Читать книгу: «Against the Wall»

“This mission could be deadly if you don’t know what you’re doing, Solange. Tell me now if you aren’t sure, and I’ll get you out of here.”

Jack’s hand on her arm gripped with increased intensity. Solange realized he was afraid for her. Really afraid, to the point where he might abandon the mission if she seemed reluctant.

“I know what to do,” she assured him, putting more conviction into her answer than she truly felt.

In a surprising move, he put his arms around her and held her close. “I wish to God I had left you where you were. You’re not cut out for this.”

She pushed against his chest until she could look him straight in the eye. “Don’t underestimate me, Mercier.”

He smiled down at her, still holding her in his arms. “My mistake.” Then he lowered his head and kissed her.

Solange felt it to her soul.

Dear Reader,

Once again, Silhouette Intimate Moments has a month’s worth of fabulous reading for you. Start by picking up Wanted, the second in Ruth Langan’s suspenseful DEVIL’S COVE miniseries. This small town is full of secrets, and this top-selling author knows how to keep readers turning the pages.

We have more terrific miniseries. Kathleen Creighton continues STARRS OF THE WEST with An Order of Protection, featuring a protective hero every reader will want to have on her side. In Joint Forces, Catherine Mann continues WINGMEN WARRIORS with Tag’s long-awaited story. Seems Tag and his wife are also awaiting something: the unexpected arrival of another child. Carla Cassidy takes us back to CHEROKEE CORNERS in Manhunt. There’s a serial killer on the loose, and only the heroine’s visions can help catch him—but will she be in time to save the hero? Against the Wall is the next SPECIAL OPS title from Lyn Stone, a welcome addition to the line when she’s not also writing for Harlequin Historicals. Finally, you knew her as Anne Avery, also in Harlequin Historicals, but now she’s Anne Woodard, and in Dead Aim she proves she knows just what contemporary readers want.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month, when Silhouette Intimate Moments brings you even more of the best and most exciting romance reading around.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

Against the Wall
Lyn Stone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LYN STONE

loves creating pictures with words. Paints, too. Her love affair with writing and art began in the third grade, when she won a school-wide prize for her colorful poster for Book Week. She spent the prize money on books, one of which was Little Women.

She rewrote the ending so that Jo marries her childhood sweetheart. That’s because Lyn had a childhood sweetheart herself and wanted to marry him when she grew up. She did. And now she is living her “happily ever after” in north Alabama with the same guy. She and Allen have traveled the world, have two children, four grandchildren and experienced some wild adventures along the way.

Whether writing romantic historicals or contemporary fiction, Lyn insists on including elements of humor, mystery and danger. Perhaps because that other book she purchased all those years ago was a Nancy Drew.

This book is dedicated to

retired Special Agent Frank Hudson, Dorothy and Jim.

We miss you guys!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Prologue

“I don’t see how we’re gonna be much help to Jack fifteen clicks away,” Joe Corda said. He immediately lowered his voice when he heard the echo bounce off the old masonry walls. “That’s lethal stuff he’ll be dealing with. Not like bullets. One hit and he’s dead. If he were going in alone, I wouldn’t worry so much, but he’ll have that doctor along. And the kid.”

“He’ll need tickets and they’re it. I’d have gotten us closer, but we’d stick out like M&Ms on a sushi plate anywhere else around here,” Holly Amberson argued. “As it is, the locals won’t even blink at us. They’re used to weirdos renting this place. Artistes!” she hissed with a flourish of her fingers.

He looked around as he put down two of the suitcases. “This dump looks like something out of a really bad French novel.”

“Oh, yeah, like you’ve read so many of those,” she muttered. “But I will admit a Bela Lugosi butler wouldn’t be out of place.”

He leveled her with a look. “We are the help, remember?”

“Not you, slick.” She smirked. “You are the gigolo. Man, I do hate that shirt. Which pimp’s closet did you raid anyway?”

Just outside, Martine Duquesne Corda was busy issuing imperious instructions to her bodyguard, Eric Vinland, and chauffeur, Will Griffin. Holly laughed. “Martine’s really getting into her role. You let her boss you around like that?”

“Sure.” Joe shrugged, hands on his hips, preoccupied with taking in the rustic, old-world charm of the faded mansion in France’s Lorraine region. “She does have an image to maintain. How do you like her disguise? She’ll be just that beautiful when she does reach sixty, I bet.”

In an abrupt change of topic, Holly commented, “Where the heck are the outlets in this barn? I need a place to hook up.” She hefted the case containing assorted gadgets and her laptop and set it on a scarred marble-topped table near the door.

They both moved aside as the others entered. She waited until Will had closed the door. “All the rooms been swept?”

“Clean,” Eric assured her. “We’re good to go.” He turned to Martine, clicked his heels and bowed, looking more like a muscle-bound kid on spring break than the bodyguard he was supposed to be. “Our reclusive Madame D’Amato may proceed with her work uninhibited.” He peered over his wire-rimmed glasses and winked at Joe. “As well as her play, of course.” Caught off guard, Martine laughed and blushed.

Holly pointed to the mound of luggage now piled near their feet. “You guys cut the bull and set up the global positioning system. Let’s check Jack’s location. We need to know exactly when to expect him.”

Will, quintessential agent, the quiet man, finally spoke. “His ETA’s eleven-thirty, give or take five. He’ll be here.”

“Verify.” Holly was running this end of the mission. Joe reached for the case with the GPS instruments. His duties consisted of whatever Holly ordered him to do. And also protecting his wife, not an official member of the Sextant team but a contract language specialist who was central to their cover. Holly, Will, Eric and he were masquerading as her entourage. Clay Senate was maintaining Stateside control while the boss, Mercier, had assumed the lead.

The Sextant team consisted of agents recruited from various government organizations expressly for the purpose of preventing terrorist activities around the globe. This suspected bio-terror threat was the first of its kind for Sextant.

Identify, Infiltrate, Analyze and Eliminate. That first part, they had all had a hand in. The second and most difficult order of business was about to go down within the next few hours if all went as planned. The primary agent was about to insert.

Joe looked up at the peeling paint on the fancy plaster ceiling and—seriously lapsed Catholic that he was—uttered a devout prayer that they would all survive. He was known for his hunches, and he had a really bad feeling about this.

Chapter 1

Jack Mercier entered the hospital wing of Baumettes Prison with the barrel of a submachine gun resting at the base of his spine. While he loved humanity—in fact, had devoted his life to the protection of it—he had decided since coming to this place a week ago that he was not that crazy about people. Especially Claude Bujold, his least favorite guard.

Maybe he was rationalizing the fact that he wanted to kill the man, but he didn’t think so. Claude considered beatings a form of entertainment, the more helpless the victim, the greater the rush. Misuse of power really pushed Jack’s buttons.

Jack was supposed to be awaiting arraignment, accused of conspiring to ship illegal weapons into France. Bogus charges, of course, faked to get him into this place.

He had escaped most of the vicious harassment by bribing Claude. The promise of money from Jack’s attorney had gotten Jack the promise of medical attention today.

Jack waited until they entered the small ward, empty now except for one patient and the doctor attending him at the far end of the room. Today was the day.

The white-clad doctor who was bending over the patient stood and turned. Jack stopped in his tracks. Wrong doctor. Most definitely, wrong doctor.

Should he postpone? Too late. With everything else in place, it was now or never.

Claude prodded him down the aisle between the rows of beds. “Hey, Doc, this piece of filth has been complaining of chest pain. Would you—”

Jack whirled, grasped both of Claude’s wrists and pinched the nerves that controlled his fingers. He rammed the top of his head beneath Claude’s chin and heard a satisfying crack.

The machine gun fell, hitting the floor a split second after Jack’s knee connected with Claude’s groin.

The guard crumpled with a cry. Jack delivered a blow to the side of the head that would keep Claude unconscious for a while. Unfortunately, the bastard had to be left alive.

The doctor rushed him but he heard that coming. He waited, caught her upraised arm and easily removed the syringe, her impromptu weapon.

“Where is Dr. Micheaux?” he demanded.

She sputtered as she struggled to break free. Her small fists bounced off him, inflicting no pain. She was not very strong, he noted.

What the hell was this delicate little flower doing in a prison hospital? And what had happened to the doctor he had expected to find in here?

Now he would either have to incapacitate her like the guard, or take her along. Either way, she might be blamed for aiding the escape. Besides, he had to have a doctor along. She’d just have to do.

“Be still or I’ll have to kill you,” he snapped.

All motion ceased. Her wide blue gaze, full of fear and anger, settled on his. Every muscle in her body was alert and tensed for further action if he presented her a chance. Bold little thing.

“I admire bravery but not stupidity. Nod if you comprehend.” He spoke to her in French, assuming that she was.

Her chin remained raised, her glare defiant. But Jack could see she understood. She was pretty, he noticed. Blond, sky-blue eyes, skin untouched by the sun. This one didn’t spend her off days on the Riviera, that was for sure. Too busy saving lives, he guessed. He’d bet she worked here for nothing in her spare time. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Prepare your patient to leave the prison. Is he ambulatory?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “You are not taking him anywhere.”

Jack inclined his head toward the exit that led to the alley where a truck was waiting. “We are all leaving through that door in less than five minutes.” He glared at her. He had no time for her spitfire attitude, so he added, “Dead or alive. Your choice, lady.”

For a long moment she studied his eyes, then looked back at the bed where her patient lay sleeping. “You won’t hurt him?”

“No. Or you, either. Not if you behave and do exactly as I tell you.”

She exhaled the pent-up breath she was holding and nodded once, no doubt cursing the abominable lack of security in French prisons. This one was even more short-handed than usual today thanks to Will Griffin.

Jack released her and reached down to pick up Claude’s weapon. “Get to it, then, while I take care of the garbage. Do as I say and neither of you will be harmed. My word.”

He ignored her scoff. In seconds he had bound the unconscious Claude’s hands and feet and gagged him with a roll of gauze.

Jack regretted having to take the doctor along, but he really had no choice. Since the boy was drugged, someone would have to verify how he’d been rescued. Besides that, he obviously needed medical attention, and the kid’s father would hardly appreciate Jack’s getting the boy out of prison if the little fellow died in the process.

“You have the boy ready?” Jack demanded as he approached the sickbed where the prisoner lay.

“Yes. Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

Jack ignored the question. “Take as much of his medication as you have with you. Hand me your bag.”

“I am not coming,” she informed him.

“Poor choice.” He started raising the machine gun. She gasped.

“Change your mind?” Jack asked. Again she nodded, her eyes clenched in resignation.

“Then help him up. He’s small enough you should be able to manage. Is he really that hurt or just sedated?”

“Of course he is hurt. His injuries are numerous and he is on morphine.”

As she spoke, she raised the boy to a sitting position, eased his legs off the bed and tried to encourage him to stand up. She managed, but only just. The kid was pretty much out of it. He was very slightly built, almost delicate. Though he was seventeen, René Chari seemed younger. His sallow complexion and adolescent fuzz of a mustache only enhanced his look of vulnerability.

“Brace your shoulder beneath his and pull his arm around your neck,” Jack told her, grasping the boy beneath his other arm as they shuffled him to the door. “We have only a short way to go.”

“This door is kept locked,” she told him.

“Not today,” Jack replied as he reached for the handle and shoved the door open. “Go ahead of me. And if you run, I will shoot.”

She did as ordered and they were soon in the alley. No windows graced the inner walls that faced them between the wings. A heavy chain-link gate topped with concertina wire barred the only way out. “Hurry. Let’s get him inside the vehicle.”

The truck provided, a megaton monstrosity used for delivering supplies, would easily roll them to freedom. Several blocks away, a vintage sedan waited, souped up and ready to transport them to their eventual destination.

He placed the machine gun across his lap, cranked the starter, floored the accelerator and gunned it, ramming straight through the chain-link barrier.

The alarm was immediate and deafening. He sped away from it, taking side streets until he approached the wooded area of the park.

He pulled up behind the car Griffin had left him and slammed on the brake. In minutes he had loaded both patient and doctor into the gray Saab and they were off.

“Jail break accomplished,” he said to himself, ticking off tasks to be completed. It was an old habit. He turned to the doctor who looked pale as a bleached sheet. “Are you doing all right?”

She shot him a look of disbelief that he would ask such a ridiculous question. “I have been abducted at gunpoint. No, I am not well at all.” She swallowed hard, almost gulped. “Do you mean to…kill me?” she added, still defiant.

Her bravery, useless as it was, touched something in Jack. She was so totally defenseless and yet she refused to cower. A kitten backed against a wall, facing a bulldog, ready to claw for all she was worth if attacked. He felt faintly ashamed of himself. “Did I hurt you when I disarmed you?”

She flexed her wrist. Faint red marks discolored the pale ivory of her flesh where he had grasped it to relieve her of the syringe. She tucked that hand beneath the other and began rubbing the wrist slowly, absently. “No, but you did not answer my question.”

“I have no plans at present to harm you at all if you cooperate. You’ve not asked me once to release you since we escaped. Why is that?”

Her gaze left him as she glanced into the back seat. “There is René. He needs continued care and I doubt you intend to give it. What do you plan to do with him?”

“Take him home to his father,” Jack told her. “What happened to Dr. Micheaux?”

“I am Dr. Micheaux,” she replied with a haughty look. “Solange Micheaux.”

Damn. The daughter of the other doctor. He remembered a mention of her in Micheaux’s dossier, but nothing about her working at Baumettes. “Where is your father today?”

She refused to answer.

“He was supposed to be there and had promised to help,” Jack said, hoping that might gain him a little cooperation.

“You lie! My father would never assist in such a thing.”

“This is more than a run-of-the-mill escape, Doctor. Now where is your father?”

Her frown deepened, and she remained silent for a minute before answering. “In Paris.”

“Why wasn’t he at the prison today?”

She sighed. “He is in Broussais Hospital. He was injured in an accident yesterday morning.”

Either the team had not heard anything about this development or hadn’t been able to get word of it to him in his cell. “What happened?” Jack asked. “And are you certain it was an accident?

He heard her swift intake of breath. “He…he was hit by an automobile as he crossed the street. You…you are saying it was not an accident?”

“No. It probably was,” Jack said, but he was far from sure of the answer. “How badly was he hurt?”

She glanced out the window and continued to rub her hands together. “Broken femur, a concussion, bruises. He will recover.” Then she faced Jack, her eyes imploring. “Let me go to him. We can take René there, as well. You could leave us at the emergency entrance and be well away in no time. I promise—”

“Save your breath,” he said, interrupting her. “That’s not going to happen. I have to get René to his father no later than tomorrow. Do you know where he lives? Has the boy told you?”

“You do not even know where you are to go?”

Jack almost laughed. “Of course I know. I need to know if you know already. If René has said anything at all to you about his home or his family.”

She sighed, then looked out the window at the passing scenery. “No. René has not been living with his father. The boy has rooms near the Sorbonne where he attends classes,” she muttered, as if to herself.

Jack nodded. “Art student. Has he talked about his family? His father in particular?”

“Not to me and Father did not mention his discussing anything of that nature.” Her interest in the passing landscape ended abruptly as she turned that electrifying blue gaze on him again. “Why all of these questions?”

“I’ll tell you later. What of you, Dr. Micheaux? Will you tell me about yourself?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I ask.”

She scoffed. “You already know my name and who my father is. Even that is too much.”

“I am Jacques Mercier. Now you know mine. I was imprisoned to await trial. Wouldn’t you like to know why?”

“No. It is nothing to do with me. Are you attempting to cultivate the Stockholm Syndrome with this foolish exchange of information? I promise you I will never become attached to an abductor no matter how friendly you try to be.”

She faced away from him again. “Stop looking at me that way.”

Jack hadn’t realized he was making her even more uncomfortable. It would be difficult not to look at her. She was something to see, that was for sure.

He should try to put her at ease, as much as he could. “You’re very brave, that much I already know. Instead of a mere profession, you have a calling, I believe. Anyone else would be begging me for their freedom. Instead, you are willing to go along to care for our young friend in the back seat. Are you afraid?” He knew she was terrified, but he also knew she would never admit it.

“Of course I am afraid,” she confessed, surprising him. “Only a fool would not fear you. I saw what you did to that guard.”

“I could easily have killed him,” Jack said in a slightly defensive tone.

“I know,” she replied, not quite hiding a shiver.

He could see that that thought relieved her only a little. “You need not worry about rape, either,” he told her. “I believe I can restrain my animal instincts.”

She tried to cover her relief with a mirthless laugh. “I have offended you by thinking you might?”

“Do you care whether I am offended?”

She didn’t bother to answer. Jack knew she cared. She had to worry if she had made him angry, that he might change his mind and show her who was boss here.

“You’re safe with me,” he said, and meant it, too. Not just about his leaving her alone physically. He felt a need to protect her, even from the worry she must be feeling at the moment.

For an instant he considered stopping the car in the next village they reached and letting her go. Bad idea, and he couldn’t imagine why he had even thought of doing it. There was the mission to consider, and she was crucial to the success of it. Without her help, the plan would fall apart before it got underway.

That had been the point of waiting until the doctor was with the boy to take him. The problem was that her father had eagerly agreed to help with this. The man had experience in this sort of enterprise, had worked with intelligence before. The daughter had no clue what was going on.

“We’ll have to lie low for a day,” he said, knowing she would assume the police would be giving chase. There would be no all-points bulletin on them, of course. Holly Amberson could take care of that with a few choice phone calls and a bit of hacking with her magic laptop.

“Open the glove compartment and get the phone,” he commanded.

After eyeing him with suspicion for a few seconds, she complied. He took it from her before she could punch in any numbers and pressed the precoded digit.

When Holly answered, he kept his message brief and to the point. “We have a substitute. See that Dr. Solange Micheaux is officially listed on emergency leave. Arrange for someone to handle her duties and cover for her. Her father is an accident victim, a patient at Broussais. Check on his condition.” He paused. “And make sure it really was an accident.”

Amberson did not waste words either. “So we are still on?”

“Unless the mission is compromised. Are things all set at your end?”

“Right on schedule,” she replied.

That meant word would soon be out that the son of Ahmed Chari had escaped Baumettes Prison with a little help from a fellow inmate. This way, Chari probably would not be surprised by his son’s arrival if he heard about the escape on the news. The police would not bother to question Chari. They would be informed there was evidence that his son and his accomplices had left the country immediately.

Jack would use the downtime to become better acquainted with the doctor and determine whether she could be trusted with the truth or if she should go in blind.

Taking her in her father’s stead bothered him. It shouldn’t. She was just one person, expendable in the big scheme of things. The big scheme here was to save lives. Many of them. If sacrifices were necessary to accomplish that, then he would just have to live with it.

Solange realized she had dozed when the car stopped. She ran her hands through her hair and shook off her grogginess. How on earth had she managed to fall sleep in such a predicament as this?

Before she fell asleep, she had been marking their route visually. They had headed north from Lyon, with the central highlands to their left and the Swiss Alps to their right. Vineyards and fruit orchards lined their way along the wide path cut by nature.

When she looked out now, there were no landmarks or identifying characteristics on the eerie, moonlit landscape. He might have changed direction entirely. They could be anywhere in France by now.

“We’ll stay here for the night.”

She looked at the man who had kidnapped her, then out the window again. “Would you tell me where we are?”

“A safe place,” he replied cryptically.

He got out, opened the back door and gently lifted René in his arms. Solange hopped out quickly and hovered, cautioning him to be careful not to jostle her patient any more than he could help.

The night was chilly for mid-May, but that was not what caused her to shiver. She rubbed her arms briskly.

“Look under the mat there and find the key,” he ordered, his voice curt.

She hurried to find it and unlock the door to the old house, feeling for the keyhole with trembling fingers. What would happen once they were inside?

Where was this place? The moon was high enough that she could see they were not in a town or village. In fact, she could see no other buildings except this old cottage they were entering.

Could this man be intending to hold René here for ransom? And, if so, what would happen to her? If René remained unconscious during all this, he could not identify his kidnapper. But she could. Perhaps she would live only so long as René needed her.

If she found an opportunity, she would escape. Then she could go to the police and have them rescue René.

“There should be an oil lamp and matches on the table. Careful you don’t knock it off and break it,” he said, moving farther into the main room.

She heard the rustle of movement as she discovered by feel the lamp and a box of matches where he had said they would be. She struck fire and lifted the old-fashioned globe.

When she had adjusted the flame, Solange carried it over to where he had laid René on a shabby, but comfortable-looking couch.

“See to him. I’ll go and get your medical bag,” Mercier told her.

“Is there water in here or must we go outside to draw it?” she asked.

“Running water. The bath is off the hallway. Kitchen’s through that door,” he said pointing.

She knelt beside the couch and began checking René’s pulse. It felt steady and strong enough. He breathed normally and seemed to be quite comfortable. She lifted his lids and examined his pupils in the lamp light. A crocheted afghan lay draped over the foot of the couch and she used that to cover him against the chill of the room.

Mercier returned quickly and handed her the bag. “How is he doing?”

“No worse than he was.”

“His pain was severe enough for morphine?”

She hesitated. “First answer me one thing. Are you holding René for ransom?”

“No,” he declared shaking his head. Then he seemed to think about it. “But I can see why you might think that’s what I’m doing. No, I’m returning him to his father as soon as I can. I was escaping, anyway, and thought I might as well take the boy out of there with me.”

“On the hope of a reward, perhaps?” she asked.

He shrugged. “That and a place to hide once I got out. I’m hoping Chari will offer me a job.”

“You said my father agreed to help you? Why?”

“Even before he was beaten, the boy was not strong enough to survive long where he was. Your father knew that, and I suspect you know it, too.”

Satisfied he was not lying, she answered his question truthfully. “René was hurt, yes. He could have borne it well enough with pills, but my father wanted him bedridden, to seem worse off than he was.”

Mercier’s dark eyes softened as he crouched beside her on the threadbare rug. “To protect him? So he wouldn’t have to return to the cells?”

She nodded. “He has been at the prison for over three weeks and this is his second beating. That is why Father gave him morphine. If René remained unconscious, he would have more time to heal. When my father told me of his condition, both of us tried to intervene on René’s behalf, plead his youth and size to someone in authority. But neither my father nor I could get in to see anyone in the prefecture or the warden’s office. Even if we had, they probably would have laughed at us. He is simply another prisoner to be locked away. Why should they care?”

“But you care.”

“Of course I care!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. “He is hardly more than a child. Look at him. A gentle boy. How could they put him in with all those monsters?” Oh God, what had she said? She had just included this man in that insult.

But instead of outrage, she saw full understanding in his eyes. “Good for you. Your father and you outwitted them.” He smiled at her then, a gentle expression she would not have expected from such a man.

“We do what we can, though it is never enough.”

He nodded. “Baumettes is a three-hour drive down from Paris. Do you come to work at the prison hospital often?”

“Whenever my schedule permits, I assist my father in his volunteer work. Since his retirement, he spends a good many hours at three of the prison facilities.” She could see no point in going into their reasons for doing what they did.

He sighed. It was more a gust of resigned frustration. “One of my people is checking on your father’s condition and you’ll be advised how he is tomorrow. Try not to worry about him, though I’m certain you will, anyway.”

“Then I must thank you for that, I suppose.” Solange slumped, burying her face in her hands. She felt like weeping but knew she must not.

She took a deep breath and raised her head again, meeting his eyes. “I am very tired. Would you mind if I lie here on the floor beside the divan and sleep for a while? I had duty in the emergency last night and was unable to rest.”

He straightened and held up one finger. “Wait just a minute.”

Before she knew it, he was dragging in a single-bed mattress. “Here you are,” he said, positioning it next to her. “I’m afraid there are no linens. But here is a pillow and it’s new.”

She took the pillow from him and lay down.

Her captor offered her a reassuring smile and went to sit on the floor beside the front door. Somehow she knew that was the only exit that she would be able open.

It would be useless effort to try to escape tonight. He would only come after her, and she had no idea which way she should run even if he did not bother. Perhaps tomorrow would afford her a chance.