Tess Gerritsen: Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

She struggled to see. The blackness was lifting. She could make out the outlines of furniture now. And she realized that the thumping was coming from the door.

In a shower of splinters the wood suddenly split open, breached by the bright red blade of a fire ax. Another blow tore a gaping hole in the door. An arm thrust in, to fumble at the lock.

Jordan shoved into the room.

He took one look at Clea and murmured, “My God…”

At once he was kneeling at her side. Her hands were so numb she scarcely felt it when he cut the cords binding her wrists.

But she did feel his kiss. He pulled the tape from her mouth, lifted her from the floor and pressed his lips to hers. As she lay sobbing in his arms he kissed her hair, her face, murmuring her name again and again, as though he could not say it enough, could never say it enough.

A soft beeping made his head suddenly lift from hers. He silenced the pager hung on his belt. “That’s our one-minute warning,” he said. “We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“I-I don’t think so. My legs…”

“Then I’ll carry you.” He swept her up into his arms. Stepping across the wood-littered carpet, he bore her out of the room and into the corridor.

“How do we get off the ship?” she asked.

“The same way I got on. Navy chopper.” He rounded a corner.

And halted.

“I am afraid, Mr. Tavistock,” said Simon Trott, standing in their path, “that you are going to miss your flight.”

Clea felt Jordan’s arms tighten around her. In the momentary silence she could almost hear the thudding of his heart against his chest.

Trott raised the barrel of his automatic. “Put her down.”

“She can’t walk,” said Jordan. “She hit her head.”

“Very well, then. You’ll have to carry her.”

“Where?”

Trott waved the gun toward the far end of the corridor. “The cargo bay.”

That gun left Jordan no choice. With Clea in his arms he headed up the corridor and stepped through a doorway, into a cargo bay crammed full with packing crates.

“The landing party knows I’m on board,” said Jordan. “They won’t leave without me.”

“Won’t they?” Trott glanced upward toward the rumble of the chopper rotors. “They’re about to do just that.”

They heard the roar of the helicopter as it suddenly lifted away.

“Too late,” said Trott with a regretful shake of his head. “You’ve now entered the gray world of deniability, Mr. Tavistock. We’ll claim you never came aboard. And the Royal Navy will have a sticky time admitting otherwise.” Again he waved the gun, indicating one of the crates. “It’s large enough for you both. A cozy end, I’d say.”

He’s going to shut us inside, thought Clea. And then what?

A ditching at sea, of course. She and Jordan would drown together, their bodies locked forever in an undersea casket. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. Sheer terror had drained her of the ability to think, to act.

When Jordan spoke, his voice was astonishingly calm.

“They’ll be waiting for you in Naples,” said Jordan. “Interpol and the Italian police. You don’t really think it’s as simple as tossing one crate overboard?”

“We’ve bought our way into Naples for years.”

“Then your luck is about to change. Do you like dark, enclosed places? Because that’s where you’re going to find yourself. For the rest of your life.”

“I’ve had enough,” Trott snapped. “Put her down. Pry the lid off the crate.” He picked up a crowbar and slid it across the floor to Jordan. “Do it. And no sudden moves.”

Jordan set Clea down on her feet. At once she slid to her knees, her legs still numb and useless. Dropping down beside her, Jordan looked her in the eye. Something in his gaze caught her attention. He was trying to tell her something. He bent close to her and the flap of his jacket sagged open. That’s when she caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster.

He had a gun!

Trott’s view was blocked by Jordan’s back. Quickly she slipped her hand beneath Jordan’s jacket, grabbed the pistol from the holster and hugged it against her chest.

“Leave her on the floor!” ordered Trott. “Just get the bloody crate open!”

Jordan leaned close, his mouth grazing her ear. “Use me as a shield,” he whispered. “Aim for his chest.”

She stared at him in horror. “No-”

He gripped her shoulder with painful insistence. “Do it.”

Their gazes locked. It was something she’d remember for as long as she lived, that message she saw in his eyes. You have to live, Clea. For both of us.

He gave her shoulder another squeeze, this one gentler. And he smiled.

“Come on, get the lid off!” barked Trott.

Clea hooked her finger around the pistol trigger. She had never shot anyone before. If she missed, if she was even slightly off target, Trott would have time to squeeze off his entire clip into Jordan’s body. She had to be accurate. She had to be lethal.

For his sake.

His lips brushed her forehead and she savored their warmth, knowing full well that the next time she touched them they might carry the chill of death.

“It seems you need a jump start,” said Trott. He raised his pistol and fired.

Clea felt Jordan shudder in pain, heard him groan as he clutched his thigh. In horror Clea saw bright red droplets spatter the floor. The sight of Jordan’s blood seemed to cloud her vision with rage. All her hesitation was swept away by a roaring wave of fury.

With both hands she aimed the pistol at Trott and fired.

The bullet’s impact punched Trott squarely in the chest. He stumbled backward, his face frozen in surprise. He weaved on his feet like a drunken man. The gun slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor. He dropped to his knees beside it, made a clumsy attempt to pick it up again, but his hands wouldn’t function. As he sank to the floor, his fingers were still clawing uselessly for the gun. Then they fell still.

“Get out of here,” gasped Jordan.

“I won’t leave you.”

“I can’t leave, period. My leg-”

“Hush!” she cried. On unsteady legs she stumbled over to Trott’s body and snatched up his gun. “There’s no getting off this ship, anyway! They’ve heard the shots. They’ll be down here any minute, the whole lot of them. We might as well stick together.” She tottered back to his side.

He sat huddled in a pool of his own blood. Tenderly she took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

His lips were already chilled.

Sobbing, despairing, she cradled his head in her lap. It’s over, she thought as she heard footsteps pounding toward them along the corridor. All we can do now is fight till the bitter end. And hope death comes quickly. She bent down to him and whispered, “I love you.”

The footsteps were almost at the cargo door.

With a strange sense of calmness she raised the gun and took aim at the doorway…

And held her fire. A man in a Royal Navy uniform stood blinking at her in surprise. Behind him stood three other men, also in uniform. One of them was Richard Wolf.

Richard shoved through into the room and saw Jordan and the growing pool of blood. Turning, he yelled, “Call back the chopper again! Have the Medevac team standing by!”

“Yes, sir!” One of the naval officers headed for the intercom.

Clea was still clutching the pistol. Slowly she let the barrel drop, but she did not release the grip. She was almost afraid to let go of the one solid thing she could count on. Afraid that if she did let go, she would drop away into some dimensionless space.

“Here. I’ll take it.”