Charade

by Lisa Marie Rice

  And there it was again—that vision of the future. Of a future, bright with possibility, with him in it. Enticing and just there, not beyond her reach. All they had to do was survive the next 24 hours. That future felt bright and real and overcame the shadows of fear she had.

  Mark settled, gently pushed her head on to his shoulder. “Rest. We’ve got hours of waiting ahead of us. Sleep a little, if you can.”

  Sleep? Sleep? With terrorists holding weapons on terrified hostages just a few yards away? With the Louvre wired to blow up and bury them in tons of stone?

  Was he crazy?

  “I know it sounds nuts,” Mark said, keeping his hand on the side of her head, gently pressing, “but soldiers in the field sleep whenever possible. You don’t know what’s coming and you need to be as rested as you can.”

  Made sense, but Harper knew sleep would be impossible. “I’ll try,” she said, no conviction in her voice.

  “Uh-huh.” Mark turned his head to kiss her brow. “It would help if you closed your eyes.”

  “Not sleepy.” She was so amped up. Not even a horse tranquilizer would put her to sleep.

  “Close your eyes anyway.”

  Obediently, she shut her eyes, not that it would make any difference at all. She was way too wound up for sleep. No way.

  In seconds, she plunged into a big, deep black hole of dreamless sleep.

  Something jolted her awake and she opened her eyes suddenly, pulling in a deep breath. A large, hard hand covered her mouth and she struggled briefly, uselessly. Attempts to dislodge the hand were pointless.

  She’d come out of sleep like a rocket shooting up into space, head spinning.

  Where was she? Harper bolted up, a heavy weight dropping from her shoulders. It was dim, cramped, dusty. Where the hell…

  Oh God. It all came crashing back. The Louvre, the attack.

  Mark’s satphone screen was blinking.

  “You should get that,” she whisper-croaked, throat raw.

  Mark had been watching her keenly. But now that she was awake, he turned his attention to the satphone. He tapped his earbud. Listened for several minutes. “Roger,” he whispered finally. He stood up in one fluid movement and held his hand out to her. It was amazing. He simply folded one leg under him and stood up. You needed amazing thigh muscles and abs to be able to do that.

  She took his hand and creaked to her feet with a lot of help from Mark. Every muscle ached and her joints felt like someone had poured glue into them. How did he move so smoothly?

  “Hi, Sleeping Beauty.” He gave a crooked smile that made her heart thump hard.

  “Hi.” Harper frowned as some kind of schematic appeared on the satphone’s screen, “What’s that?”

  “The mission, step one.” He turned the screen so that she could see it. Harper took the satphone from him and studied it carefully. She didn’t have a superb sense of direction and wasn’t good at reading maps, but by turning it this way and that, she finally figured it out. A pulsing blue point helped. It was the endpoint.

  “What’s there?” Her finger covered the spot.

  He pursed his lips. “What I asked for, I hope. Two canisters of carfentanyl, two gas masks, two sets of body armor, extra large and small, two noiseless pump mechanisms, a noiseless drill, an MP5 with six magazines, a Glock 19 with a holster and ammo, two Tasers and a can of knockout gas in case I have trouble on the way back, night-vision goggles. Dropped down a chimney.”

  Harper frowned as she traced a blue line from their current position to the blue point over and over. She cocked her head as she traced the line again.

  He picked up on her mood. “Something wrong?”

  Harper gave a sharp shake of her head. “I don’t know. There’s something…wait!” She pulled her cellphone out but it was dead. “Can you pull up my email address from your satphone? It’s a Gmail address. h.kendall—”

  “I know your email address,” he said as he pulled up Gmail on the screen.

  “How do you know my email address?”

  “You gave me your card, remember? On the plane. That’s how I knew your cellphone number.”

  Oh. Yes, she had. They’d exchanged cards and she’d completely forgotten that. She couldn’t have recited his email address or cell number from memory if you’d put a gun to her head.

  He pulled up Gmail and typed in her address.

  “Password?” He handed it to her and looked away.

  Harper typed in her password and pulled up her email feed. “Looking at what they sent you reminded me of something. It might be nothing, but if I remember correctly…”

  She scrolled down, down, past hundreds of emails. Damn, she should purge more often… there! From didierrw@yahoo.fr. She scrolled down the long and gossipy message. “This was sent a week ago by Didier, a friend of mine who helped set up a temporary exhibit on the other side of the Louvre, the Richelieu Wing. But he had to coordinate with someone who works on this side and—here it is.” She squinted to read the small print of the very long, highly detailed message recounting Didier’s personal travails working with dunderheaded and unenlightened French bureaucrats. She translated for Mark’s benefit. “So there I was, trying to overcome all this mad bureaucratic…” She stumbled.

  “Shit,” Mark offered. “Even I know that merde is shit.”

  “Right. Bureaucratic shit,” she continued. “When in waltzes that moron Bertrand to say that the room will be closed for six months because a pipe broke.”

  “So that’s that.” Harper followed the line on the screen with her finger and tapped once on a spot before the line stopped at the pulsing blue dot. “There’s the room they want you to go through but you can’t because it’s shut down and probably barricaded. Whoever gave you those schematics couldn’t know about the closing of that room a week ago. You’d have to be an insider to know.” She looked up at him. “You need me, Mark.”

  Mark shook his head, looked at the floor then back up at her. “Honey, we need to rethink this. You’d be better off staying here and waiting for me. I don’t know how many terrorists are in the corridors and they’re not tired enough to have lost focus.” He cupped her face. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. Please stay here.”

  A surge of panic rose, squeezing her heart.

  “No!” She lowered her voice instantly. “No.”

  No, no, no.

  No way was she staying here. The idea of cowering in the dark waiting for Mark to come back terrified her. A fear beyond words, beyond reason. Just the thought of it had her choking. With Mark, she felt safe. It was crazy, he wasn’t Iron Man or Superman. He was an ordinary man, of flesh and blood. She’d seen his scars. He didn’t have supernatural protection. He could be shot, wounded, killed.

  But she’d rather be by his side in danger than alone. It was crazy, she knew that. But it was her deepest truth.

  She was going with him.

  Mark studied her face, watched her eyes. “You mean it,” he said finally.

  She nodded, throat too tight to talk. If he said no she’d have to steel herself not to grab the back of his jacket and simply hold on tight.

  “It will be dangerous.” He continued watching her.

  She nodded. Yes, she knew that.

  “Like I said before, you’d have to keep close to me at all times.”

  She nodded fervently. Of course.

  “You do what I say, when I say it.”

  Her head just kept on bobbing.

  “When I do this,” he held up a tightly clenched fist, shoulder height, “you freeze.”

  “Colder than a popsicle.” She nodded enthusiastically. God yes.

  “You don’t talk. Don’t make a sound.”

  Instead of her head bobbing, she shook it violently side to side. No talking. Absolutely not. She crossed her fingers over her lips.

  He continued looking at her, clearly weighing pros and cons. Whatever it was he decided didn’t make any difference at all because she was comin
g with him, so she just waited.

  “Okay,” he finally said on a sigh. He wasn’t enthusiastic and neither was she, but the alternative was staying in the darkness alone, terrified. Much better to be terrified, but with him.

  Her breath whooshed out. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it until her chest suddenly loosened with relief.

  “One last thing.” He blew out a breath. He clearly didn’t want to say this but he had to. “I am almost certain that they wouldn’t have left any living tourists out in the Gallery. Anyone left alive would just be a problem for them. They’re already patrolling to deal with an attack by law enforcement.”

  Their eyes met, hers sad, his determined. He nodded sharply. “Still want to come with me?”

  She nodded.

  “Not happy about this,” he warned her, jaw muscles clenching.

  Okay. It didn’t make any difference to Harper whether he was happy or not, just as long as she could go with him.

  He hooked a big arm around her neck and pulled her toward him. She went into his arms naturally, chests meeting as if magnetized, as if she were made to be in his arms.

  God yes. She snuggled there, completely safe as long as he was holding her. He held her long enough that the terrified trembling deep inside stilled, long enough for his body heat to warm her up a little.

  They were going to do something very dangerous, but doing nothing was dangerous too. And they might just save a lot of lives.

  Her lips curved. She rose on her toes, brought his head down so she could whisper into his ear.

  “Dracarys.”

  Dracarys.

  If Mark hadn’t been so shit-scared of dragging Harper into battle, he’d have smiled. Dracarys. The warrior cry of Daenerys Targaryen atop her dragon. A golden-haired beauty riding straight into danger to destroy her enemies, shouting “Dracarys!”

  Except of course, Daenerys had her dragons and Harper only had him. He’d protect her as fiercely as he knew how, but no one knew better than he did that shit happened. No matter how well prepared a soldier is, how much he trains, how well equipped, how well planned the attack, shit happens. He’d seen it with his own eyes. Stu Carrier blown up six hours before the helicopter that would take him back into the world was supposed to lift off. Sam Lawrence, agile as a mountain goat, putting a foot wrong, a cascade of rocks giving away his position and an enemy bullet finding his head. In the field, bad weather, bad juju, bad luck happened all the time.

  And this wasn’t a planned mission at all. He was operating solo, on the basis of a half-assed plan organized by a man he’d never met, and oh yeah, there was probably a mole operating in the ranks of the police.

  Mark had no intel on how many terrorists were in the Gallery or posted throughout the wing. None. No one did. He was flying blind and oh shit, he was flying with Harper.

  Taking her along went against every protective instinct he had. Though she was smart and agile and guaranteed to keep her cool, he didn’t want her with him, he wanted her somewhere far away, safe and sound. A place where he could go to her when it was all over.

  Yeah. If he could, he’d beam her straight to the Ritz where she could stay in his suite until he killed the bad guys and saved the hostages. If he could. And if he failed, well…everyone has to die sometime.

  Except Harper. This was not her time to go. God, no.

  But the thing was—she wasn’t far away. She was here. And the choice was between being with him and facing danger or staying behind, but without him to protect her.

  Crazy as it was, he’d rather she were by his side than alone. He’d tried to dissuade her but she felt just like he did.

  He kissed her, sternly pushing away the thought that it might be the last time. No. No way. When this was over, they’d hole up in his suite, order food in, and stay in bed for three days. And he’d take care of his business, she’d do what she came to do, then they’d fly home together and they’d stay together.

  They were going to have a lot of time. Forever, in fact.

  But right now—showtime.

  Mark reached down and slid out the slim ceramic knife from his boot seam. It wasn’t a Ka-Bar, but it was razor sharp and easy to handle.

  Harper froze, having forgotten that he’d told her he had a knife in his boot. Knowing it and seeing it were two different things. Would it freak her out? She looked at him narrow-eyed and gave a thumbs-up.

  Fuck yeah. He liked that she was ferocious under that cool, classy exterior. She was going to need all the courage she could find, his Khaleesi. They were going blind into danger.

  “Ready?” His voice the merest breath of sound.

  “Ready,” she said in a tone that couldn’t be heard a foot away.

  At least part of the way they could walk between the walls, out of sight. Mark tucked her behind him and started walking north. He knew she was staying behind him because he could feel the slight tug on the back of his jacket.

  They headed out, following the light of the flashlight, walking between the walls around one room, two, three.

  At the fourth room, Mark halted, held up his clenched fist. Harper immediately stopped behind him. They were at the beginning of the Gallery. The drop was across the intersection and down another corridor. They’d have to leave the protection of the walls, but first he had to see what was out there.

  Mark dropped to one knee, pulling out his cellphone. Harper removed his backpack and took out the drill and cable connection. He nodded and applied the head of the drill to the wall.

  It did its magic, except once the drill bit broke through, it was too dark to see much. But there was an app for that, and he thanked his lucky stars he’d hired his tech genius, Ralph. He tapped an icon on the screen and the view switched to night vision, a light, watery green.

  Out in the wide corridor was a faint light. The terrorists had strung a few lights like Christmas lights operated by generators along the outside wall. It looked almost festive but it was anything but. Enough faint light penetrated the side rooms and augmented by night vision, it was enough to see by.

  Harper’s eyes widened and she held her thumb up again, never taking her eyes from the screen. And she was the one who saw the patrolling terrorist. She tapped the screen, and at first he couldn’t figure out what she wanted to say, but then saw the man dressed in black with an AK-47. His face was covered by a thick black beard that reached from just under his eyes to below his neck. He had small eyes and a jutting nose that had been broken at least once.

  Beard or no beard, Mark wasn’t going to forget that face.

  They both watched the terrorist walk back and forth along the intersection. Mark counted paces, trying to figure out the fucker’s guard rotation, when Harper tapped the back of his hand. She signaled moving the camera’s view lower, to cover the floor. Mark rotated the camera and saw what she’d managed to see. Two huddled bodies on the floor in that boneless sprawl of death.

  Bushy Beard was walking back from his patrol and kicked one of the bodies out of his way. The body lifted then flopped over. A young boy.

  Mark stilled, white noise replacing strategic planning in his head. His muscles tensed and it felt like his skin would explode—

  Harper clutched his arm and shook her head. No.

  No, of course not. What was he thinking? Taking revenge for a boy who was already dead was crazy. Mark wasn’t crazy.

  But he looked carefully at Bushy Beard’s face in the glowing green light that made the world look like it was underwater. Because that was a dead man walking.

  Bushy Beard continued walking down the corridor toward the Gallery and disappeared from view. Mark timed it. Ten minutes went by before he walked back. A ten-minute patrol. Doable.

  How many other guards were posted in this wing? Most of them would be in the Mona Lisa room, with the hostages. The rest were spread out through the building as insurance against a sudden storm of French SWAT. The bulk of them would be at the entrance.

  The terrorists had
hostages as deterrents, not to mention some of them would have remote detonators for the explosives, too. Though he doubted detonators had been handed to everyone. You don’t give the power of massive destruction to foot soldiers. Mark had to operate on the assumption that the detonators would be held by the leader and maybe two or three others in the Mona Lisa room.

  But there was no guarantee. They had to be really careful not to set off a massacre and destruction of one of humanity’s greatest treasures.

  No pressure.

  Bushy Beard took off for another patrol, and Mark grabbed his satphone and drill and soundlessly opened the door. They slid out and he closed the door just as quietly. Bushy Beard didn’t have night vision. They kept to the darkest shadows as they made their way down to the great intersection which was very dimly lit.

  Thank God he’d asked for night-vision goggles with the other equipment. He’d be able to see better on the way back.

  Mark had thought about asking for two sets of night-vision goggles, one for him and one for Harper. But what you saw in night vision was pale green and foreshortened. There was no depth perception, and it took time and training to move while wearing the goggles. He’d decided it was better for just him to have night vision and for Harper to stick close to him.

  He observed the intersection for a moment, but no other patrolling terrorists came. The wing they’d invaded was a huge space and they had no reason to cover every square inch of it.

  He looked back at Harper and pointed forward with his index finger. She nodded.

  Good girl. Mark’s chest swelled with pride. She looked frightened but determined, a good partner in every sense. As they moved forward in the shadows, they passed a room that had a barrier across the entrance and a huge painted canvas tarp attached to the perimeter of the entrance.