jiggled, and she rapidly wiped her hands across her eyes. She was turning toward the door when suddenly it swung open under the tremendous force of a kick, brushing just millimeters past her and bouncing off the wall.
“No more locking the door,” Brown said. The twisted metal that had once been the lock ensured that.
With the gun pointed square in her back, she returned to the chair, where he tied her once again. “Why are you doing this?” she asked as he walked away.
“Over the last twenty years I’ve made a lot of money. I’ve lived quite a life.” He smiled a chilling smile. “I’ve grown accustomed to luxury.”
And, of course, prisons could hardly be described as luxurious. “This is pointless. They’re not going to let you walk out of here.”
“Don’t tell me that, sweetheart. If a hostage can’t guarantee safe passage, then what is she good for besides killing?”
She clamped her mouth shut for a time, then murmured, “I don’t deserve this.”
“No, you don’t. I don’t even know who the hell you are. Sanderson said something about computers?”
“I’m setting up the new systems at the library and the police department. My name is Juliet.”
He snorted. “Too bad there’s no Romeo around to save you.”
But there was. He was outside, and he was looking for a way to rescue her. She knew he was.
The minutes crawled past. Her gaze kept straying to the big clock on the wall, but it had stopped working ages ago. According to it, it was eleven-eighteen forever. Her shoulders were starting to burn from the awkward position, and her fingers had lost some sensation. She was miserable, but misery she could deal with.
Terror, she couldn’t.
After a time—a few minutes? a few hours?—Brown turned on the phone. It rang almost immediately. For the first time he gave the chief a list of demands: all officers pulled back at least a block, transportation to the airport, one of his own pilots and one of his own planes, fueled and ready to go. If there were no attempts at capture or rescue, if they got away safely, at the first opportunity, he would instruct the pilot to land and would release Juliet. If not, he would kill her.
She wondered if Chief Sanderson believed him. She wondered if she did. On the one hand, if he had a pretty clean getaway, why add another murder to the charges against him? That seemed foolish. On the other hand, she could see his face, his expression, his eyes. Why leave a witness who could testify against him? That was foolish, too.
Apparently, the chief tried to negotiate. Brown grew angry and snapped, “You’ve heard what I want. Now get it!” and disconnected the call.
Once his annoyance had slipped away, Juliet cleared her throat and timidly asked, “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
* * *
Night had fallen. Only a few die-hard gawkers remained on the sidewalk behind the barricades. Chief Sanderson had turned control of the situation over to Stone and gone home. Hal had gone home, too, hours ago, with a couple of officers assigned to keep an eye on him. With Brown holed up inside the office building, he didn’t need the protection, Hal had insisted. They weren’t there to protect him, the chief had explained. He’d left it to Hal to figure out that they were there to make sure he didn’t go anywhere.
Twelve hours ago, if it’d been up to him, Martin would have thrown Hal in jail. Hell, he’d have hurt him, maybe even killed him. Of course, he wasn’t bound by the constraints of the law, like the chief was. All Sanderson had was the word of an admitted killer that Hal Stuart had been part of Brown’s drug operation. They needed corroborative evidence before they arrested and charged one of the most influential people in town, but they could keep an eye on him until such evidence was found.
“Any suggestions?”
Martin didn’t look at Stone but kept his gaze focused on the blueprints of the building. Spread over the hood of a police car, they confirmed everything Hal had said. Brown couldn’t have picked a better place to take a hostage if he’d planned it. There were only two entrances—the front door and an alley door. There was only one staircase. Unlike TV movies, there were no convenient heating shafts running overhead. “Any assault would have to be straightforward—through the windows or up the stairs. Rappeling down from the roof and in through a window would give us the element of surprise, but we’d be going in blind.” He glanced at Stone, but the detective didn’t react to his use of we. It was a done deal—in his mind, at least—that he would be part of any rescue attempt. There was no way in hell he was going to trust Juliet’s life to anyone else. “We wouldn’t know where Brown and Juliet are until we were actually in the room. That second or two to get oriented is enough time for him to kill her.”
“But coming up the stairs, we’d be visible from here on up.” Stone pointed to a spot about halfway up the second flight. “We would have to take him out immediately or we’d be sitting ducks.” He glanced up at the dark windows. “The chief really wants to take him alive.”
“That’s not the chief’s choice. If Brown’s willing to be taken alive, he will be. If not…”
After a moment of silence, Stone asked, “Do you know how to rappel?”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t done it since before last June, but he knew. He figured it was something you never forgot. Like riding a bike. Like sex. Making love with Juliet, though… That’d been a whole different experience.
“You know how to use a gun?”
“I used to score around two hundred and ninety-five on range qualifications.” He didn’t waste time wondering how he knew that.
Stone gave him a long, level look, then shook his head. “You’re an interesting man, Martin. You talk like a cop, but, according to the FBI, you’re not. You seem to think you’re a crook, but, according to the FBI, you’re not that, either. I’d like to know what’s locked away inside that head of yours.”
So would he, he thought grimly.
“We can’t do anything without the chief’s go-ahead, but in case he gives it, tomorrow morning, go out to the range with me. I want to see just how good you are. We might be able to use you.”
Martin nodded, then stared up at the second-floor windows. He was more afraid than he’d ever been in his life, but the fear was walled off. He could think, talk, plan. He just couldn’t feel. He was cold, mechanical, fully in control. When all this was over, when Juliet was safe in his arms, that would be the time for feeling, for reacting, for falling apart. That would be the time to tell her he loved her, that no matter what secrets his past held, he would love her forever.
And if it ended badly? If he never held Juliet again, if she could never hear the promises he wanted to make? He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw a little tighter, clung to his control a little harder and detached himself a little further. No ifs. Just whens. It would end, and she would be safe. She had to be.
She was his life.
The cell phone in Stone’s pocket rang, and every man on the block swung toward him. He talked for only a moment, then hung up. “He wants food, and he doesn’t want a cop bringing it in.” His gaze connected with Martin’s. “What do you think? Want to get a look at what we’re up against?”
“You bet.”
Stone sent a cop down the street to the diner, then opened the trunk of his unit and pulled out a bulletproof vest. “Put this on under your shirt.”
Martin stripped off his T-shirt and pulled the bulky vest over his head. He’d done this before, he thought grimly. It felt too familiar to simply be a case of déjà vu. A criminal wearing a bulletproof vest. That was an interesting thought. But why not? By the very nature of their work, crooks were in a more dangerous field than cops. Cops generally only had to worry about the criminals. Criminals had to worry about cops, other criminals and victims who chose to fight back.
He pulled his shirt on again and smoothed it down. Already a snug fit, it stretched over the vest. Every bump, strap and seam were clearly visible.
“Here, try this.” Stone pulled off his leather jacket and handed it over. The fit wasn’t perfect—about a size too big—but that was okay. Under the circumstances, too big was perfect.
When the cop returned from the diner, he gave the bags to Martin. The smell of egg salad and chicken salad sandwiches made his mouth water. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast—scrambled eggs and bacon at Juliet’s kitchen table. He’d shared the bacon with Hunter, who had warmed up to him enough to rub against his leg and look pathetically hungry. Juliet had chided him that bacon wasn’t good for the dog while munching her own, and he had teased her—Deliberately he pushed the memories to the back of his mind. He needed all his attention on the task at hand. There could be no screwups, no slips because his emotions weren’t under control.
Stone called Brown and told him the food was on its way. When he hung up, Martin crossed the street and walked through the door. The carpeted hallway led straight to the back, passing an open reception area that was still lighted, with the computer still turned on and a radio playing softly. Hal’s administrative assistant had gone out for a quick lunch, never expecting to be away this long.
There were lights on in Hal’s office, too. A glance through the open door showed shelves of leather-bound law books, a massive desk, rich, dark paneling, thick carpet. Everything in the room was elegant, expensive, including the suitcase standing next to the desk, its sterling tag engraved with Hal’s initials.
Martin continued down the hall, making no effort at muffling his passage. As he climbed the stairs, he made a point of rattling the paper bags, of placing his feet heavily on each tread. At the landing he stopped and, injecting a nervous note into his voice, called, “Hello? Mr. Brown?”
“Come on up.”
The voice came from somewhere near the top of the stairs, but Martin couldn’t see him. The only light on this floor was a single bulb in the stairwell that didn’t illuminate much—a wood floor, shadowy mirrors, a stack of records storage boxes four high, two deep and four long.
And Juliet. She was in shadow near the opposite end of the room, slumped in a chair. Her hands were tied behind her, and her feet, judging from the awkwardness of her position, were also bound.
Fear tightened his chest and made breathing difficult. She was so still. Had Brown hurt her? Had he already killed her? Martin couldn’t bear the thought, but it wouldn’t be the first time some bastard had killed his hostage while continuing to negotiate for the hostage’s release.
“Stop there.”
Martin came to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs. Brown was off to his left, hidden in the shadows, no doubt pointing his gun directly at him.
“Another late night, Mr. Smith? Insomnia, isn’t it? Bet you never thought you’d be enlisted to deliver food to Grand Springs’s newest most wanted, did you? You can put it down on the boxes right there and get out.”
At the mention of his name, Juliet straightened in the chair and managed just the slightest of glances over her shoulder before turning back. A small sound of pain accompanied the movement and stirred his anger. His fingers clenched the bags. “I’m supposed to see that she’s all right before I leave.”
“You’re fine, aren’t you, Juliet?”
She didn’t reply.
“I’m supposed to see. To look at her. To make sure. Stone said so.” It was an easy lie—one that Brown shouldn’t object to—and too good an opportunity to pass up.
“Make it quick. And don’t try anything. I’m prepared to kill you both.”
Martin wasn’t sure whether that last was bluster or statement of fact. He wasn’t about to find out. Setting a normal pace, he walked the length of the room, the rubber soles of his running shoes squeaking with every step. As he walked, he took notice of the high ceiling that showed bare steel beams supporting the roof, the long mirrors, the blinds at the windows, the depth of the shadows. He memorized the exact position of Juliet’s chair in relation to both windows and to the chair where Brown had been sitting.
Finally he circled in front of her, put a good three feet between them and crouched. She looked as if she might burst into tears at any second. “You okay?”
She nodded, and one tear slid down her cheek.
“She’s fine,” Brown said impatiently. “She’s tired, she’s hungry, she’s hot, she’s cold, and she goes to the bathroom a lot. Other than that, she’s a perfect little hostage. Just waiting for a Romeo, aren’t you, Juliet?”
Mention of Romeo made her shift. “Hunter’s hungry,” she said plaintively.
“Oh, yes, she worries about her dog.” Brown was scornful, as if the idea of worrying about anyone else when your life was in danger made no sense to him.
“I’ll feed him.” Martin lowered his voice. “Juliet—”
“Enough! You’ve seen her. Now, leave the food and get the hell out.”
He set the bags on the floor, then slowly got to his feet. As he walked near her, he ducked his head and winked. She rewarded him with a weary, sweet smile.
On his way out, Brown gave him one last instruction. He left the building and walked to the middle of the street, standing motionless until he saw the blinds open slightly, then close.
“What’s that about?” Stone asked.
“He wanted to make sure I’d left the building.” Martin returned the jacket to Stone and removed the vest while relating everything he’d seen, including the suitcase in Hal’s office.
“Maybe that’s what set him off. Hal planned to leave town, and Brown panicked—figured it’d be safer to kill him than let him go.”
“Why would Hal want to leave town? Why now?”
Stone was silent for a moment before slowly answering, “Because he knew Dean Springer had been arrested and that it was only a matter of time until we came looking for him.”
“And how did he know about Springer? You said no one outside the department was supposed to know.”
“Obviously someone told him.”
“Someone warned him. It may have been innocent. It may have just been someone wanting him to know that one of his mother’s murderers had been caught. Or Hal might have an informant in your department. Someone who knows he’s dirty. Someone who protects him. Either way, you need to find out.”
“Believe me, we will.” Stone rubbed the back of his neck. “You look tired. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
Martin’s smile was thin and mocking. “Under the best of circumstances, I don’t find it easy to sleep. I do need to feed Juliet’s dog, though. I’ll be back when I’m done.”
* * *
Juliet had never been so miserable in her life.
Her head ached. Even when she thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, the burning in her shoulders and arms increased another degree. Her fingers might never regain feeling again. Her back hurt. Her eyes hurt. Even her throat hurt, from her refusal to cry.
She didn’t know how many hours had passed—at least thirty. Activity outside this morning had roused her from an achy, restless sleep. They’d had breakfast and lunch, delivered by a man she didn’t know, and there had been more phone calls, more demands and arguing and bad-tempered displays. For one endless moment this afternoon, she had feared that Brown was going to make good on his threat and kill her right then and there. He had backed off, but he remained edgy and restless.
“What time is it?” Her voice was small, thin. She was so tired that holding her head up was an ordeal, but trying to doze in this chair, in this position, was more of one. Maybe tonight—
She cringed at the idea of another night like last night. If that was the only option, the most merciful thing he could do was kill her now.
“There’s a clock on the wall.”
“It’s stopped.” She had come to hate that clock in the last thirty-some hours. Not knowing the time—except when her infrequent trips to the bathroom freed her wrist so she could check her watch—was making her crazy, and that big clock stuck on eleven-eighteen didn’t help any.
“It’s nighttime. That’s all you need to know.”
“Can I get up and walk around?”
“No.”
“Please… This is so uncomfortable.”
“For God’s sake, would you quit whining?” he snapped. “I have a few things on my mind more important than your comfort.”
She sat silent for only a moment, then drew a deep breath and said, “You know they’re not going to let you go. No matter what you do to me, they won’t let you get away.”
“You’d better hope you’re wrong. I’ll die before I’ll go to prison—and I won’t die alone. The only way you’re walking out of here alive is with me.”
She shook her head. “This is a mistake. You can’t get away with it.”
“You think some white knight’s going to come riding in here to rescue you?” He was looking at her with pity, as if she were living in fantasyland. “You just told me yourself that they’re not going to let me go, not even to save your life. They don’t care whether you live or die. There’s no white knight for you, Juliet. There’s no Romeo.”
“Maybe the police don’t care, but someone does, and he’s far more dangerous than you ever dreamed of being.”
Brown came closer, right up into her face. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, so softly. “There’s no one more dangerous than me. Remember that.”
* * *
Down on the street, out of sight around the corner, Martin slipped on a navy blue windbreaker over a bulletproof vest. The jacket, with Police stamped on the front and back in bright gold letters, was identical to the ones Stone and Jack Stryker wore. Where he and Stone were armed with automatic pistols, though, Jack was carrying an H&K MP-5 submachine gun. Weighing less than eight pounds and fitted with a laser sight, it was perfect for their needs.
“He’s a civilian, Stone. We can’t send a civilian into a hostage situation,” Chief Sanderson said, a worried look adding ten years to his face. “This is very unorthodox.”
“He’s an unorthodox sort of civilian,” Stone replied.
“He’s not going to sit back and do nothing while we try to get Juliet out of there,” Jack put in. “He knows what he’s doing. We might as well take advantage of it.”
The chief didn’t look convinced but gave up the argument. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered. “I should be at the lake catching fish.”
Martin snapped up the jacket, then glanced around. “Who’s got the best pitching arm?”
“We just happen to have two All-State pitchers in the department,” Stone said with a grin. “Harris, Dailey…” he called.
The two officers who came forward couldn’t be older than twenty-two. They were both wiry, and both looked more than capable of tossing the grenades through the front windows.
The flash-bangs were Martin’s idea. The small canisters did exactly what their name said—exploded with a tremendously brilliant flash and a bang loud enough, under some circumstances, to rupture a person’s eardrums. They momentarily blinded anyone nearby and left a ringing in unprotected ears that would last a half hour or more. They would distract and disable Brown long enough for him, Stone and Jack to free Juliet and take the bastard down.
Stone gave Harris and Dailey final instructions and confirmed the time needed for everyone to get into place, then they separated. Walking close to the building to minimize the risk of detection, Martin holstered his gun while inserting earplugs. That done, he drew the pistol out again, eased the door open and slipped inside. The lights were still on, the radio still playing. He led the way down the carpeted hall, then moved stealthily, cautiously up the stairs.
On the landing, he paused to pull on protective goggles as Stone and Jack did the same. He lowered himself to the floor, then eased up the next few stairs, just high enough to see across the room. Juliet sat in the same chair, her hands still tied behind her. After thirty-six hours, she must hurt like hell. Just one more thing for Brown to pay for.
Maxwell Brown was sitting down, too, in a comfortable padded chair pulled from the old dance school office. He had drawn a wooden chair close for a footstool and sat with his hands folded around his pistol. He didn’t look like a man in a world of trouble, but as if he were merely contemplating the day just passed or the one yet to come.
Once Jack was in place, the laser ready to sight, Martin moved with absolute silence up the remaining steps and behind the stack of boxes. Stone followed.
Martin looked at his watch, then mentally counted. Five, four, three, two—The shattering glass made Juliet jerk upright and brought Brown to his feet. The first flash-bang detonated, washing the entire room in intense light, vibrating the very structure of the building with its bang and sending a concussive wave through the air. Even with earplugs, Martin’s ears ached. Even with his goggles and his face bent against his arm, the brilliant light distorted his vision.
As he crouched behind the stack of boxes, waiting for the second flash-bang, Martin suddenly doubled over. Sounds—loud, angry, pleading—assaulted him. A woman’s cries that dissolved into a voice, his own voice, made barely recognizable by fury. Leave us alone, you bastard, or I’ll kill you.
No, honey, it’s all right. Please, your daddy didn’t mean it. Please don’t— A scream, long and panicked, then softer, horrified: He’s dead! Oh, my God, you’ve killed him!
A nightmare come to life. It had plagued him for nearly a year, but this time there was a difference. This time he could see the faces—his own, much younger and distorted with shock, his mother’s, tearstained as she frantically shook the unmoving figure below him, and that figure. His father. Lifeless.
This time he understood more than the intolerable fact that he’d killed a man. He knew that he’d killed his own father.
And he knew who that man was.
He knew who he was.
The second flash-bang exploded, the concussion so strong that Martin felt it as a real physical force pushing against him. He gave a shake of his head to clear it, to dispel the shock of remembering, and forced himself to cling to the knowledge that Juliet was only a short distance away and she needed him. He left the cover of the boxes and moved silently toward her as Stone, back behind him, called, “Drop the gun, Maxwell.”
Brown stood hunched over, clutching both hands to his ears, unable to hear himself swear. “You sons of bitches! You lying, deceiving sons of bitches, I told you I’d kill her!” He pointed the gun blindly and fired, pointed and fired again, then drew aim on Juliet as surely as if he could see her.
“No!” Martin raced across the room, then made a flying tackle, knocking Juliet and the chair through the air as a burst of gunfire exploded through the room. They hit the floor and slid across the hardwood. Yanking the hunting knife from its sheath on his belt, he sliced through the bonds that secured her, kicked the chair away and shielded her body with his own. Even with his weight pressing her down, she was shaking. She clung to him, whimpering, whispering something—prayers, he thought, and added his own.
The commotion ended as abruptly as it had begun. Slowly he lifted his head, turned to see Maxwell Brown lying motionless on the floor. At the other end of the room, Stone came out from behind the boxes and Jack was walking up the stairs, the H&K held loosely but ready to fire in an instant. Juliet was crying.
He sat up, scooted back to lean against the wall and lifted her into his lap. He pulled off the goggles, removed the earplugs, then kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw. “It’s all right, darlin’. We’re all right.”
“I was so afraid.”
“So was I, babe. But it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He held her a moment longer, then pushed her back, brushed her hair from her face, dried her tears. “Juliet? There’s something I need to tell you.”
Sniffling, she looked at him, her eyes liquid blue and full of love, and patiently waited.
He tried to smile, but his mouth quivered. Hell, his whole body was quivering. Forcing a deep breath into his lungs, he looked into her eyes and found the peace he needed there. “My name is Colton Stuart, Roy Colton Stuart Jr., and I think I’m one of the good guys, and I love you more than anything in the world. Will you marry me?”