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  Time slowed down for Richard. He was caught in no-man’s land: too far away to leap the overturned tables and chairs to grab the Molotov before it exploded and burned, not far enough away to escape the blast. All he could do was watch the arc of the bottle and the tiny flicker of the flame as he imagined his life ending in fire. There was even time to consider the irony that it was the Embassy assignment his father had insisted he take that would kill him in the end. Killed by the world’s stupidest terrorists, he thought, and then, hopefully, maybe the flame will go out.

  As he was helplessly watching the bottle sail beyond his reach, Bennet sprinted from behind the end of the bar. She caught the bottle in one hand and ripped the burning rag out of it with the other. The flame reached the fuel on the cloth and flared before she dropped it and stomped on it. She picked up her firearm from where she’d left it and began to retreat to cover.

  His heart rate slowing just a bit, Richard got to his knees and crawled to the terrorist closest to him. The man’s arms were curled around a backpack. Richard watched him closely and eased the pack away so he could check it for weapons. He glanced as a blur of long black hair flew past. A teenager with tears on her cheeks and her mouth open in a scream he couldn’t hear was running across the floor. “Stop!” he yelled, but who knew if her hearing was any better than his? He spied Bennet leaving cover to intercept the girl.

  A limp hand brushed his fingers, and Richard’s attention jerked back to the body. Startled, he pulled the pack into his arms and sprang away as he saw the man’s eyes focus on the backpack, his lips moving. He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw the grim smile and could read the man’s lips. “Allahu Akbar,” he mouthed. His thumb twitched against a cell phone in his other hand, searching for something.

  Time sped up again as Richard leapt to his feet. As though he were throwing a discus with both hands, he used the straps to toss the backpack through the air with all his strength.

  “Bomb!” he yelled. Bennet’s arms wrapped around the girl, sending them both to the ground a split second before the backpack sailed inches over their heads. It traveled through the largest of the shattered windows and out onto the street corner nearest the alley.

  There was the roar of an explosion outside, the acrid odor of gunpowder and smoke, the whizzing of shrapnel, broken pieces of wood and glass shrieking back inside through suddenly heated air. He stayed down and hoped Bennet had found cover.

  Once the worst of the debris settled, he remained prone for a second to mentally review his injuries before emerging to survey the damage. The remaining glass nearest the detonation had been blown from the windows, and the heavy front door had been knocked off its top hinge and was leaning precariously into the room. The booth where they’d originally been seated was in three large pieces. He shifted to look behind him. The other end of the room, where most of the civilians were hiding, seemed mostly intact other than the holes high up on the wall, same as the kitchen.

  He reached forward to pull himself up. The back of his hands and forearms had taken the brunt of the flying glass, but he felt a damp trickle of warm blood on his neck as well. His ears were ringing. Maybe a few stitches, he thought, rather stunned that he had escaped with so little damage. He shook his head, and tiny bits of glass rained from his hair.

  “Anyone critical?” he called, sitting up slowly. He couldn’t hear his own voice, and he shook his head a bit, irritated. It didn’t help his hearing, but it did make him feel a little nauseous. Like being shot at by circus clowns. He flinched at the pain in his arms. Still hurts.

  He gazed more carefully around the room. He counted two wounded over by the front windows. Around the room, people continued to simply appear, heads rising above the debris like moles, most faces white with shock, some only now reaching out gingerly to one another. He saw injuries from the flying glass and some minor wounds—there was one corner where there seemed to be several more serious injuries. It was difficult to see over the toppled booths and splintered tables laying on their sides. His eyes flew back in the direction he’d tossed the backpack. Where is Bennet?

  He pushed himself up to begin triage, closing his eyes against the dizziness for a moment and then moving towards the first prone figure. He instructed the woman’s husband to hold pressure on her wound, then shifted to the next casualty.

  Elizabeth’s head was throbbing, her ears ringing. She could feel her t-shirt sticking to her back. There was a strong, sharp metallic smell filling her nose and mouth that made her gag. She spit out blood—she had bitten her tongue—and felt a body shifting beneath her. The teenaged girl she’d tackled and covered shrugged her off, and she let go as a man in his mid-forties ran over to sweep the girl into his arms. Elizabeth saw only a bobbing ponytail as he carried her away.

  She pushed herself up to her hands and right knee and waited for a moment, expecting the room to stop spinning and her ears to cease ringing. When neither happened, she tumbled over into a sitting position and stared dumbly at a thin metal splinter protruding from the side of her left leg, close to her kneecap. I should feel that.

  She glanced over at the bar to see the bartender poking his nose above the bar and then standing. She met his gaze, and he nodded. His face was pale, and he’d been cut up by flying glass from the bottles, but otherwise he appeared well. He reached down to help his coworker up.

  With a grunt, Elizabeth hauled herself to her feet and balanced most of her weight on her good leg. There was an ache in her shoulder and a small, sharp pain just above her left eyebrow. She passed a hand across her face and stared at the smeared blood. Oh, she thought blearily. That explains it.

  The major was crouched near some of the wounded giving instruction and trying to take a casualty count. She leaned on whatever was still standing as she hobbled over to provide aid.

  She touched his shoulder. “You all right, sir?” she asked, her voice loud and hoarse. He looked down at his bloody arms, but she gestured to his neck, just below his jaw. He put his hand up to touch where she indicated, and his fingers came away wet and red.

  “Close,” Elizabeth yelled. He nodded as the room filled with Belgian law enforcement, and they both reached for ID.

  Richard looked Bennet over. Her t-shirt was shredded and stained, more seriously on her left side. Her face was clear but for one razor thin cut just above her left eyebrow that bled profusely but he thought looked worse than it was. Glass.

  “You okay?” he asked in a near shout. He stood and turned away from an officer who then retrieved his empty gun from his waistband. They got here fast, he thought, then remembered the boys who had escaped. He reached out with his free hand to help her to the nearest booth. The vinyl on the seat was torn and large pieces of foam still floated in the air. She blinked at him as the tiny yellow pieces swirled around them but did not respond. Shit, he thought, looking her full in the face, her pupils are dilated.

  He watched her lips as she said, “Pipe bomb.” He agreed without comment. Impossible to know whether there had been a detonation from the phone or whether the motion of the throw had set it off. No matter. Had it gone off inside . . . he glanced at the windows.

  Bennet grimaced at him, nodded outside. “Game over,” she said, completing his thought. She placed her weapon on the tabletop and eased herself back on the seat, extending her left leg along its length. It was then he noticed the shrapnel jutting out of her leg just to the side of her knee. She put her right arm heavily on the battered table, her red, blistered hand landing on a handle that had once been part of a stein. She clutched it in her fist and raised it to show him, meeting his gaze for a moment until her focus faltered. Richard sat heavily across from her.

  “You still owe me a beer,” Bennet said. She lay her head down on her upper arm and the fist clutching the handle dropped to the table. He could see her adrenaline draining away, and he struggled to read her lips. “This one doesn’t count.”

  Chapter Two

  Off-Duty US Marines Thwart Terrorist Attack<
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  Five gunmen were subdued by two American Marines at the De Roos Bar and Restaurant last night near the US Embassy in Brussels. The men are not known to be affiliated with any terrorist organization, and no group has yet claimed responsibility.

  The attack began just after 6:00pm, when the men entered, shouted orders in Arabic, and began to fire weapons, reportedly Lugers and an AKM, a more modern version of a Kalashnikov.

  The gunmen were apparently unaware that two US Marines were among the customers. Though unarmed, Major Richard Fitzwilliam and Staff Sgt. Elizabeth Bennet managed to incapacitate a terrorist stationed at the front door, disarm him, and engage the other four.

  Four of the attackers were killed at the scene. According to witnesses, when the final attacker attempted to toss a Molotov cocktail into the center of the bar as he fled, Bennet was well placed to intercept it and snuff out the flame before it could ignite and explode.

  A second bomb was discovered and thrown outside by Fitzwilliam seconds before it detonated, greatly reducing its impact. Several police at the scene were struck by shrapnel in the blast, but none sustained serious injuries. The final terrorist was wounded and taken into custody as he attempted to flee.

  Most of the fifty-seven customers and fifteen staff in the restaurant at the time of the attack were treated at the scene. Twenty-one were transported to the hospital and seven were admitted, including Bennet. While several of the wounded are in serious condition, all are expected to survive.

  Both Marines were modest when asked about their role in ending the attack. “It could have been a good deal worse,” said Fitzwilliam, who has been working as an international analyst and interpreter for the Embassy. “Bennet was able to snuff out the Molotov, and the pipe bomb detonated outside, where the area had already been cleared of civilians.”

  When Bennet was reached for comment by phone this morning, she said, “We’re Marines. We’re trained for situations like this. I’m just glad nobody was killed.” When asked where she was assigned at the Embassy, she replied, “IT.”

  Will Darcy tossed his morning paper aside, appetite gone. He picked up his cell phone and hit the speed dial for his cousin. It went directly to voicemail. Again. Will rolled his eyes, but if he wanted a reply, he’d have to leave a message this time. Richard’s rules.

  “Richard, I just saw the news,” he said tersely. “They didn’t have names until now, but I was up all night. Call me as soon as you’re free.” If he doesn’t call me back this morning, he thought, quickly calculating the time difference, I can be on the next plane. I may be on the next plane regardless. His next call was to his uncle.

  Senator Terrence Fitzwilliam answered on the first ring. “William,” he said warmly, “I was just about to call you. I assume you saw the news segment?”

  “Not yet. Richard’s in the Times.”

  “Really?” his Uncle Terry sounded pleased. “I haven’t seen that one yet.”

  “Have you heard from him?” Will asked, trying not to sound annoyed. On the front page, above the fold, was a color photo of his cousin in a tattered, blood-stained polo shirt exiting a Brussels restaurant half supporting a woman whose shirt was just as gory, her face obscured by blood, two startling green eyes staring vacantly out at the camera. They were surrounded by Brussels law enforcement, and he thought he could detect an Embassy official in the background of the shot, immaculate suit and tie a jarring contrast to his cousin’s appearance. It wasn’t something that should make his uncle happy.

  The sight of Richard’s injuries thoroughly unnerved Will, particularly what appeared to be a neck wound. Damn close to the jugular, Richard. You could at least have texted to tell me you were okay. He drummed his fingers over and over on the stone kitchen counter.

  “Yes, that’s why I was going to call,” came his uncle’s reassuring hum. Politician’s purr, Will groaned silently, his fingers slowing, clenching into a fist that he tapped on the counter instead. “It’s been busy here since the attack, but I had a voicemail from Richard this morning saying he’s fine. He needed stitches but wasn’t admitted to the hospital. He’s back on duty being debriefed and will call when he can.”

  A lot of stitches, from the looks of it. At least he’s shut up in meetings and not just ignoring me.

  It didn’t improve his mood. Richard’s ten years were coming up, and he had promised to consider separating. Will worried that this incident would encourage his cousin to remain in the service. With Richard’s business savvy and ability to pick up languages, he knew of a dozen ways his cousin could step into a leadership role at FORGE without putting his life at risk every time he left the house. After almost eight years in the field, Richard had agreed to a desk job, but he’d been alternately bored and irritated with his work at the Embassy. Will had allowed himself to hope.

  “Barker is apoplectic,” his uncle laughed, referring to a long-time rival in the Senate. “Support offers are rolling in. Maybe I’ll make another run after all.”

  After a short conversation, Will ended the call. He checked his watch. Georgiana wouldn’t be up yet in California. He sent her a text asking her to call him first thing.

  He set his phone down and read the story again before pushing the front section away. He’d heard about the attacks before heading to bed the night before and had stayed up waiting for names. He’d had a terrible feeling about his cousin, especially when he wasn’t answering his phone, but Will tried to convince himself that Richard might just be involved in the intelligence effort following the attack.

  Ignoring the oatmeal and fruit still sitting on the counter, Will opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself a whiskey.

  “Damn you, Richard,” he growled, sipping his drink and closing his eyes. “Just come home.”

  Chapter Three

  By the time Richard left the briefing room, he was exhausted. He’d been ordered to report the minute he was released from the hospital. All the glass flying around had done its damage. The ham-handed intern on call had taken forever, and he’d lost count of the stitches. He would have preferred to go back to his quarters, change clothes, and self-medicate with the bottle of whiskey Will had brought him when he’d last swung through on his way to a meeting in London. Instead, he’d left the hospital after midnight and was spirited back to the US Embassy before he’d even had a chance to learn anything about Bennet. Despite her leg wound, she’d insisted on walking out. At least she’d let him help her. It was foolish, of course, but he also admired it. The woman was cussedly stubborn and every inch a Marine.

  He headed to his quarters where he changed out of his borrowed sweats and washed up as best he could without getting the stitches wet. He shaved, rubbing a hot washcloth across his face when he was done. The team from the embassy left him to sleep in a cheap plastic chair, his head on the table, as they conferred over his version of events and made plans to debrief Bennet in the morning. He finished getting ready, tossing on clean pants, a USMC polo shirt, pulling on a pair of new socks and his favorite boots. He yawned. I hope they weren’t expecting me in the office today, he thought, and then, I should remind them where I am. The investigators had taken his cell phone, as though there might be some clue to the attack on it. They’d returned it, but he had it on the charger now. He picked up the cordless phone in the living room and made the call.

  He was tired, his arms were stiff, and his neck hurt when he moved it the wrong way, but he wanted to see Bennet and he knew he had to call Will. His father had likely called him already, and he knew his younger cousin would be worried. Like a mother hen, he thought, and then felt ashamed of himself. He comes by it honestly.

  It had been five years since George and Anne Darcy had died suddenly in a car accident two weeks before Georgiana’s graduation from middle school. Neither Will nor Georgiana had ever really recovered. Will had always been a bit overprotective of his little sister, but he’d been just short of unbearable since the loss of their parents. On the other hand, Richard was sure that Will would
have already been in touch with Georgiana, and he was glad. The thought of his youngest cousin hearing about the attack or seeing the videos of it online without being warned first made Richard cringe.

  Still, once Will had him on the phone, it was likely to be a long conversation, and he needed to see Bennet. He’d been told she was recovering, but he felt guilty. She’d never been to De Roos before. She’d only been there because it was convenient for him and he’d suggested it. Besides, he felt like they were partners now, in a way. The hospital wasn’t far. He’d just see if she needed anything and make his calls after.

  When he arrived, he was asked for identification before being allowed up to her room, the door of which was flanked by two officers. Richard offered them a barely perceptible nod and walked inside.

  Bennet was asleep, and he stood just inside the room, wondering if he should come back. He took a long look at her. One leg was in in a CPM cradle being continuously moved in a gentle circular motion. The cut above her eye was butterflied, no stitches. Her hospital gown gaped so he could see her shoulder was bandaged, but there was no sling. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it did look like she had a pretty good lump on one side of her head under all that hair. He’d only seen her hair pulled back and secured above the collar. She looks even younger with it down. Her forearms, like his, were covered in gauze, as was her burned hand. Her color was better than it had been when they stumbled out of the ruined restaurant, but that wasn’t saying much. He shook off the protective feelings that were surfacing. I’m not Will, and Bennet’s not Georgiana, he thought. She’s a Marine, and she had my back.