Over the Edge

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Any word?” Stan asked.

  Jenk shook his head, no, his eyes apologetic. “Not on Teri Howe. Stevie and Knox have both checked in. They were in their rooms. They slept through the whole frickin’ thing.”

  “Head down to the lobby,” Stan ordered. “Find out what kind of information center has been set up down there. I want a status report on Izzy, on Gillman, on Hendson. Find out MacInnough’s room number—maybe he’s still asleep. I’m going to check Teri’s room.”

  “Aye aye, Senior Chief.” Jenk didn’t blink at the news that Stan already knew Teri Howe’s room number.

  They went down the stairs together, Stan pushing through the door that led to Teri’s hallway when they reached that level. He ran down the corridor, not daring to think about the hope that had sprung to life when he’d heard that two of the SEALs had slept through the attack. Maybe Teri, as well, had been too tired or too smart to head down to the lobby when the fire alarm had gone off. Maybe the alarm didn’t work on her floor. Maybe . . .

  He pounded on her door. “Teri!”

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, please open the door with your hair messed from sleep, squinting a little at the light, and . . .

  Stan pounded and pounded, and even if she’d been in the bathroom she’d had to have heard. And even if she’d taken her time, she could’ve gotten to the door and opened it. He finally stopped pounding, and he did what he should have done from the start—unlock the door. It took him four seconds to get inside, another two to see, indeed, that the room was empty.

  He stood there, in her empty room, knowing that he didn’t have any time to waste on his own frustration and pain. He had to find her. He had to go down to the lobby, where she may well have died. He turned around, closing the door behind him. He had to go into the conference room they were using as a temporary morgue and—

  Teri was standing in the hallway.

  Her clothes were covered with blood, and her eyes were huge in her face as she stared at him.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s not my blood.”

  Stan reached for her, needing to see for himself that she truly was unscathed. But he hadn’t so much as touched her when she lunged for him, her arms tight around his neck. She was shaking, and he held her tightly, too, his hand slipping up beneath the edge of her jacket and her shirt. His fingers found smooth skin, unbroken skin, unwounded skin, thank you, dear Lord.

  “Frank O’Leary’s dead,” she said, her face against his chest.

  “I know.” But she wasn’t. She was alive and warm and her heart was still beating. He could feel it. She was pressed that tightly against him.

  “I held him while he died,” she said. “He called me Rosie and he told me that he loved me.”

  “Oh, Christ—” Oh, Frank.

  “I told him I loved him, too, and then he just . . . oh, God, Stan, he died.”

  “Oh, baby, I am so sorry.”

  She was crying. Thank God she was crying. When he first saw her standing there, she’d looked dazed. Battle shocked. What she’d been through this afternoon had been the closest thing to a battle that she was likely ever to experience. And in many ways it was far worse. It was bad enough getting caught in a firefight when you were fully armed, but to have some asshole open fire into an unarmed crowd . . .

  “All I could think was that I didn’t know where you were,” she told him. “The lobby was filled with people who were hurt or dying, and I didn’t know if one of them was you. And then I couldn’t stop to look because they needed pilots to fly the wounded out to the U.S.S. Hale, and every time we came back I was afraid it was going to be you I was carrying to the hospital there. And I kept trying to find out where you were and nobody goddamn knew anything. So I just kept flying, covered with O’Leary’s blood. God, it’s under my fingernails, and poor Rosie! Her world has ended and she doesn’t even know. . . .”

  He held her tightly, aware as hell that while he’d been scared out of his mind about her, she’d been worrying about him, too.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Tell me again that you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. She pulled back to smile at him through her tears. “I’m so much more than okay, because my world didn’t end.”

  Stan’s radio shrieked.

  Teri pulled back from him, wiping her eyes. “God, I need a shower.”

  She unlocked her door. Held it open for him.

  He triggered the radio’s switch, refusing to think about what she’d just told him. “Wolchonok. I found Teri Howe. She’s all right. Come back.”

  He stepped into her room. Only for a minute. Held the door open wide with his foot.

  “Thank God. I found MacInnough, Senior,” Jenk reported. “You don’t want to know where he’s been. Let’s just say he’s seen a different kind of action. Over.”

  “Izzy, Gillman, Hendson? Over,” Stan asked as Teri slipped off her jacket and kicked off her boots. She stepped out of her pants—Christ, what was it with her and taking off her clothes in front of him?—and he let the door close.

  “Izzy’s in critical condition, but already out of surgery. Took a round to the chest,” Jenk told him. “Gillman got hit by flying glass. And Hendson got hit in the knee. He’s in surgery right now. They’re trying to save his leg. Over.”

  Stan turned his back to her as Teri peeled off her shirt. “Radio Lieutenant Starrett with this information. Over.”

  “Already have, Senior. Over.”

  “Good. Get your ass to the airport. I’ll join you there ASAP. Over.”

  The shower went on.

  “Negative, Senior Chief,” Jenk came back. “Starrett’s already sent the team back to the hotel. Max Bhagat’s afraid it’ll look like retaliation if we go in with force now. We’re back to stalling for as long as we possibly can. Looks like we’ve got the night off, Senior. Get some sleep, if you can. Over and out.”

  Stan slipped his radio into his vest pocket, aware that Teri hadn’t heard that. For all she knew, he couldn’t stick around, which was probably just as well.

  Definitely just as well.

  “Where are you heading now?” she called from the bathroom. She’d left the door ajar.

  “Um,” he said.

  “Can I come with you? I would really love not to be alone right now. I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.”

  Stan shrugged out of his combat vest, setting it on the floor. It didn’t mean he was going to stay. It just meant it was warm in here with it on, that was all.

  He picked up her flack jacket from where she’d dropped it. Thank God she’d remembered to wear . . .

  “Stan?” she called. “Are you still here?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he called back.

  Holy shit, she’d been hit. The bullet was there, flattened and stopped by the bulletproof mesh.

  He pushed the bathroom door open. It hit the wall with a thump. “Why didn’t you tell me you were shot, god damn it?”

  “I wasn’t shot.” She turned off the water.

  “A bullet connected with the jacket you were wearing. I don’t know what you call that but—”

  “Will you hand me a towel?”

  “Teri, you’re driving me crazy,” Stan said. “How badly were you hurt?”

  “It knocked me over,” she said, reaching out an arm and grabbing a towel without his help. “Knocked the air out of me. I’m a little bruised. But I wasn’t shot.” Her voice shook. “Frank O’Leary was shot.”

  “Okay,” he nodded, giving her that. “You’re right. There’s a definite difference. But you were hit. I know what that can do. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  She pulled back the curtain and stepped out of the tub, swathed in a towel. “I’m okay.”

  She would have breezed right past him but he shifted left, blocking her.

  Stan didn’t say a word. He just looked at her.

  She lifted her chin. “You know, if you really want me out of this towel, y
ou’d get a lot further by kissing me.”

  He still didn’t move.

  Teri reached up to loosen the towel, suddenly modest. She pulled it back, just enough to reveal her right side—the whole long expanse of her leg, her hip, the soft curve of her waist, all that skin, still damp from the shower. The effect was far sexier than if she’d simply flashed him. She pulled the towel farther up, and there, just beneath the soft underside of her breast, was a spectacular rainbow-colored bruise about the size of his fist.

  Stan winced. “Christ, that must’ve hurt.”

  “It hurt a lot less than it would have if I hadn’t been wearing my jacket.”

  She probably would’ve died. Stan looked at the place where that bullet would’ve entered her body and drew in a long, shaky breath. “Have I thanked you yet for wearing your jacket?”

  She laughed as she pulled the towel back down around her. “Have I thanked you yet for making me wear it?”

  He shook his head. Damn, he had to get out of here. The way she was looking at him, the way she was standing there with nothing on but a towel, close enough for him to reach out and touch, all that warm, soft skin . . . All he had to do was reach for her. Or say one word. If he whispered her name, she’d drop the towel and be in his arms in a heartbeat. She wanted him that much—he could see it in her eyes.

  And he wanted her, too. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything or anyone, more than he wanted to breathe.

  “Is there any chance you can stay?” she whispered. “Because I really want you to stay.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I really want to stay, too, but . . . Teri, I’m good at problem solving, but this . . . this is out of control. I just can’t come up with an option where everyone wins.”

  “I can,” she said, and she let go of her towel and kissed him.

  Teri kissed him, and Stan swept her up into his arms and carried her to her bed.

  She kissed him and, like magic, his clothes seemed to fall away.

  She kissed him, and time slowed as he kissed her, as he touched her, loved her.

  Slowly this time, with an awareness of every second that ticked past—with their eyes wide open.

  He sat on the edge of her bed as he covered himself, as she lay back, waiting and breathless, dying to kiss him again.

  He took his sweet time then, looking and touching. Heating her with the gentle touch of his fingers and the desire in his eyes. Kissing her, tasting her. Smiling at her, at the sounds of pleasure she made.

  His mouth was soft and warm, his tongue teasing her slowly, sensuously until the sounds she was making became words. His name. She called his name over and over. Please. Stan, please. She wanted . . . She needed . . .

  Finally, as he held her gaze, he filled her, still moving so deliberately slowly, as if they had all the time in the world.

  She wasn’t in control. Each time she reached for him, to touch him, to urge him faster, deeper, he gently pushed her back. He finally pinned both of her wrists up above her head, holding her easily in place with one of his hands.

  “Please,” she gasped, pressing her hips up toward him.

  But he pulled back. Every time she tried to move with him, to push him more deeply inside of her, he pulled away.

  “I want you to feel what I felt this morning,” he told her. “I want you out of control.”

  It wasn’t until she lay back and just opened herself to him that he pushed himself all the way home. “That’s right,” he murmured. All the time he kept moving slowly. Maddeningly, heart-stoppingly, deliciously slowly.

  If she moved at all, he pulled away. It was only when she relinquished all control that he gave her exactly what she wanted.

  She watched his eyes as she gave herself completely over to him. And as her release began, as it built and rolled through her in wave after endless exquisite wave of sensation, pure pleasure and intense satisfaction flashed across his face.

  And only then did he release her hands. “Now,” he said. “Come on, Teri, take me with you!”

  His hoarse words were enough to push her over the edge again, and she clung to him, moved with him, locking her legs around him and driving him harder, more deeply inside of her.

  She was in control again, or was she? The sensation of being completely at the whim of another’s desire, the feeling of flying without instruments into a fog, completely blind, of losing her sense of which way was up, remained. She held on to Stan as tightly as she could, but still she flew apart, shattering around him as he shouted her name, and she knew without a doubt that she was never going to be in control again.

  It was a surprisingly freeing thing—to lie back and give in to everything she was feeling, instead of fighting it, instead of trying to hide it from everyone, from him, and from herself. She loved him. Whether he wanted her to love him or not, it was too damn bad. It was out of her hands—she loved him.

  Her world hadn’t ended today.

  But maybe, just maybe, it had begun.

  Twenty-one

  It was nearly dawn.

  Another night had come and gone, and they were all still here, on this stinking airplane.

  Bob had fallen asleep in the pilot’s seat, his arms wrapped around his automatic weapon. Al was in the co-pilot’s seat, also dozing, thank God. Gina didn’t think she could stand another minute sitting here with his eyes on her.

  She didn’t think she could stand another minute of this, period.

  She didn’t understand. Max had all but promised that something would happen. Soon, he’d said.

  So where was the cavalry, coming to the rescue? All night long she’d sat here, waiting.

  If he’d said a week, she could’ve hung on for another week. But he’d said soon, and she’d been so sure soon meant before another morning dawned.

  And now she didn’t think she could bear another day.

  “Max,” she whispered through her tears, certain that he could hear her. “They’re sleeping. Do it now, Max.”

  Of course he couldn’t answer her.

  And she knew from the glimmer of light on the horizon that no one was coming. Not for another day. Somewhere, somehow, she’d find the strength to bear it.

  She’d have to bear it.

  But the hijackers were sleeping, and even if Max—for whatever reason—wasn’t able to help her right now, maybe she could help him.

  She wiped her eyes, wiped her nose on the short sleeve of her shirt.

  “Each of the men has an automatic weapon,” she whispered, “but I think some of them don’t have any ammunition. I’ve been watching and it looks like only a few of them have clips attached to their guns—I think that’s what they’re called.”

  “Magazines,” Bob said. “They’re called magazines.”

  Oh, shit, he was awake.

  He sat up. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Myself,” Gina said quickly. “I’m just talking to myself. I’m just making mental notes—I’m going to write a book after it’s all over, so . . .”

  “ ‘Do it now, Max’?” he repeated. The friendly student was gone, and the cold-eyed man who’d threatened to shoot her if Max didn’t go into the terminal was back, and Gina knew with a cold certainty that the game playing was about to come to an end.

  She risked everything by reaching up and turning on the radio. Bob had turned it off last night, cutting Max off midsentence, proclaiming himself to be bored. But Bob didn’t shout at her now. He just smiled as he stood up and stretched.

  It was not a very nice smile.

  “This is flight 232,” Gina said into the microphone, praying for something, anything to interrupt them. “Is there any news? Over?”

  Max came instantly back. “Good morning, flight 232, hope you had a pleasant night. We hope to get the details of when Osman Razeen will be arriving very soon. Come back.”

  Bob took the microphone from her hand. “We were just talking about you, Max. Although I think I don’t need to talk into this microphone for y
ou to hear me, no? Shall we try?”

  He dropped the microphone and raised his gun, firing several bullets into the panel inches from Gina’s head. She shrieked and cowered. “Stop! Stop! Bob, I’m sorry! Please, don’t! Please . . .”

  She was an instant waterfall of tears and snot, her ears ringing from the noise of the gunshots. Just like that, all the calm dignity she’d been faking for so long dissolved. And she knew. She wasn’t going to die well, with a knowing smile on her lips like Princess Leia facing down Darth Vader. No, she was going to die begging and pleading and sniveling, too scared and desperate even to hate herself for doing it.

  “I’m sorry, Bob.” Max’s voice came back completely unperturbed. “I think I missed most of that. Can you repeat? Come back.”

  One of the hijackers from the cabin poked his head in. Bob gave a terse order and the man disappeared again, closing the door tightly behind him.

  “He’s good, huh? This Max,” Bob said to her in his nearly perfect English. “Let’s see how good.”

  He picked up the microphone. “I think our hostage is getting a little tired of us. And we’re getting tired of her, too.”

  “That’s easy to fix, Bob. Trade her for me. I’m here. I’m ready. You win millions of goodwill points by letting her walk off the plane. Over.”

  “And how many points do we get for dumping her dead body off the plane?”

  Sam awoke to the sound of running feet.

  Ah, fuck, he’d fallen asleep, right here in the terminal. He’d sent his team back to the hotel after Max Bhagat had gotten into a shouting match with his superiors in Washington. Bhagat had insisted that they send the SEALs in, that it was time to go, but they’d ordered him to drag this thing out for at least another twelve hours. Which would bring them to morning, which meant they’d probably have to wait another twelve hours.

  Bhagat had been like a wild man. Starrett had never seen him so upset. He’d actually put his hand through the freaking wall. The timing was right, he kept saying. The hijackers were on the verge of meltdown. They were exhausted, the SEALs were ready. They could do this now and it would all be over by morning. Why did they have him here, if they weren’t going to let him run this operation?