Sloan must have sensed her fear. He caressed her arm and gave her a comforting smile. “Let’s finish our drinks and get back. The sooner this is over, the better.”
Abbey tossed back the last of her drink as Sloan polished off his. She slipped her hand in his as he picked up the box with the other. Then they made their way back to the rental car and to Paris.
Chapter Ten
They were met by a breathless Bartholomew in the hotel lobby. “I have an address,” he announced as he handed Sloan a slip of paper.
Sloan scanned it. “Let’s revisit to confirm.”
“Of course.”
Sloan handed the page to Abbey. “I need you to find schematics on this building so we can set up positions.”
“Can I have the rental?” Abbey teased.
Sloan cocked her a grin. “You need to be back by sundown. But I’ll keep it for tomorrow so you can finish up.”
“Of course.” Abbey snatched the keys from his hand and nearly glided to the door. She slipped behind the wheel of the luxury sedan and turned on the ignition. She had no idea where to start and knew very little French. Hopefully, someone would be willing to help. Her first stop would be the library. Maybe a kind French librarian would point her to the correct municipal government office.
Luckily, Abbey didn’t need directions. All she needed was right there in the library’s microfiche. As she had hoped, a middle-aged librarian with broken English had helped her. She couldn’t believe the fortune she had to find exactly what she needed when she needed it. The woman’s husband had been laid off by the aeronautics company that had once owned the now-abandoned warehouse. When that area had been constructed, there had been a huge spread in the newspaper. It had been about a decade ago.
The woman helped Abbey find the date and load the film. Abbey grinned as she scanned the story, finding sketches of the building from every direction. It was exactly what she needed. She printed copies of the schematics. She couldn’t have hoped for better fortune.
The next twenty-four hours were dedicated to preparing. Deep in the wee hours of the morning, while Abbey lay wide awake alone in her bed in the hotel, Sloan and Bartholomew staked out the warehouse to confirm Torelli and the arms were there. When Sloan collapsed into the bed with her, she wrapped her arms tight around him.
He yawned. “Two dozen crates. And Torelli and his men.”
“Are you sure there are weapons in the crates?” she quizzed.
Sloan yawned again. “Of course. I confirmed it personally. We’ve contracted the extraction team. They’re on the way.” His words were followed by silence then a soft snore. Abbey snuggled against his warmth with a smile as she also fell asleep.
Once they knew for sure that was where Torelli was hiding, he and Abbey returned to the metal shop to finish constructing the brackets. Abbey helped, cutting the last few pieces while Sloan welded the rest together. They both smiled in pride at their finished products. On the way back to the hotel, they stopped at a small hardware store to pick up the last few items they needed for the bomb.
They took turns studying the schematics until their eyes hurt. Abbey knew every route to the catwalks above the main floor and where each one led. Both men were aware of the nooks and crevices to duck into in case of an attack. All three of them understood where every door in the warehouse was that was large enough for the crates to pass through. They were also aware of a few smaller openings for them to retreat.
Bartholomew arranged transportation to escape and a place to go in the Alps until the CIA could extract them. With all of the details they needed to cement into place, they barely slept, and when one did, the others stayed awake to finish the tasks at hand. Finally, as the night before the attack turned into dawn and staying awake became too much, Sloan nudged Abbey to lay her head on his lap.
She fell asleep instantly when her cheek hit the warmth of his jeans. She woke just enough to feel him tuck her under the covers then slip in beside her. She curled up to him as he held her close. In just a matter of hours, they would risk their lives to finish their mission. It was Torelli or them. Now, it was time just to be in love, to create a memory to hold onto forever. Just in case it was their last moment together.
»»•««
Night fell on a bright and jovial Paris. Three sleek, ebony, high-powered motorcycles raced through the streets, weaving past the cars standing still waiting for the lights to change, in the direction of the Seine River. Sloan took a deep breath before he spoke into his helmet. “We are five minutes from our target. Are everyone’s positions clear?”
“I’m following you in,” Bartholomew reported.
“And I’m heading into the rafters,” Abbey added.
“Excellent. The extraction team has been ordered to follow our lead. Keep contact open. And good luck.” Sloan dropped the throttle on his bike and sped past the dilapidated buildings in the industrial district. For the first time since his initial assignment as a child in Belfast, butterflies fluttered wild in his stomach. It was a quick route around the building then inside to arrest Torelli. It seemed so simple on paper. But he knew the truth. At least a dozen men were inside among large crates that were nearly his height. He might have an equal number of men on his side but one wrong step would leave a bullet in their heads. It was enough to unsettle him.
Pulling to a stop next to a derelict structure with the roof caving in and shutters dangling lopsided against the metal frame, he dropped the kickstand and climbed off. Bartholomew and Abbey followed. Sloan watched as his wife tossed the canvas duffel that carried her sniper rifle over her shoulder. He took a minute to burn her image into his brain. She is just so beautiful. Then, with a brief nod to each other, they hustled off to their positions. Like shadows the two men slapped a bracketed charge on the edge of each metal door then slipped inside. The subtle shuffle of feet behind them was comforting.
Sloan scanned the warehouse cautiously as he moved among the stacked crates, his gun drawn and raised. Glancing across the building, he found Bartholomew and the other men prowling among the boxes also. The soft clack of footsteps caught his attention. Sloan spun on his heel and a split second later fired, dropping the thug behind him. He fired two more shots. Two more of Torelli’s men fell to the ground.
“Sloan, we need to seal those doors,” Bartholomew warned.
“Doing it now. I need to get to a more central area so the transmitters can sense the signal.” Sloan ducked between the containers, weaving his way through the warehouse to the center. His eyes frantically searched the rafters above for Abbey. She hadn’t checked in when she had reached her post. She should be there by now, and she never fails to check in. Is she all right? Please don’t let her be in Torelli’s hands.
Then, he froze in place. He couldn’t believe what he saw. His heart jumped in his throat. She wasn’t in her spot. She had found a new position to settle in. And she was pointing the rifle at him. Her face was stone-still as she glared at him through her scope. Her finger was already caressing the trigger. He felt his body shake in terror. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt fear, felt betrayal like this. Seeing her take aim at him felt surreal. His voice was gone, his words choked out.
What happened to her? Does she hate me for Afghanistan? Is she even the Abbey I knew? “Abbey, abandon your post,” Sloan ordered weakly.
She didn’t move an inch. Sloan’s gaze shot across the warehouse, catching just a glimpse of his friend tucked behind a couple boxes watching the scene with equal horror, his eyes fixed only on her. “Abbey, that’s not your position. What are you aiming for?” Bartholomew questioned.
Sloan shook his head as he swallowed down his fear. “Abigail, what in bloody hell are you doing? Answer me please.”
“Sloan, what is she aiming at?”
“Me. Abbey, put the rifle down,” Sloan pleaded.
Time moved in slow motion as she fired. Sloan waited for what felt like an eternity for the kill shot to strike him. His eyes focused on the bull
et that crawled toward him. His body froze in place. He couldn’t move if he tried. The only thing that moved was his heart beating out of control. Instead, he felt the slight breeze of a bullet wheezing dangerously close to his ear. She missed. She never misses. Ever. Milliseconds later, he heard a dull thud.
Sloan spun around, finding Torelli behind him, lying face down on the floor. A faint pool of blood appeared beneath his head. The gun he was carrying lay inches from his lifeless fingers, one digit still resting only a hair’s width from the trigger.
Sloan flew back around to see Abbey, watched as she slumped to her knees, staring at the scene below her, the rifle dangling from her grasp. Her face grew pale as her mouth went slack. She killed someone. Again. Even after she declared she never would. The truth became suddenly clear. Torelli was about to kill me. My life was in danger. She didn’t betray me, she saved me.
“Abbey,” Sloan breathed.
“We need to go.” Her voice broke.
Sloan nodded determinedly before he pulled the trigger from his pocket. Before he could take a step, a hail of gunfire erupted. He slunk back behind the box and joined in as Abbey hopped to her feet and sprinted along the catwalk.
Bartholomew’s voice broke through the noise. “Do you smell smoke?”
Sloan snuck a peek around the corner. In the corner of the warehouse he saw flames flicker over the tops of the crates. “There is a fire in the corner.”
“Holy shit,” Bartholomew breathed
“Retreat!” Sloan shouted. He spun on his toe then ran with Bartholomew on his heels. They dodged the bodies lying on the floor as the other troops followed behind. A container of arms exploding picked their pace up to a sprint. They dodged around boxes as the container erupted. With every panted breath Sloan called out Abbey’s name. “Where are you?”
“There’s a skylight right ahead of me. I’ll be able to climb through before the blast reaches me.”
“Hurry, Abigail.”
“I’m almost there. Sloan?”
“Aye?”
Sloan winced as he heard her softly call, “I love you.”
Their communication was cut off by the roar of a fireball. Bartholomew gripped his sleeve, urging him to run faster. Reluctantly, Sloan relented and followed him. Together, they sprinted through the warehouse and didn’t stop until their feet touched the pavement outside. They heard the soft pop of the door behind them.
“The charges,” Bartholomew breathed.
Sloan watched the fire blaze. He could feel the intense heat singe his skin. The blast sealed the rest of the doors. Bartholomew’s grip on his arm was all that stopped Sloan from charging back into the burning building. It took several long, dangerous moments for Bartholomew and the other troops to get him to move his feet toward their escape. As Bartholomew held him back, the other men disappeared into the night.
The faint sound of static in his earpiece gave him hope. “Abbey.”
There was no response. He shouted louder. “Abbey!”
The two men raced around the building where Abbey would have escaped. The sound of sirens grew louder. She was nowhere to be found. Every few steps Sloan shouted her name with no response.
“Sloan, we’ve got to go. She’ll meet up with us,” Bartholomew warned.
“We wait,” Sloan demanded.
“We wait, and we get arrested. She’ll catch up.”
They dashed to their motorcycles. Abbey’s sat alone with theirs, its owner nowhere to be found. Sloan spun on his toe and headed back to the building. Bartholomew hopped off his bike and grabbed him.
Bartholomew turned at the wail of quickly approaching sirens. “Sloan, we got to go. She’ll meet up.”
Sloan cast one last glance at the empty bike before he climbed on his own and fired it up. Together, the two men road into the French night, leaving the lone motorcycle and blazing warehouse behind.
»»•««
The late October wind was brisk. Sloan stepped out onto the deck of the cabin, staring at the majestic scene before him. During the short two days he and Bartholomew had been in the Alps, it had snowed. Beautiful was a poor choice of words. Yet it didn’t bring him any joy.
Abigail had yet to meet them. Her last words, telling him that she loved him, echoed in his brain. He couldn’t shake them, the sound of her voice repeating them over and over. He knew there was very little chance she could have survived the blast. Sloan shuddered at the thought, clutching his arms around himself. I’m not ready to let go of her yet. I wasn’t before. I’m not now. I never will be.
The thick crème fisherman’s sweater and blue jeans kept him toasty warm.
But his heart was cold.
To make matters worse, the moment the two men reached the cabin they learned that Maggie was two centimeters dilated. The baby was on its way, and its father was in France. Sloan didn’t bother to wait for the CIA to extract them. He sent for the newly acquired Sloan Enterprises helicopter to get Bartholomew. The newest member of the O’Riley family needed their daddy.
Sloan didn’t turn as he heard the door of the cabin open. “Transportation is on the way. There’s a clearing a quarter of a mile north of here. It’ll meet us there in two hours.”
Bartholomew crossed the deck and leaned on the rail next to Sloan. “I’m staying with you.”
“You have a child coming any minute now. Go home and be with your wife. Welcome your little one in together.”
“Then come with me.”
Sloan shook his head as his voice broke. “I can’t.”
“Sloan, you know as well as I do she didn’t make it…”
He raised his hand up to silence Bartholomew. “I’m waiting for Abbey. That’s final.”
“You do realize why I don’t want to leave you here alone, right? You’ll never come off this mountain. Or worse, you’ll be dead when I come back.”
Sloan stared straight ahead into the snow-covered evergreen trees. Bartholomew knew him all too well. He wasn’t going to leave this mountain without his Abigail. And if she were dead, what was the point of his living? “Get ready to go. It’ll take extra time to make it to the clearing,” he muttered.
Bartholomew blew out an exasperated sigh. He shook his head sadly. “As you wish.” He turned, the sound of his boot steps telling Sloan he was going back inside. The thump of the door closing confirmed it. Sloan slumped against the rail, dejected, as he continued his watch for any sign of Abbey.
The hike to the clearing was cold and silent. Neither man had been prepared for the snow. Their final meeting place wasn’t supposed to be the mountains. They should have left from the Paris airport. Neither had packed for the Alps. Sloan could feel the wet, frigid water soak through his favorite Italian boots. They weren’t going to survive this mission. I should expense a new pair to the CIA. Not that they matter. The CIA needs to give me my wife back.
The pair could hear the helicopter miles before it landed. It settled on the rocky cliff, whipping up a whirlwind of snow, nearly making the Sloan Enterprise logo invisible. Bartholomew continued protesting, demanding to stay with Sloan. Sloan only responded with a silent nod toward the chopper. Bartholomew huffed one last time then gave his brother-in-law one final, quick hug before he boarded.
Sloan stood in the slush as he watched the aircraft disappear into the clear blue sky.
The first thing on Sloan’s agenda when he returned to the cabin was to build a roaring fire in the stone fireplace. Night was falling soon, and the temperature would drop. He peeled one frozen, soaked boot off then the other, following with his socks, setting all of it beside the fire to dry. He sat, hugging his long, powerful legs to himself, as he watched the flames. He could see the explosion at the warehouse in his mind. The explosion that killed my wi—
Sloan’s head snapped to the door as a noise outside caught his attention. He slowly stood then grabbed the rifle on the table. Barefoot, he opened the cabin door and drew the gun, peering through one eye for the intruder.
“Holy s
hit, don’t shoot!”
Sloan dropped the rifle, stunned. Abbey stood below, her hands raised in surrender. The wood chopped for the fire laid scattered around her feet. She cautiously stepped around the logs and ascended the stairs to the cabin. “I know I was supposed to get here earlier. You wouldn’t believe—”
Sloan set the gun on the railing then tugged Abbey to him, interrupting her words with a deep, passionate kiss. He moaned as she dug her fingers into his thick, black hair, pressing her body tight against his. As they broke apart, he could hear her inhale sharply.
“You see, I got out of the—”
“Not now.” Sloan growled as he drove his mouth against hers for another deep kiss. By the way she melted against him, he could tell she didn’t mind waiting to tell her story. He took her hand in his then grabbed the rifle with the other, leading her into the cabin.
Sloan didn’t have the patience to reach the bed. He dropped the gun back on the table, grabbed the plush throw off the chair, and tossed it on the floor beside the fire. He tugged her against him, his lips roaming the curve of her neck as his hands gently caressed her breasts. She moaned in response. Sloan pulled free long enough to grab the hem of her shirt and rip it over her head. His eyes caught sight of the poorly healing burns scattered over her skin. “Oh, luv…”
“Don’t stop now,” Abbey gasped.
Sloan looked at her, stunned for a moment, before his sensual smirk cracked his lips. “As you wish, my lady.” He lowered himself to the floor, bringing her down with him to straddle his hips. He flipped her onto her back then swiftly unfastened the button fly. She squirmed as he tugged her jeans and panties past her knees. He ran his tongue over his lower lip as he gazed at her nearly naked body. He never thought he would get to touch, to taste her again.
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