Page 73 of Dangerous Passion

Grace was shouting something over the noise. Something about?—

The clouds in his head parted for a second and meaning rushed in.

He put his mouth close to her ear. “He’s using a thermal imager. It doesn’t matter that he can’t see through the windows. He’s seeing our heat signature.”

Another bullet crashed into the floor two feet from them, gouging a hole inches deep, then another a foot away.

The shooter was laying down withering fire, getting off a round every five seconds.

Though his muscles had lost most of their strength and coordination, Drake gritted his teeth and rolled off Grace. “Crawl!” he shouted. “Crawl to the edge of the fire!”

He thought he was shouting but his voice came out frighteningly weak. He coughed and wiped his mouth. His hand came away red.

Oh God, no. Jesus no. Had he been lung-shot? If he had, he had only minutes to live, and he was leaving Grace to die alone. He refused even the idea of it.

Drake tried desperately to take in a deep breath, while trying to stop the room from spinning. He breathed in hard. There was no sucking sound. He hadn’t been shot through the lung, thank God, but he was badly concussed.

“Drake!” Grace put her face right next to his and he realized she’d been shouting at him and he hadn’t responded. She looked terrified. Another shot went straight through the sofa and into the wall, inches from them. “Drake, answer me!”

Drake coughed again and tried to lift his head. It felt as if he had lead weights in it. “Get—“ He coughed again, desperately trying to pull in air. “Get close to the fire. Heat … distorts.”

A series of shots in quick succession, but off the mark, burying themselves into the wall over the fireplace.

The room filled with the deafening sound of a fusillade of bullets.

Grace looked confused, glancing back at the window. Drake narrowed his eyes, trying to focus. The shooter was concentrating fire to punch a hole through the window.

Drake reached out and took Grace’s face in his hand. He turned her to face him, desperately trying to make her understand. “Thermal … imager,” he gasped. “He sees our heat.” He wheezed heavily, trying to gulp in air. “You need to stay close to the fire…”

They needed to blend their image with the fire’s image. The shooter wouldn’t see human shapes then, only a wall of fire. Somehow Grace understood. She nodded and started pulling him towards the fire.

“No!” he choked. “Get to the fire.” She was wasting time trying to pull him.

Suddenly, Grace looked at the trolley containing lunch and then back at him. “He can’t see through heat?” she asked.

Drake nodded, trying to coordinate hands and knees to crawl to the hearth. Another round embedded itself in the wall and he watched as a big chunk of laminated window fall to the floor.

Grace let go of him and, crouching, made her way back to the trolley.

“Come back! Come—“ Drake’s vision darkened, his head pulsed and he gritted his teeth to stay conscious. Damn his reflexes!

But Grace was already at the trolley, moving fast. She picked up both bottles of wine and threw them at the windows.

Drake’s thoughts were slow, dull. He wanted to tell Gracethat, brave as she was, throwing bottles at a sniper across the street wouldn’t help anything, but he couldn’t articulate the words, could barely think them.

She was by his side again, shaking his shoulder. “Drake—is there a way out of the building?”

He nodded slowly, painfully.

“Good.” She left his side and reached into the fire. Drake watched, gritting his teeth against the pain and the encroaching darkness. What was she doing?

It wasn’t until he saw her pick up a log that was burning on only one end and throw it at the window that he understood. The curtains burst into flame, fueled by the alcohol. The flames spread along the hardwood floor, following the line of the spilled wine.

Grace picked up a bottle of cognac and whiskey and threw them into the flames. The fire blossomed, covering almost the entire wall.

The sniper was now blind.

“Drake—get us out of here! Darling, we need to run!” She tried to help him stand, forcing a shoulder under his arm. He did his best, but he fell heavily to one knee. The room was spinning. She’d bought them some time, but it wasn’t going to help them if he simply passed out.

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