AMBUSHED Read online

  PRAISE FOR REBECCA YORK

  “Rebecca York delivers page-turning suspense."

  —Nora Roberts

  “A true master of intrigue.”

  —Rave Reviews

  Ambushed

  A Short Story

  by Rebecca York

  Published by Light Street Press at Smashwords

  Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York

  Copyright 2011 by Ruth Glick

  Cover design by Patricia Rosemoor

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  START OF AMBUSHED

  PRAISE FOR REBECCA YORK

  ABOUT REBECCA YORK

  BOOKS BY REBECCA YORK

  She looked like she was on her way to an execution, Jordan Stone thought as he glanced at the pretty blond woman beside him in the back of the Town Car. She sat rigidly in her seat, her blue eyes staring straight ahead and her elegant hands clasping each other in a death grip.

  He longed to slip a comforting arm around her shoulder and pull her close, but he remained still beside her. As the lead agent on the Decorah Security protection detail, he was her bodyguard, nothing more and nothing less. That could be their only relationship.

  Elizabeth Bannerman was the key witness against Kishwar Samara, the man who had plotted to blow up the National Archives, and Jordan’s mission was to keep her alive long enough to testify.

  Emma Richards, Decorah’s top female agent, was also taking a major part of the guard duty. Jordan knew the two women had become friends.

  That wasn’t possible for him and Elizabeth. Not with the sexual awareness crackling between them.

  He told himself that it came from the nerve-wracking confinement and forced proximity. In some hidden corner of his mind, he knew that was simply a convenient justification.

  He should have asked for another assignment. And never see her again? That thought made his chest tighten painfully.

  Beside him, Elizabeth stirred. All the way into D.C. from the safe house in Gaithersburg, he’d known she’d been working up the resolve to say something.

  Now she turned toward him. “Jordan, we have to talk.”

  “About the case?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “We both know that’s not true.” She laid her hand over his, making his muscles jump.

  “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly.

  “By keeping me at arm’s length?”

  “Yes.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “They have to be.”

  There was a way to settle the matter. All he had to do was tell her why he was working for Decorah Security instead of the CIA.

  But not now. Ahead of them was the white stone government building where Elizabeth was meeting the federal prosecutor. Not in his office, but at a smaller facility the press didn’t know about. As an additional precaution, they were coming in on Saturday morning when the building would be almost empty.

  A set of retractable barriers halted the big car at the entrance to the underground garage, and a uniformed guard approached the driver. “Identification, please.”

  Jordan had heard the request every time they’d arrived here, yet today something was different. Was it the hint of nerves in the man’s voice? Or Jordan’s super senses warning him of trouble?

  Those senses were one of the reasons Frank Decorah had hired him. The head of the agency was always on the lookout for operatives with special talents beyond their quick reflexes and rigorous training. In Jordan’s case, it was something he couldn’t explain but had learned to rely on when he felt it. The ability to sense trouble before it struck. Unfortunately, it usually gave him only a few moments notice.

  Today it was only seconds.

  Several things happened almost simultaneously.

  The car phone buzzed. As the driver reached to answer it, an automatic pistol with a silencer on the barrel rammed through the open front window of the vehicle.

  As Jordan heard the spitting sound of the gun, he pushed Elizabeth down and pulled out his own weapon.

  The driver slumped in a spray of blood. Jordan fired at the guard, striking him in the center of the chest, then lunged across the car and opened the opposite door, pushing Elizabeth out ahead of him.

  She made a muffled sound as she landed on the hard cement just inside the garage. He followed her out, scooping her up.

  “Come on.”

  He already had his secure cell phone in his hand and pressed the automatic dial for Decorah Security.

  “Ambush,” was the only word he got out before a massive explosion threw him and Elizabeth to the ground and the phone went flying out of his hand.

  He rolled on top of her, covering her body with his as a shock wave hit and debris fell around them, rubble peppering his back.

  When the deadly rain ebbed, he raised his head and looked around. Chunks of cement had flattened cars to their right, but they’d been far enough from the blast zone to avoid the worst of it. Which didn’t mean they were safe.

  “You all right?” he asked urgently.

  “I think so. Are you?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, blinking to clear his vision.

  They had to get out of here. Fast. But when he scanned the garage exit behind them, he saw armed men racing toward the car. Unfortunately, they didn’t look like cops or security guards.

  Elizabeth followed his gaze, gasping as she spotted the men closing in on them.

  Their only option was to sprint into the building.

  Grabbing her hand, he pulled her up and led her toward the right, behind a row of cars that gave them some cover.

  But he couldn’t shoot it out with these guys. There were too many of them, and their UZIs beat out his SIG.

  “This way.”

  Hugging the wall, they ran up a ramp to the next level of the garage where a few more cars were parked. When he saw the exit was on the other side of the lane, he cursed under his breath. Speed was of the essence, yet he hesitated to run headlong across the open space.

  Still, he knew they had to chance it.

  He pointed toward the door. “We’ve got to get over there. Crouch low. Run as fast as you can.”

  He went first, to draw fire. Every second they were out in the open had his nerves screaming, but they made it across. Easing the door open, he checked to see that the stairwell beyond was empty, then drew Elizabeth inside. Too bad the flimsy lock wasn’t going to stop the guys with the guns. When they didn’t find him and Elizabeth in the garage, they’d start searching the building.

  “Do you have your cell phone?” he asked.

  She dug into her purse, pulled it out and handed it to Jordan.

  With a sigh of relief, he dialed the Decorah Security’s emergency number. Frank Decorah answered, and it was clear he already knew what was happening.

  “Jordan. Tried to warn you.”

  “Too late,” he clipped out.

  “Is Elizab
eth Bannerman all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “North stairwell. Hostiles blocking the garage entrance.”

  “Teddy Granada just intercepted a coded e-mail.” Decorah named one of the company’s computer geeks. “The terrorists have at least ten men in the building.”

  “Shit. Can you get us off the roof?”

  “Negative. Unless we get clearance for a flight into DC. Emma Richards and Cole Marshall are on their way down there, along with the FBI . . .”

  A burst of gunfire from below interrupted the conversation. The bad guys had busted through the locked door.

  “Gotta go.” Jordan clicked off and turned to Elizabeth. “Come on.”

  They raced up two more levels of the stairwell. Cautiously Jordan opened the door and looked out.

  “Clear.” Except for the dead body on the floor, he silently added.

  He tried to steer Elizabeth away, but it was impossible to avoid the limp form and the pool of blood.

  She made a strangled sound when she saw him. “It’s Nelson Andrews.”

  The federal prosecutor she’d come to meet.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was good man.”

  The exchange was cut off when they heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  With no options, he ushered Elizabeth into an empty office a few doors down the hall. The blinds were partially closed, and he looked around in the dim light for cover. The desk was too obvious, but a bank of storage cabinets blocked the view from the door. When he gestured toward them, Elizabeth wedged herself into the corner and he stepped in front of her, gun drawn.

  Of course, if he had to shoot, he’d alert every terrorist in the building.

  “Jordan?” she whispered as she pressed against his back.

  “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Maybe.”

  Down the hall, he could hear doors opening and slamming shut again. When the door to their hiding place opened, every muscle in his body tensed. He saw a man’s shadow flicker on the wall, but the searcher was in a hurry and only came partway into the room, then ducked out again and went on to the next office.

  Elizabeth breathed out a sigh. “Will they come back?”

  “Yeah. But not right away.”

  He turned to face her and caught his breath.

  “What?”

  “Blood. Are you hurt?

  “I don’t think so.”

  Cautiously he inspected the spatter on her face and found no wound.

  There was a carton of water bottles on the floor beside the desk. He grabbed one and a wad of tissues from a nearby box. After washing her face, he stuffed the tissues into his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He answered with a tight nod.

  She kept her gaze on him. “You’re all business. All the time. I should be glad of that.” As she spoke, she reached for him, clasping him to her.

  He’d never allowed himself to hold her in his arms. Now when she pressed against him, a blaze of sensation radiated to every cell of his body. As his arms came up to embrace her, he absorbed the feel of the intimate contact. Just for a moment.

  When he started to ease away, she raised her face and met his gaze.

  “We could die here,” she whispered.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “So much we haven’t said. Haven’t done.”

  “We will.”

  Astonishment filled her voice. “That’s a promise?”

  “Yes.”

  He knew she wanted to say more, but a door slammed nearby. The terrorists were going to be more thorough when they came back.

  Hoping he had an answer to that problem, he took two strides across the room and climbed up onto one of the chairs, then onto the desk. From there, he reached up and pushed a large ceiling tile aside, peering into the darkness beyond. Hopefully there was enough room for two people to squeeze inside.

  When he motioned for Elizabeth to join him, she shot a quick glance at the door, then did as he asked.

  “I’m going to lift you. Grab onto the support beam and pull yourself up.”

  As she reaching toward the ceiling, he holstered his weapon and grasped her hips, ignoring the intimacy as he raised her.

  He saw her hands find something solid to grip before she pulled herself into the tight space above the office, wiggling her way around a cable that led to a light fixture.

  As she moved, the ceiling tiles buckled. They weren’t meant to hold a person’s weight, let alone two people.

  The noise in the hall was coming closer. No time left. And unfortunately Jordan wasn’t quite tall enough to pull himself up.

  For a sickening moment he thought he would have to take his chances on the floor. Then Elizabeth eased forward and reached for him.

  Praying he wouldn’t drag her back down, he clasped her hand, using the leverage to boost himself into the space.

  He scrambled through the opening, but not without making a heaving sound.

  All he could do now was push the tile back into place and pray nobody came tumbling down on the heads of the guys with the UZIs. The space was tight, hemmed in by wiring and support structures. He and Elizabeth were jammed together as tightly as if they’d been sleeping together in a bunk bed.

  He’d left a small crack along one of the horizontal channels, enough for him to see down and spot a bit of dust from the crumbling tile edge lying on the desk.

  Would one of the terrorists see it?

  Had he trapped himself and Elizabeth? He pictured the ceiling tiles dripping with their blood before he pushed the vivid image out of his mind. Quietly he eased his gun out the holster and held it in one hand.

  As the other hand brushed hers, he clasped her fingers. She held tight to him, then went stock-still as two men stepped into the room. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see much. Both were dark haired. One was tall, the other short. They both wore jeans and tee shirts. But the most notable fashion statement was the UZIs they carried.

  Jordan’s heart pounded as they searched the office. When they didn’t find anyone, one of them made a harsh sound and began speaking in Arabic. The other answered. Too bad Jordan had never studied the language.

  After a few moments, they left, and he heard doors in the corridor opening again.

  “I wish I knew what they were saying,” he whispered.

  “They’ve cleared the lower floors. They think we’re up here somewhere so there’s only a minimal guard in the garage.”

  The answer jolted him. He’d read the briefing folder on her. He knew she’d lived in the Middle East with her oil executive father, but most Americans never had much contact with the locals. “You speak Arabic?”

  “Yes. Dad had everyone in the family learn.” She laughed. “That’s how I got into trouble. I heard Kishwar and his buddies talking at the gym. They thought nobody could understand them, but I did. He’d set the bombing for the next day, so the FBI didn’t have time for a sting operation.”

  “But you came forward.”

  “I had to.”

  “You’re very brave.”

  “I’m scared spitless. Can we make it to the garage?”

  He’d been wondering the same thing. Now he answered, “We have to try.”

  He climbed down to the desk, listening intently before reaching up and helping her down. On the floor, they clung together for heartbeats, before he eased away and cautiously peered into the hall. It was clear.

  They sprinted for the stairwell and eased inside. When he didn’t start down, Elizabeth brought her lips to his ear and asked, “Do you hear something?”

  “No. It’s my sixth sense kicking in. My sense that trouble’s coming. I think someone’s below us,” he whispered.

  “Can we take another stairway?”

  “We know guys are searching the hallway. We were lucky to get out of there.”

  “Can we go up?”

  “We’d be tr
apped.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  He considered their options. Earlier he’d thought gunfire would draw the terrorists. Maybe he had no choice now.

  “If one of them is below us, we have to take a calculated risk. You’re going to flush him out, and I’m going to take advantage of that.” In a barely audible voice, he told her his plan.

  They both started down, moving as silently as possible, Jordan with his weapon ready, Elizabeth crackling with tension beside him.

  They saw no one, but the farther they descended, the more he knew one of the terrorists was in the stairwell. Hopefully, only one.

  On the landing above the bottom, Jordan squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “Now.”

  She deepened her voice and shouted in Arabic, “The woman’s on the loose. Get up here.”

  Startled, the man darted into view, craning his neck up.

  Jordan shot him in the face, and he toppled sideways.

  They both raced down, Elizabeth averting her eves from the gore and Jordan stopping to scoop up the UZI as they passed.

  At the door to the garage, he paused, listening. Once again he heard nothing, but he was still feeling jittery.

  Cautiously he stepped into the shadowy garage, scanning the open space.

  Two terrorists materialized from behind parked cars and began shooting. Jordan returned fire, even as he heard the clatter of more automatic weapons. Behind the terrorists, Emma Richards and Cole Marshall were shooting.

  The bad guys went down, and the Decorah Security operatives rushed forward, sweeping their weapons in all directions, prepared for trouble.

  But the garage was clear of the hostile combatants.

  Jordan hustled Elizabeth past the disabled Town Car. They blinked in the sunshine but didn’t stop moving until they had rounded a barricade of police vehicles, with Richards and Marshall guarding their rear.

  Frank Decorah was waiting for them, standing ramrod straight, a trim man in his early fifties, turning the gold eagle coin he always carried over and over in his hand. The staff called it his “worry bead.” But not to his face.