Everyday, Average Jones. Suzanne Brockmann
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said Harpo. Harpo. The silent Marx brother. Melody laughed aloud. Chris Sterling looked at her as if she was crazy to laugh when at any moment they could be killed, but Jones gave her another wink and a smile.
Kevin Costner. That’s who Jones looked like. He looked like a bigger, beefier, much younger version of the Hollywood heartthrob. And she had no doubt he knew it, too. That smile could melt hearts as well as bolster failing courage.
“Melody, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take off those kicks, hon.”
Hon. Honey. Well, she’d certainly gone from being called Miss Evans and ma’am to hon awfully fast. And as far as taking off her shoes…“These are new,” she told him. “And warm. I’d rather wear them, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” Jones told her apologetically. “Check out the bottoms of my sandals, then look at the bottoms of those things you’re wearing.”
She did. The brand name of the athletic shoes was emblazoned across the bottoms, worked into the grooved and patterned-to-grip soles of the sneakers.
“Everyone else in this city—and maybe even in this entire country—has sandals like mine,” he continued, lifting his foot to show her the smooth leather sole. “If you go out wearing those, every time you take a step you’ll leave a unique footprint. It will be the equivalent of signing your name in the dirt. And that will be like leaving a sign pointing in our direction that says Escaped American Hostages, Thisaway.”
Melody took off the sneakers.
“That’s my girl,” he said, approval and something else warming his voice. He squeezed her shoulder briefly as he turned his attention to several more men who were coming silently into the room.
That’s my girl.
His soft words should have made her object and object strenuously. Melody wasn’t a girl. Jones couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was at most, and he would never have let anyone call him a boy.
And yet there was something oddly comforting about his words. She was his girl. Her life was totally in his hands. With his help, she could get out of here and return to the safety of Appleton. Without his help, she was as good as dead.
Still, she couldn’t help but notice that little bit of something else that she’d heard in his voice. That subtle tone that told her he was a man and she was a woman and he wasn’t ever going to forget that.
She watched Ensign Jones as he spoke quietly to the other SEALs. He certainly was a piece of work. She couldn’t believe those smiles he kept giving her. Here they were, deep inside an embassy overrun with terrorists, and Jones had been firing off his very best bedroom smile in her direction. He was as relaxed as a man leaning against a bar, offering to buy her a drink, asking for her sign. But this wasn’t a bar, this was a war zone. Still, Jones looked and acted as if he were having fun.
Who was this guy? He was either very stupid, very brave or totally insane.
Totally insane, she decided, watching him as he took a bundle of robes from another of the SEALs. Underneath his own robe, he wore some kind of dark-colored vest that appeared to be loaded with all kinds of gear and weaponry. He had what looked to be a lightweight, nearly invisible set of headphones on his head, as well as an attached microphone similar to, but smaller than, something a telephone operator would wear. It stretched out on a hinged piece of wire or plastic and could be maneuvered directly in front of his mouth when he needed to talk.
What kind of man did this kind of thing for a living?
Jones tossed one of the robes to Chris Sterling and the other to her, along with another of those smiles.
It was hard to keep from smiling back.
As Melody watched, Jones spoke to someone outside the room through his little mike and headphones as he efficiently and quickly dressed the still-unconscious Kurt Matthews in the third robe.
He was talking about sandals. Sandals, apparently, were a bit harder to procure than the robes had been. At least it was difficult to find something in her size.
“She’s going to have to go in her socks,” one of the other SEALs finally concluded.
“It’s cold out there,” Jones protested.
“I don’t care,” Melody said. “I just want to go.”
“Let’s do it,” the black man said. “Let’s move, Cowboy. Cat controls the back door. Now’s the time.”
Jones turned to Melody. “Put the kicks back on. Quickly.”
“But you said—”
He pushed her down into a chair and began putting the sneakers on her feet himself. “Lucky, got your duct tape?”
“You know I do.”
“Tape the bottom of her foot,” Jones ordered, thrusting the tied shoe on Melody’s right foot toward the other SEAL.
The SEAL called Lucky got to work, and Jones himself began taping the bottom of her left sneaker, using a roll of silvery gray duct tape he, too, had been carrying in his vest.
They were covering the tread, making sure that when she walked, she wouldn’t leave an unusual footprint behind.
“It might be slippery.” Jones was kneeling in front of her, her foot on his thigh, as if he were some kind of fantasy shoe salesman. “And we’re going to have to make sure that if you wear it through, we tape ’em up again, okay?”
Melody nodded.
He smiled. “Good girl.” He moved his mike so that it was in front of his mouth. “Okay, Cat, we’re all set. We’re coming out.” He turned to Melody. “You’re with me, okay? Whatever happens, stick close to me. Do exactly what I say, no questions. Just do it, understand?”
Melody nodded again. She was his girl. She couldn’t think of anything else she wanted to be right at that particular moment.
“If shots are fired,” he continued, and for once his face was serious, his eyes lit with intensity rather than amusement or attraction, “get behind me. I will protect you. In return, I need two hundred percent of your trust.”
Melody couldn’t tear her gaze away from those neon green eyes. She nodded.
Maybe this man was insane, but he was also incredibly brave. He’d come into this terrorist stronghold to help rescue her. He’d been safe and sound, but he chose to give that up and risk his life for hers. I will protect you. As bold and as confident as his words were, the truth was that the next few minutes could see them both killed.
“In case something goes wrong,” she began, intending to thank him. God knows if something went wrong, she wouldn’t have the chance to thank him. She knew without a doubt that he would die first—taking bullets meant for her.
But he didn’t let her finish. “Nothing’s gonna go wrong. Joe Cat’s got the door. Getting out of this latrine’s gonna be a piece of cake. Trust me, Mel.”
He took her hand, pulling her with him out into the hall.
Piece of cake.
She almost believed him.
Something was wrong.
Melody could tell from the seriousness with which the man Ensign Jones called Joe Cat was talking to the shorter, blond-haired man named Blue.
They’d made it safely out of the embassy just as Jones had promised. They’d come farther than she’d ever thought possible. They’d traveled across and outside the limits of the city, up into the hills, moving quietly through the darkness.
The danger had not ended when they left the embassy. The city was under military rule,