Nick stood before her. He held open his arms, and she ran to him.
While they blocked the elevator door to keep it from closing, she kissed him for all she was worth. “We have to go.”
“Not you,” he said. “I’m the one they want. I want you to go into the back of these offices and put your head down.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Not much, I hope. I got all the explosives detonated, except for the one in my uncle’s office. I had it all set up to rappel down the side of the building, but there wasn’t enough time.”
“When the bomb goes off, what happens?”
“It’s not in the right place to take down the building. There’s going to be damage on the ninth floor.”
“Where the hostages are,” she said.
The elevator dinged madly. “If they keep their heads down, they’ll be okay.”
“Let me come with you.”
He stepped into the elevator. “Stay safe. We’ll be together.”
She watched the door close and could only hope that wasn’t the last time she’d see him.
About the Author
Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, USA TODAY bestselling author CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon® Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
Hostage Midwife
Cassie Miles
To Fifi and Isis. And, as always, to Rick.
Chapter One
Sunday, 9:57 p.m.
The electricity to the building had been cut, but the emergency lights were enough for Kelly Evans to see as she moved toward the exit sign on the sixth floor. Her pulse raced and her hands trembled. Every step brought her closer to danger, but she didn’t have a choice. She had to save the other hostages.
Carefully, she opened the door below the exit sign and held it ajar. When she closed the door, it would lock behind her, and there would be no escape from the stairwell.
Holding her breath, she listened. Had they posted a guard in here? Was she walking into a trap? Smoke from the earlier explosion that closed off the stairwell at the ground floor tainted the air and irritated her throat. She pinched her lips together, stifling a cough that might betray her position.
She eased the door closed with an almost imperceptible click. Stepping away from the wall, she leaned forward, gripped the metal banister and peered upward. Each floor had a lighted exit sign, but the peripheral shadows created an optical illusion, making it appear that the winding flights of stairs disappeared into infinity like Jacob’s ladder. Kelly started her climb.
Halfway between the seventh and eighth floors, she paused to catch her breath. The ninth floor was the most dangerous. Trask was there, and the men with the guns. If she got beyond that point, she could make it to the roof.
From below, she heard a door crash open. A rough male voice echoed against the concrete walls. “Is she in here?”
“Shut up and listen. If she’s close, we’ll hear her breathing.”
How long can I hold my breath?
After a few impatient seconds, the first voice said, “I don’t hear a damn thing.”
“We’re out of time. Head back to the ninth floor.”
The soles of their boots scraped against the stairs as they climbed. They were coming toward her. She had to move … and to breathe. She gasped, quietly. On tiptoe, she tried to glide with perfect stealth from stair to stair—an impossible task. Don’t let them hear me, please, don’t let them hear …
She stumbled, catching herself with her hands.
From below, she heard a shout. “Hey, she’s up there!”
Darting past the ninth floor, Kelly stayed as close to the wall as possible. Only one more floor …
“Do you see her?”
“Not yet.”
Their voices sounded close. A burst of gunfire from an automatic rifle echoed against the concrete walls.
She took the last flight of stairs two at a time. At the roof, she hit the crash bar and dashed outside into a cold, starry night. There was no way to lock the door behind her. All she could do was run.
Dodging around air vents and solar panels, she crossed the roof and peered over the waist-high parapet. The street below was filled with dozens of emergency vehicles, their red-and-blue lights flashing. This was the wrong side of the building. She needed to be facing west, toward the foothills. She ran to the corner of the building, made the turn and found what she was looking for.
Behind her shoulder, she heard the door open. Gunfire erupted.
She climbed onto the parapet. Looking down, she saw the roof of a four-story building far below. She wasn’t afraid of heights, but vertigo washed over her in a dizzying wave.
She crouched into position and went over the edge.
One week earlier. Sunday, 6:07 p.m.
FIVE VERY PREGNANT WOMEN in loose-fitting workout clothes sat in a semicircle on exercise mats facing Kelly Evans. Behind each lady was her mate, except for Lauren Spencer, who was unaccompanied. Lauren craned her neck and stared at the glass double doors leading into the gym.
“Typical,” she muttered. “He’s always late.”
“It’s okay,” Kelly assured her. “You can fill your partner in on anything he misses. We should get started.”
Kelly tried to keep her Lamaze classes convenient, non-threatening and on schedule. Each of the six sessions in this two-week period was supposed to be an hour and a half, and she’d do everything she could to honor that time commitment. If couples wanted to stay later, they were welcome to do so, but she knew these people had places to go and things to do, even on a
