Chapter 6
JJ
We find Grace in a supply closet on the third floor—Fitz kicks the door open, and there she is, huddled with her mother and two other hostages.
The relief on her face when she sees us nearly breaks me.
Fitz gets us moving, and we're heading back toward the ballroom to regroup with the other hostages when the world explodes.
The blast throws me against the wall, my ears ringing, smoke filling the corridor. Through the chaos, Fitz shouts my name.
"Here!" I call back, coughing. "I'm here!"
He appears through the smoke, his movements sharp and controlled as he checks me for injuries with surprisingly gentle hands. "You hurt?"
"No. Shaken, but okay." The corridor is a disaster. Debris everywhere, a gaping hole where the wall used to be. "What was that?"
"Explosives. They're destroying evidence or preparing to bring down the building." The woman with military bearing from the dining room turns out to be Major Adeyemi and is part of the Nigerian security detail, appears beside us, calm despite the destruction. "We need to evacuate. Now."
Fitz is already assessing our options. "The exits will be compromised. Main entrance will be watched. Kitchen and service corridors will be their second priority."
"The wine cellar," I say suddenly, remembering the plans of the resort I studied before we arrived. Fitz isn’t the only one who likes to know new places in advance.
"It has an old service tunnel that connects to the original building down the mountain.
They used it for deliveries before they built the main road. "
Fitz looks at me with something between exasperation and admiration. "Of course you remember an escape route."
"I remember everything. It's why you married me."
"I married you because you're brilliant and beautiful and you drive me insane." He kisses me hard. "And right now, that brilliant mind might have just saved us all."
Major Adeyemi is already organizing the rest of the hostages. "Anyone who can walk, help someone who can't. We move in groups of ten. Captain Fitzwallace and I will take point. Mrs. Fitzwallace—"
"JJ," I interrupt. "Call me JJ."
"JJ, you take rear guard with..." She looks around, spots a young man who held his own in the earlier confrontation. "You. What's your name?"
"Paul. I was Royal Marines, three years."
"Perfect. You and JJ cover our retreat. Anyone hostile, you shout and we deal with it." She hands me an extra magazine for the pistol I'm carrying. "Can you actually shoot that thing?"
"Better than most. I own a BDSM club. You'd be surprised how often weapons training comes in handy."
She stares at me for a moment, then laughs. "I think I like you, JJ."
We move as a group through the smoke-filled corridors.
Fitz is magnificent. Calm, controlled, every movement economical and purposeful.
He's in full tactical mode, the loving Dom I know replaced by the legendary soldier he was before Cerberus.
Heat flares through me despite everything. Terrible timing, as always.
We reach the wine cellar without incident. The tunnel entrance is hidden behind a false wall of wine racks. It takes three of us to shift it enough to reveal the darkness beyond.
"Tight squeeze," Fitz mutters, shining a light down the tunnel. "Single file. Everyone stays close. No talking unless absolutely necessary."
Grace is near the front of the group, still shaking but determined. She catches my eye and mouths "thank you." I nod back, hoping she understands that this is what I do—what I'll always do—for girls like her.
We're halfway through the evacuation when the shooting starts. They found us.
Gunfire erupts from the ballroom entrance, bullets sparking off stone and shattering wine bottles. Screaming, chaos, people pushing toward the tunnel entrance.
"Go!" Fitz roars. "Everyone into the tunnel! Now!"
Paul and I return fire, trying to provide cover while people scramble to safety. Major Adeyemi grabs a child who's frozen in terror, carrying her bodily toward the tunnel while firing one-handed at our attackers.
"JJ!" Fitz is at the tunnel entrance, ushering people through. "Time to move!"
"Almost!" I fire twice more, watch one of the hostiles drop. Paul is beside me, his shots precise and controlled despite the chaos.
Then the leader emerges from the smoke with a rifle and an expression of pure fury.
"You!" he shouts, and the gun swings toward me. "You ruined everything!"
I dive behind a wine rack as bullets tear through where I was standing a second ago. The rack topples, bottles smashing, red wine mixing with blood on the floor.
"Jordan!" Fitz's voice, desperate and furious. "Move your ass!"
I'm scrambling, trying to get to the tunnel, when Grace's mother trips and falls. The leader sees it too, his gun tracking toward her.
No. Not again. Not after everything.
I do the stupidest thing possible. I step into his line of fire, my own gun raised.
"You want someone to shoot? Shoot me."
"With pleasure."
We fire simultaneously.
His shot goes wide—Paul tackled him at the last second, spoiling his aim.
My shot doesn't miss. Center mass. The leader goes down, and I'm not sure if he's dead or just wounded, but Paul is dragging me toward the tunnel and Fitz is there, pulling me through, and then we're in darkness, the sound of gunfire fading behind us.
"You complete and utter idiot," Fitz snarls, but his hands are gentle as he checks me for injuries. "You said you'd follow my lead. You promised me no heroics."
"I'm sorry; I lied," I gasp out, adrenaline making me shake.
"We are going to have a conversation when this is over." He pulls me close, and I can feel him trembling too. "A very long conversation."
"I couldn't let him shoot Amara. I couldn't let Grace lose her mother after everything—"
"I understand." He kisses the top of my head. "But my heart's still racing. I thought I'd lost you."
"Come on," Major Adeyemi calls from ahead. "We need to keep moving. They'll follow us into the tunnel eventually."
We move into the deepening darkness, the group strung out in a long line, feeling our way along the walls. The tunnel is old, cramped, and smells of earth and mold. But it's also leading us to freedom.
The tunnel emerges in an old stone building at the base of the mountain—some kind of historic structure that's been converted to storage. We spill out into freezing night air, eighty-plus people in evening wear, shaking and traumatized but alive.
"Police are on their way," Major Adeyemi announces, checking her phone. "And military. The roads have been cleared—avalanche risk was a lie, part of their control strategy."
Fitz has his phone out too, making calls. He's speaking to Sawyer, coordinating with local authorities, arranging for medical care and security.
I sink down onto a stone wall, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. My dress is torn and bloody. My feet hurt from running in heels I lost somewhere in the wine cellar. The pearl collar at my throat—still intact—is the only thing that feels right.
Grace comes and sits beside me, wrapped in a blanket someone provided.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For what you did. For all of it."
"You don't need to thank me." I take her hand. "What happened tonight wasn't about you. It was about power and politics and men who think women are property. But you're not property. You never were."
"I thought I was safe." Her voice breaks. "I thought they couldn't find me anymore. But they always find us, don't they?"
"Not always." I squeeze her hand. "You survived Boko Haram. You survived tonight. You're stronger than they'll ever be."
"Because of you. You saved me three years ago. You saved me again tonight."
"No." I turn to face her. "You saved yourself three years ago by surviving what they did to you. You saved yourself tonight by being brave enough to trust that help would come. I was just the catalyst."
She hugs me hard, and I hold her while she cries. Amara joins us, wrapping her arms around her daughter, and the three of us sit there in the freezing night while emergency vehicles arrive and chaos swirls around us.
Fitz appears with blankets and coffee. "Come on," he says gently. "Let's get you both checked out by the medics."
"I'm fine," I protest, but he's already helping me up.
"You're bleeding, you're bruised, and you're going into shock. You're not fine." His voice is firm but gentle. "Medical check, then we're getting you somewhere warm and safe. No arguments."
Grace looks between us. "Do you ever get tired of him being right all the time? I think it would be exhausting."
"It is," I confirm, but I'm leaning into Fitz's warmth, letting him guide me toward the ambulances.
Hours later, we're in a small hotel down the mountain.
The resort is a crime scene now, and guests are being relocated.
Fitz has secured us a suite with actual security, including two of Sawyer's team who arrived within an hour of our escape.
The Swiss police arrested most of the remaining terrorists at the resort.
Three died in the explosions they set. The leader—the man I shot—didn't make it.
Fitz told me that without emotion, but I saw the relief in his eyes.
I'm clean, bandaged, and wearing borrowed clothes. The pearl collar is still at my throat—Fitz checked it obsessively, making sure the clasp wasn't damaged, that none of the pearls were cracked.
"It's fine," I assured him for the tenth time. "It survived. We survived."
Now I'm lying on the bed, exhausted but too wired to sleep. Fitz paces the room, five steps, turn, five steps back. His shoulders are rigid.
"Stop," I finally say. "You're going to wear a hole in the carpet."
He stops, turns to face me. "Do you have any idea how terrified I was?"
"Probably about as terrified as I was watching them drag you away."