Using the moonless sky to their advantage, six men rappelled down from the roof. Infrared confirmed the hostage was held on the eighth floor, two guards in the room with him, four more stationed outside the door. Bars on the windows, men stationed at the end of each hallway and on the exits.
So they went in through one of the empty offices two doors down from where the hostage was being held. Working in concert, their moves as coordinated as they were automatic, the team used a silent explosive on the window bars, sliding inside as quietly as smoke.
They stunned the guards outside the door just as quietly, tucking them into the empty office, neatly bound and gagged. Elijah and Torres took their place outside the door while the other four slid into the hostages room.
Eyes sharp, senses on full alert, even as he kept watch, Elijah wanted to grin. Stupid reaction, but, man, it felt good to be back on track. To do what he was trained to do.
Not that hed worried about it. Much. But he was glad to see it wasnt an issue. Sure, his leg was a little tight, the puckered skin protesting over screaming muscles. But that wasnt slowing him down.
As if proving his point, the signal came from inside the room. He moved with easy stealth down the hall to the left, Torres to the right, then returned the all clear.
Powerss voice came through the comm in Elijahs helmet, giving them the green light that hed shut down operation of the security cameras on the rest of their floor.
Ready to rock and roll.
They moved exactly as planned. Two on point, two escorting the hostagea Humpty Dumptylooking guy in a three-piece suit and little round glassesElijah and Torres at the rear. The guy wasnt in any shape to take out the window, but they just had to get him down one hall and over to the next to make their escape route.
Elijah scanned, his gaze always moving, his ears on full alert as he tapped into their surroundings, listening, watching as they proceeded down the antiques-filled hall, their booted feet silent on the glossy marble floor.
Quite a step-up given that his last mission had taken place in a desert cave.
Then it all went to hell.
Elijah saw it going down a second before it actually did. The ambassador slipped, his slick dress shoes losing traction on the marble floor. Despite Lanskys hold on him, the man still flailed out, his hand slapping the wall. Just a tap.
And he screamed like a scared little girl. He might as well have sounded a Klaxon.
The team angled to the right, taking the secondary, longer route just before they heard the sound of boots quick-marching down the hall. A shout of alarm went up, voices called out, running footsteps of what sounded like an entire platoon ricocheted off the walls.
The team tightened their circle around the hostage, stepping up their pace to an easy run. Torres and Elijah automatically slowed, covering the rear as Loudon signaled a warning to the men in the air.
The voices came closer. This way, Elijah translated the Arabic shouts. They know where we are, he warned the others calmly. Companys coming.
Then company was there.
The bullets didnt dent his calm. Not until one of them ripped through an ornately framed painting on the wall next to him.
The sonovabitch shot a Monet, he swore. What the fuck is wrong with some people?
Guess they arent much for flowers, Torres returned, grinning even as he ran. Too bad we dont have time to educate them on art appreciation.
As he marveled at the sacrilege, hoping like hell it had been a reproduction, Elijah moved. A small metal canister flew from his hand, landing smack-dab between the feet of the lead guard with a loud clang. A heartbeat later, the end of the hall exploded in smoke.
A quick glance assured him that Lansky and Loudon had the hostage covered. As sweat poured off the mans pale, bald head, they angled him into the air duct. As soon as the ornate, man-size grill was back in place, Masters and Rengel cocked their heads to the left, indicating theyd lead the guards that way while Elijah and Torres waited ten seconds, then took the right to distract the guards on the other side.
Ive been ordered to remind you of the preference that your ammo stays in your rifle, Powers said through the comm, his tight voice making it clear just how he felt about being ordered to share Jarretts preferences.
Hard to blame him. Elijah couldnt say he much like hearing it, either. Obviously the guards werent so particular because they just kept on shooting.
Out and on our way, came through the comm as Lansky let them know theyd safely cleared the building with the hostage and were en route to the pickup site.
With the hostage secured, Elijah and Torres moved fast, angling out the doors and into a small garden they knew led to the sea. Torres shifted to the left, heading for the cliffs to secure the lines for their escape while Elijah provided cover.
Something exploded with a jarring crash, sending pieces of a statue flying every which way. Fire flashed, hot and blinding. The roar engulfed him, pulling Elijah into its unspeakable hell. He hit the ground, his leg eaten away by pain as the cries of the dying filled his head. He waited for the flames to eat at his body, to tear at his soul.
Prescott!
The dead faces came riding on the flames. Elijah gripped his weapon, finger on the trigger as he tried to aim, tried to stop them from taking his teammate. From killing them both.
Prescott, snap out of it.
Strong arms gripped his shoulders with a jarring shake. The flames were gone. The fire out. The dead still circled, though, round and round in his head.
Chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes, Elijah tried to bring the man in front of him into focus.
Rembrandt? You okay?
Elijah blinked again.
Yeah. He tried to breathe past the constriction in his chest, but the air barely wheezed through. He managed to nod. Yeah. Im okay.
Guess they werent big on flowers outside, either, Torres joked, gesturing with his chin to gutted landscape. Trees were splintered, statuary rubble, bushes leveled.
Elijah caught sight of the hole on Torress flak jacket. Youre hit. Alive, not burned to a crisp, was Elijahs next thought. Then fury rode a wild wave of guilt inside him, overriding that thought with reality. His job had been to cover Torres. Because Elijah had let his personal nightmare distract him, hed blown his job.
Nah, bullet grazed my body armor. Cmon, rendezvous in thirty seconds.
Elijah wanted to protest. He wanted to check Torres, to make sure there was no real damage. He wanted to howl at the fucking moon, then go back and kill the already-dead man whod detonated the bomb.
But instincts and training, or maybe it was Torress steady gaze, did the trick of getting Elijah on his feet and, limping only a little, back on track.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the helicopter with the hostage secured. Loudon, the medic, sedated the ambassador before he shook to pieces. Jarrett entertained them during takeoff with his version of wringing his hands over their inability to tiptoe their way out of the embassy. The guy looked as if he was going to cry when he mentioned reparation and damage costs.
Elijah, along with the rest of the team, ignored him. After all, it wasnt like it was coming out of his pocket.
Rembrandt?
He lifted tired eyes to Torres.
You okay?
Elijah, along with the rest of the team, ignored him. After all, it wasnt like it was coming out of his pocket.
Rembrandt?
He lifted tired eyes to Torres.
You okay?
Was he okay? He wanted to say no. He wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him, why he couldnt shake the monkey off his back. He wanted to beat the hell against the walls of the helicopter until he punched his way through the metal and out to freedom.
As he glanced down the line of men leaning against the bulwark of the bird, he saw the same concern reflected in their eyes that was gleaming in Torress. Concern for him? a little voice wondered. Or about him?
Elijah gave up, simply closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against the steel wall. It didnt shut out those questions, didnt erase the doubt he saw on the squads faces. But after a few seconds focusing on steadying his breath, lowering his heart rate, he could shove that aside.
He drew a picture in his head, a landscape. The sun setting over water that stretched as far as the eye could see. Add a sandy beach in the back, some trees and scrub for texture and interest. And maybe a rickety hut off to the side, the driftwood walls leaning in on themselves. Yeah. He sighed as peace washed through him. A hut, with a hammock lashed between two palms.
The sun would be hot and the beach quiet but for the sound of the surf beating its song. Deserted. Away from everyone and everything.
Except the woman.
He didnt picture her face. He wouldnt let himself. But a part of him recognized her. Knew her body, knew the ring of twisted metal she wore on her finger. A part of him knew she was it.
Salvation.
What he didnt know was whether shed grant it to him or not. Whether shed deem his life worth saving.
Or if shed simply walk away, leaving him to drown in fiery misery.
CHAPTER THREE
TO AVA MONROE, life was all about the simple choices.
Cardio or strength training.
Yoga pants or fleece.
A jog or a bike ride.
An egg white omelet or a fresh fruit protein shake.
Shed worked hard to simplify, to bring it down to choices as clean and easy as those.
She liked it that way.
Liked, too, that shed structured her life so that she was answerable pretty much only to herself. She lived alone, with a month-to-month rent. She worked for herself. And she trained for herselffor her own goals, her own purposes.
It kept her responsibilities to a minimum.
And it meant that she didnt need or depend on anyone elses approval.
That concept had become her mantra when shed escaped her old life in Mendocino to start over in Napa three years ago. Not only did Napa offer gorgeous views of green and gold, elegant wineries and ageless architecture; Northern California was familiar enough that shed felt safe. Best of all, it was far enough away from Avas smothering parents that she could breathe easily, yet not so far away that theyd pack up their high-society life and follow her.
Not that she didnt love her family. But shed never again be the princess they expected, and shed learned the hard way proximity didnt mean dependability.
So Ava had simplified. And her life was great. So great that even she was surprised at how many people valued her skills enough to pay good money to attend a kick-ass workout class at seven in the morning.
Focusing on those people, Ava let the heavy beat of old-fashioned rock and roll pound through her system as she guided a group through a warm-up. She thought theyd use the gyms smallest workout room for this session, assuming there would be a limited interest in a six-week Hard Rocking Bods course. But ten minutes before theyd kicked off the initial session, shed had to move it to the largest room and offer sign-ups for a second course at a yet-to-be-determined time.
Lets step it up, folks, she called out as she assessed the progress of thirty people finishing their warm-up. Knees high, backs straight. Double time.
How much longer? gasped one already sweating guy with an enviable tan, tight body and pathetic muscle tone.
Warm-up? Another two minutes. She flashed a wicked smile. Then the fun starts.
The groans filling the room warmed her heart. She figured if they werent moaning, she wasnt doing her job. And that job was to build the best bodies. Through exercise classes, through training, through bodywork and massage.
It didnt matter what shape they were in when she started, she had no doubt that if the person was willing, theyd end up with a better body in the end.
Ava firmly believed that with hard work, if you just gave it long enough, anything could change. She was proof positive of that.
Heavy on results, light on believing in anything that relied on others. The complete opposite of how shed once livedwith her eye always on that fabled happily-ever-after so dependent on Prince Charming. Now she took one day at a time.
Today included hitch kicks, butt lifts and, oh yes, the dreaded burpees.
Okay, people, lets rock and roll. Already warmed after her morning run and a round of intense circuit training, she took her students through their first set. Grab your medium weight and begin with bicep curls. Squat on the curl, side kick on the release.
After a brief demonstration, including modifications, she gestured for them to join in and began the count. Twelve reps, rest, three times.
By the time theyd hit the three-quarters mark, the heavy beat of rock and roll couldnt disguise the heavy breathing and pained grunts of exertion sounding through the room. No matter how cool the air-conditioning was set, it didnt prevent the sweat streaming off the bodies doing that panting and grunting.
Ava prized every bitch, moan and aching groan as a sign of success. Her own breath might be a little short, but her voice was clear as she called out instructions.
Come on, ladies, lift those butts, she called out, fully aware that half her class was men. But shed learned that some things better motivated womenencouragement, commiseration, results. And some things motivated meninsults and questioning their virility. Nobody walks out of here comfortably. I want you moaning, groaning, huffing and puffing. I want those muscles screaming because you pushed them to the max. Lift, release. Lift, release.
She finished with a series of stretches.
Arch, higher, higher, people. Stretch those muscles. Release the burn, let it go. You dont want those babies locking up. At least not before you all make it to your cars.
That snared a round of breathless laughter. Ava rode it out pulling them through the rest of the cooldown, ending with a little light meditation and a few body affirmations.
Breathe, people. Pull that cooling air into your belly. Let it fill your body with soothing light. Repeat after me. Im strong. Im capable. I kicked butt today. Ill kick butt tomorrow.
And with that, she pushed to her feet. Ignoring the sweat that drizzled down her collarbone into the wicking fabric of her turquoise tank, she clapped her hands.
Great job. You all kicked butt today.
As always, Ava moved through the room making contact with students. A form correct here, a congratulations there. There were enough newbies in the class that she didnt know everyones name, but thanks to years of what she called extreme socialite training, she was able to make everyone feel as if they were a friend.