In the distance, Hawk heard voices, low and casual, bantering voices. The movers were returning.

He let his gun hand relax and with the other, the one still touching Jane, gave her a couple of reassuring strokes and encouraging pats. But relief was short-lived. He barely had time to register it in his consciousness before a new series of sounds elevated the short hairs on the back of his neck and sent a fresh shot of adrenaline into his system. First, a loud and prolonged squeak, metal on metal...then a reverberating clang...and another...and then a sliding thunk. And finally...dead silence.

"Uh-oh," said Hawk.

"They've shut us in," said Jane, her voice small and air-starved.

Hawk drew his head out from under the blanket and into total darkness. "Yep," he grunted. "Looks that way."

"Shouldn't we do something? Yell, or bang on the door?"

Just then there was a belly-deep roar, like a growl from the throat of some gigantic beast, and then a low, continuous rumbling. Under their hands and knees the floor of the moving van had begun to vibrate.

"Oh dear," said Jane. There was a pause, and then a surprisingly meek and tremulous, "So, what do we do now?"

"Hope and pray it's not a long-distance move, I guess."

There was another pause during which the van lurched from one side to the other, but in an almost stately manner that reminded Hawk of a very large and tipsy lady.

And then, in an altogether different voice, he heard Jane say, "Tom? Would you stop stroking my bottom, please?"

He snatched his hand away from her as if she'd bitten him, and muttered, "Sorry," under his breath.

"Under the circumstances, I forgive you." And now there was no mistaking her amusement. That teetering-on-the-brink-of-laughter quiver in her voice was contagious, too; he could feel the almost-forgotten sensation building inside him like an oncoming sneeze. Well, hell, he supposed it was one way to react to a crisis.