call. He hoped the woman he’d left the rucksack with would answer the cell phone inside one of the pockets. And he prayed it had enough battery power left for her to answer. Considering he hadn’t had a chance to charge the cell phone, he doubted it would ring.
Just when he’d thought he’d sunk as low as life could take him, he’d once again been proven wrong.
Grace Lawrence had been on her way to interview for a job when the attack began and she’d been dragged to the ground and covered by the hulking hunk of a man. Too stunned to resist, she’d lain still, listening to the popping sound of shots being fired and the screams and shouts of women and men as they dove for cover.
All too soon, the man on top of her shifted and shoved his backpack at her, telling her to keep it safe. Left unprotected, she lay as flat to the ground as she could. Afraid of getting shot, Grace remained still for a few seconds after the man had left her with his camouflage rucksack. Gunfire seemed to blast from all around her. Some women continued to scream or sob, while other people fled.
She lifted her head high enough to see an older woman being hauled out of the limousine and shoved toward a white van.
Her gaze scanned the area, searching for the stranger who’d left the rucksack with her. She’d seen him dart toward a vehicle and roll beneath the chassis. Then she’d lost sight of him.
Her heart raced as she considered what could be happening. The man could have left her with a bag full of explosives. She could be holding on to a bomb that was about to blow her and the entire block to hell and back.
She shoved the rucksack away from her, knowing it wouldn’t be far enough. And she couldn’t get up and move...not with bullets flying through the air. Then she spied Mr. Rucksack running from the front of one vehicle to the back of another, edging his way toward one of the men holding a submachine gun. What man would leave a bag full of explosives and then go after an armed shooter, barehanded?
As she watched, the hunky rucksack owner took down the gunman without being noticed, and then dragged the guy out of sight. The next moment, her guy’s feet appeared beneath the carriage of another vehicle, heading toward the white van.
Was he out of his mind? There had to be a dozen gunmen scattered around the vans, limousine and security vehicles. How could one man stop all of those attackers?
Grace pulled the rucksack toward her and clutched it close to her chest. He’d asked her to watch his bag. Hell, he could end up dead before the attack was over. She might hold the only clue to his identity and be called upon to help identify his body.
A shiver ran through her. Grace sent a silent prayer to the heavens that the crazy man trying to stop a deadly attack didn’t die that day. She didn’t want to visit a morgue, and he was too good-looking to leave the world just yet. He deserved to live long enough to grow old and gray and develop a gut and wrinkles. Which would probably look good on him, as well.
When the sirens sounded in the distance, the group of attackers fired off rounds and backed toward the white vans. One of the men held the gray-haired woman at gunpoint, shoving her ahead of him. When they reached the van, the side door slid open and the man and woman were yanked inside.
Remaining attackers fired again and ran toward the second white van at the rear of the limousine.
The van with the woman inside backed away from the limousine and spun around.
At the same time as the side door slammed shut, the back door of the van swung closed. But not before Grace saw who had climbed into the rear of the van.
Her breath caught and held. The man who’d saved her from being mowed down by the gunmen had entered the back of the van.
Had she been wrong? Was he with the bad guys after all? She glanced at the rucksack, afraid to move in case it would explode.
Then the white van veered erratically and gunfire sounded from inside.
“Get up and move!” someone yelled. A hand reached down and dragged Grace to her feet.
Despite her misgivings, she grabbed the rucksack and ran, stumbling away from the commotion.
Police cars and SUVs converged on the street, blocking the other white van. The one her guy was in drove up on a sidewalk.
People scattered.
The van swerved back out onto the road and crashed into a delivery truck, bringing it to a stop.
A police car arrived beside Grace and officers leaped out. One pulled his weapon and aimed at the white van, while the other waved his arms. “Move back. The show’s not over.”
Herded like cattle, Grace and the others caught in the attack were urged to run until they were a full two blocks away from the scene.
The crowd thinned enough that Grace was finally able to stop and turn around.
She waited with the rucksack clutched to her chest, the weight of the bag making her arms ache.
“Lady, move along,” a police officer advised. “You don’t want to get hit by stray bullets.”
Beyond the police officers now blocking the sidewalk and street, Grace could see the white vans had been stopped. The men inside the one farthest away dropped to the ground, hands high in the air.
The other was still for what seemed like a very long time before the door slid open and Mr. Rucksack stepped out and dropped to the ground on his knees. Shortly afterward, the gray-haired woman stepped out with her hands up.
That was him, her rucksack guy. Grace recognized his faded gray sweat jacket and short dark hair.
Grace took a step forward.
A police officer blocked her path. “Sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you go in there.”
“But, that man...”
The officer shook his head. “You’ll have to stay back.”
The SWAT team secured her guy’s hands behind his back and led him to a waiting squad car. A moment later, it sped away.
Grace stared down at the rucksack. Now what was she supposed to do with it?
She found a bench and sat. Holding the bag between her feet, Grace waited for most of the people passing by to clear the area before she opened the bag. Then she drew in a deep breath and unzipped one of the sections. She told herself that if it exploded, she wouldn’t know what happened. It would kill her instantly. Still, she couldn’t help closing her eyes. When nothing happened, she opened them and searched through the interior of one compartment after another. Inside, she found a pair of worn jeans, a couple of T-shirts, several pairs of boxer shorts and a shaving kit. No plastic explosives, sticks of dynamite or detonators were hiding inside the bag.
She pulled out an envelope filled with photographs of men in marine uniforms, fully outfitted with weapons, helmets, rifles and ammunition. They stood in what appeared to be a camp in the desert.
The man who’d entrusted his
