Every gun in the room swings toward me. The sensation is surreal—a dozen weapons trained on my chest, my head, center mass like I'm at a firing range. Fitz's hand reaches for me, trying to pull me back down, but I step out of his reach. My heel catches on the carpet, and for one horrible moment I think I'm going to fall, but I steady myself.
"Jordan," Fitz growls, low and dangerous. "Sit. Down."
I ignore him, focusing on the leader. My heart pounds in my throat, but I keep my voice steady. "You said you want justice. You want Nigeria to listen. But they won't. Not if you kill Grace Okafor."
The leader tilts his head, curious despite himself. "And who might you be to offer tactical advice to a hostage situation?"
"Someone who understands leverage better than you do." I take a step forward, hands visible and non-threatening. The red dress suddenly feels ridiculous—too formal, too exposed, too much like I'm playing dress-up while negotiating for lives. "You kill her, you lose your bargaining chip. Nigeria refuses to negotiate on principle, the girl becomes a martyr, and you've achieved nothing except murder."
"Jordan," Fitz says, and the fury and fear war in his voice.
"But if you take me instead," I continue, forcing myself not to look at Fitz, "you have something much more valuable. I'm Jordan James-Fitzwallace. I own Baker Street in London. I've personally extracted seventeen girls from Boko Haram—including Grace herself three years ago."
The attention shifts, recognition of my name flaring in the leader's eyes. It's working. God help me, it's actually working.
"You," he breathes, and now the gun is pointed directly at my chest. I can see down the barrel. Can see his finger on the trigger. "You're the woman who's been stealing our property."
"Your property?" I let ice seep into my voice, channeling every dominant I've ever watched work a scene at Baker Street. Authority. Contempt. Absolute certainty. "They're human beings. Young women who were kidnapped, raped, and enslaved. I gave them their lives back."
"You stole them. Corrupted them with Western ideas." He's moving toward me now, and Fitz moves in my peripheral vision, slowly rising, calculating angles. The other gunmen shift nervously, uncertain whether to focus on me or the far more dangerous threat that is my husband. "We should kill you where you stand."
"But you won't." I hold my ground even as my pulse races. My legs want to shake. I lock my knees. "Because I'm worth morealive. Kill me, and you're killing the woman Boko Haram wants dead more than anyone except maybe Malala Yousafzai. Think of the statement that makes."
Behind me, I hear Fitz's sharp intake of breath. He knows what I'm doing—offering myself as a bigger target to save Grace. Pulling the focus onto me and away from a traumatized girl.
It's also supremely stupid, which is why he's probably already planning which implement to use when he blisters my ass for this.
If we survive.
"Let the girl go," I press. "Take me. Use me as your leverage. I promise you, my husband will pay whatever you ask. My club will pay. The organizations I work with will pay. But only if I'm alive."
The leader considers this, calculation playing out in his eyes. He's smart enough to recognize a valuable asset when he sees one. The seconds stretch. Someone in the ballroom is crying softly. The Christmas tree lights blink in my peripheral vision, absurdly festive.
"Your husband," he says thoughtfully, and his gaze slides past me to Fitz. "Would that be Robert Fitzwallace of Cerberus?"
Oh shit.
"Formerly SAS," the leader continues, circling us now like a predator. His boots are silent on the carpet. Professional. Everything about these men is professional. "Recipient of the Victoria Cross. The Cerberus Group has been a thorn in the side of several operations across Africa and the Middle East." He stops in front of Fitz. "I have to say, Fitzwallace, I expected you to have better control of your woman."
"You and me both," Fitz says dryly, and I can hear the dark promise beneath his words. He's going to make me regret this.
"Fascinating," the leader muses. "A mercenary and his crusading wife, on holiday together. What are the odds?" Hesnaps his fingers, and two of his men approach. "Take them both. Keep them separate. The girl too—insurance is always wise."
"No," I protest. "You said?—"
"I said I was considering your offer. I didn't say I was accepting it." He smiles, cold and calculating. "But you've given me an idea. Instead of one high-value hostage, I now have three. The Okafor girl, the woman who's been interfering with Boko Haram operations, and a legendary mercenary who will certainly behave himself if his wife's life hangs in the balance."
Two gunmen grab my arms, wrenching them behind my back. Pain shoots through my shoulders as they force them into an unnatural angle. Across the room, I see the same thing happening to Fitz, except it takes three men to control him, and even then he looks ready to tear them apart.
"Touch her again, and I'll kill every single one of you," Fitz snarls, his Scottish accent deepening the way it does when he's truly enraged. It's the voice he used in Kandahar. The voice that made enemy combatants surrender without a fight.
"I'm sure you would, under other circumstances. But right now, you're going to be a good hostage and let my men take you to your room." The leader gestures to his team. "The ballroom will be your holding area," he tells the remaining guests. "Cooperate, and you'll all go home to your families after Christmas. Make trouble, and well... let's not make trouble."
They're dragging me toward the exit, and I crane my neck to see Fitz. Our eyes meet across the room, and in that moment, we have another silent conversation.
I'm sorry,I try to convey.
I'm going to spank you senseless when this is over,his expression clearly says.
