by Amity Cross
“This is Vesper Cunningham,” Folsom said. “She was Moltke’s wife.”
I glanced at Mercy, already seeing where this was going. Lorelei had told me he’d been trying to recreate something with her while he’d held her captive. She’d been beaten, drugged, and starved… Had the same thing happened to Vesper?
“Ten years ago,” Folsom went on, “Moltke was undercover with a human trafficking cartel in France. You may know their leader as the late Jaques Lafayette, though another man operated it at the time, Jonathan Tatau, who is also deceased. Tatau’s men discovered Moltke was a double and made an assassination attempt on Vesper, which ultimately failed but landed her in hospital.”
“Did she know about Moltke?” Mercy asked. “That he was MI6?”
“We don’t know for sure, but we believe he may have told her after the attempt on her life. The day after she was admitted to hospital, there was a power surge in the ward where she was being treated.”
“They got to her anyway,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“They didn’t just get to her,” Folsom said. “They took her from right under our noses. Moltke himself was there, but that still wasn’t enough to stop them. There was no word from her or whoever abducted her—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “It wasn’t the cartel?”
Folsom nodded. “When we later apprehended Tatau, he denied to his last breath that they were responsible for Vesper’s disappearance.”
“That’s why Moltke went dark,” Mercy stated. “To find her.”
“When we brought him back in, during debriefing he stated he never found her or the people who were responsible.”
“You think he used Section Seven to track down these people?” I asked. “Then why blow it up?”
Folsom shrugged. “There has been no contact or list of demands, so who the hell knows. Right now, we don’t know his motives at all. We need to track him down and bring him in so we can determine what it is he wants.”
Something wasn’t adding up. What Moltke had done to Lorelei and then the bombing wasn’t making sense. There was a massive chunk of the puzzle still missing.
“Are there any leads?” I asked. “I assume that’s why we’re here.”
Folsom nodded. “From your mission reports, I see you’re a man who can get things done. And you and Reid are the only surviving agents from your division.”
The realization Mei and all the other souls were gone hit me again, and I averted my gaze to the screens behind Folsom. “What’s the lead?”
A new image appeared, replacing the one of Vesper Cunningham. The surveillance photograph was slightly pixelated, but it was more than enough to make out the features of the man who was its subject. He had a shaved head and a craggy complexion, but he didn’t look a day over thirty-five. He had a mobile phone against his ear, talking to some unknown business partner. Typical bad guy asshole. I’d dealt with a lot of them during my time under Royal Blood’s thumb.
“His name is Ulrich Gruber,” Folsom explained. “He’s a bomb maker specializing in biological and chemical explosives and is known as a man who can get things done. His bombs are aimed at maximum fatalities, not at all instantaneous. He deals in human suffering. He’s moved up the food chain in recent months, his work more in demand than ever with the rise of terrorism in the last decade.”
“What does Gruber have to do with Moltke?” Mercy asked.
Folsom sent a new set of documents to the screens. “He hasn’t been as thorough in scrubbing his tracks as he probably thinks he has. We’ve picked up a paper trail that’s disturbing to say the least.”
Bank transactions appeared on the screen. Rows and rows of times, dates, and numbers that showed significant amounts of money changing hands between the two men.
“Moltke is planning a bigger attack,” I said, picking up the threads of evidence and twisting them together. “Section Seven was only the beginning.”
“He was using Section Seven to dig for information and forge alliances, that much was clear,” Folsom said, not denying my assumption. “Whatever he is planning, it runs deep, and Ulrich is a large piece of the puzzle. He may know of Moltke’s whereabouts and what it is he’s planning.”
Mercy glanced at me, her expression troubled, and I nodded.
“We’re the only ones who know about this, aren’t we?” she asked.
Folsom nodded. “Earlier, when I said ‘we,’ I meant me…and you. There’s no way of knowing who Moltke got to or who we can trust with this operation. You need to understand with this, you’re on your own. There’s only so much support I can offer without tipping off any conspirators.”
I nodded. We’d done it before, and I’d done it my entire life…at least the life I could remember with clarity.
“We were meant to die in that blast,” I said after a moment. “He planned on it. No loose ends. No evidence.”
Mercy’s hand wrapped around my forearm and squeezed. “Jackson.”
Glancing at Folsom, I asked, “Where’s Jackson?”
“He should still be in the building undergoing debriefing,” he replied. “Let me check.” He picked up the phone on his desk, punched a button on the keypad, and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Is Marcus Jackson still in debrief?” There was silence as the person on the other end replied. “He left?” Folsom asked, thumping his fist on the desk. “When?”
Fuck… Jackson had a target on his back and didn’t even know it. He didn’t have the capability to fight back if Moltke tried to take him out.
“He’s gone home,” Mercy said to me. “His wife and kids…”
“He left the building about fifteen minutes ago,” Folsom said, slamming the receiver back into place.
Standing, I straightened my jacket, and Mercy did the same. “We’re on it.”
“His family?” Mercy asked as we backed toward the door.
“Get them to a safe location, and I’ll be in contact with your protocol,” Folsom stated. “They’ll be placed in protective custody until this is all over.”
Ushering Mercy out the door, I had to grimace at the predicament Jackson now found himself in. Of all the ways for his family to find out he worked for the government, this had to be the worst.
That’s if Moltke didn’t get to them first.
Chapter 5
Mercy
I held on for dear life as X tore through the streets of London, his inconspicuous muscle car roaring past slow-moving buses. When I said inconspicuous, I was being sarcastic. That thing purred like a motherfucker.
“Do you really think Moltke’s going after Jackson so soon?” I asked. “It’s rather quick off the mark.”
“If he were watching his fireworks display, then yes,” X said as he wove in and out of traffic, blasting his horn at a lorry that almost cut us off. “We have to assume he knows we got clear and act accordingly.”
“Did Lorelei get away without being seen?”
“Yes. She’ll be fine at the cottage.”
I kept forgetting she was basically the female version of X. She had the same skill set and affinity with death. She’d be perfectly fine once she got her strength back.
“Was she okay to drive?” I asked, thinking about the long stretch through the moors to the cottage. “I mean, shit. She was out of it.”
“She has to be okay,” X replied, taking the fork in the road that led to the North London suburbs. “It’s part of our training. Pain is nothing but a tool that can be used as either an advantage or a disadvantage.”
“So she’ll get there in one piece?”
“Yes.”
I raised my eyebrow but didn’t question him further. Whatever Lorelei chose to do after this was up to her. It was no longer any of our business. Moltke was our problem since we’d unknowingly gotten into bed with a treasonous asshole. If we sought revenge on every fucker who looked at us the wrong way or did bad by us, we’d have a long list to bump off.
“What Tube station did you say Jackson got off a
t?” X asked.
“Manor House.” I tried calling Jackson’s phone again, but it went straight to voicemail. He’d still be underground and oblivious if he’d left when Folsom said he did.
We got stuck at a set of traffic lights at the crossroads by the Tube station, and when we were able to move again, we drove by but couldn’t see a trace of him. It was possible he’d taken a bus the rest of the way, and we’d missed him while we were stuck behind the line of cars waiting for the light change. I guided X to the street where Jackson lived, rows of almost identical houses flashing past.
“There!” I cried, pointing to where Jackson was walking down the footpath toward home.
As the car screeched to a halt, I threw open the door and launched myself out onto the footpath. Jackson turned at the sound and did a double take when he saw me rushing toward him, my boots pounding on the pavers.
“Jackson!” I exclaimed.
He looked totally bewildered. “Miss Reid?”
My gaze hit a red laser dot on Jackson’s chest, and I sprang into action.
Sniper!
I lunged, pushing him out of the way, and we were falling. I felt a bullet tear through my jacket, narrowly missing skin, and it slammed into the wall above us as we collided with the footpath. Brick shattered as the projectile embedded into the orange rock, a crack splitting the air.
“What number?” X roared, pulling his gun and tracking it along the row of houses behind us, searching for Moltke.
“34A,” Jackson blubbered and X took off, sprinting down the street.
Moltke had missed Jackson, so the next logical place he’d go was for the wife and kids.
“Mercy?” he asked as I helped him to his feet.
“They’re not safe,” I replied, drawing my gun. “Neither are you.”
“They—”
“X won’t let anything happen to them,” I interrupted. “Get in the car, and keep your head down.”
Helping him to his feet, I shoved him into the driver’s seat and pressed my gun into his hands.
He stared at it in shock, his body beginning to shake. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. “What about you?”
Reaching over him, I flipped open the glove box, pulled out another handgun, and winked at him. “X brings spares.”
I checked the chamber, letting it click back into place, and sprinted down the street to Jackson’s house to give X backup.
Gunfire split the air as X traded off shots with the shooter. The sharper sound signaled the sniper, and the heavier boom was the return fire from X’s 10mm. Hardly a fair fight, but nothing about this life was.
Ducking behind a car, I searched the rooftops and windows for evidence of the sniper. As long as X was pinned, there was no getting out of that house alive.
Sirens wailed in the background, the furor triggering emergency calls to the authorities. We didn’t have long before we’d be caught in another set of cross hairs. Considering it was against every law conceivable for MI6 to operate on British soil, we’d be fucked if we couldn’t get Jackson and his family out before the cops rocked up. We’d be thrown in the slammer, and the shooter, who I assumed was Moltke himself, would get away to attempt murder another day.
This had to end now or not at all.
Tracking the barrel of my gun along the rooftops, I spied a dark form taking cover behind a chimney stack, a sniper rifle clutched against his chest. A shot rang out as X tried to cover me, but I held steady. I had to believe I could make the shot. All I had was a handgun, and the accuracy would be little to nothing at this distance. I couldn’t count on it being a fluke. I had to make the shot.
I signaled to X, three short hand gestures followed by one toward my mark, letting him know what I was doing so he could cover Jackson’s family. The sound of a little boy crying filtered from the house behind his position, and I took a deep breath.
Taking aim, I waited until the figure leaned around the chimney stack and prepared to fire.
I held steady, finding my center of gravity. Correcting my trajectory to compensate for wind and kickback, I squeezed the trigger.
The gun went off with a boom, the force jarring up my arm. The shooter jerked to the side, the sniper rifle clattering down the tiled roof.
Fuck! I clipped him, but I didn’t get the fucker.
I tracked the barrel of my gun to his position again, intending to take another shot, but he slid down the tiled roof and out of view. There was a dull thud as he dropped off the edge, and a dog started barking as he legged it across the yard at the rear.
Finally, I let go of the breath I was holding, dropping the gun to my side. I failed…
Rising to my feet, I called out to X. “He’s dropped down into the yard behind. I’m going after him.”
“Did the shot…”
Knowing X’s line of sight would have been impaired from inside the house, I shook my head. “I nicked his arm.”
“Get the wife and kids into the car, and contact Folsom,” he commanded, intending to take my place and go after the shooter.
“X—”
“Mercy, don’t test me on this,” he snarled. “Go!”
I stepped around him and went into the house as he ran off in the opposite direction. Hesitating as my gaze connected with a terrified woman’s, I clicked my gun’s safety on and shoved it down the back of my jeans.
Staring at the woman who cowered on the floor with her two boys, I had a sudden vision of going home to my own family all that time ago. My mum, dad, and brother all dead, their heads split open with point-blank head shots and their blood splattered everywhere. Color and beauty…
Holding out my hand, I murmured, “It’s going to be okay. I’m here to take you someplace safe.” The littlest boy began to sob, and I held my hand out. “I’m going to take you to your daddy. He’s waiting for you outside.”
“It’s okay, Freddy,” Jackson’s wife said, her voice wavering. “She’s a good guy.”
“Like Black Widow?” the other boy asked, and I recognized the superhero name from The Avengers.
“Yeah,” I said as Freddy stuck his chubby little hand in mine. “Like Black Widow.”
“Who are you people?” Mrs. Jackson asked as I lifted Freddy into my arms and led them outside toward the car.
“MI6,” I replied, keeping my voice low. She was going to find out soon enough.
Her mouth fell open, and I gestured for her to hurry as the sound of wailing sirens increased.
Jackson leaped out of the car as we approached, and taking Freddy from my arms, the family embraced.
“Hey, guys,” he crooned to his boys. “Daddy’s here. Miss Reid and Mr. Blood chased the bad man away.”
“Marcus, what’s going on?” his wife asked, starting to pale.
“We need to go, ma’am,” I said, guiding them into X’s car. “We need to get you all someplace safe.”
“But the police…”
“Everything will be explained to you in due course,” I said, clipping my seat belt on as Jackson took care of the boys in the backseat. “I promise.”
“Where’s Mr. Blood?” Jackson asked as I pulled the car out onto the street and roared away from the approaching cop cars.
“Chasing,” I said simply.
Chapter 6
Jackson
“Twenty years!”
I cowered as my wife Amanda shrieked at me.
“Calm down, sweetheart,” I pleaded. “I was ordered not to tell you. It was for yours and the boys’ safety.”
I’d never seen her look so angry before in my life. Amanda Jackson was the epitome of calm, cool, and collected, but right now, she looked like she was going to kill me herself.
Her wavy brown hair was wild and out of place, her blouse was stained with dirt, and her jeans were torn on one knee. Well, she and the boys had just been shot at by a madman, saved by an ex-assassin and his girlfriend, and driven to an MI6 safe house in Fulha
m. They’d been pulled out of their safe, comfortable lives away from their friends and family and dumped here…and it was all because of me.
“We were attacked in our own home, Marcus,” she said, tears beginning to fall. “And now you tell me you’ve worked for MI6 for almost twenty years. What am I meant to believe?”
“This almost never happens,” I declared. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and I knew I’d stuck my foot in it again.
“So you were already working for them when I met you?”
“Yeah. But I only ever worked a desk job,” I offered like it was a consolation prize at a carnival sideshow. “I work with computers and tech. I never lied about that.”
Another tear fell from her beautiful eyes and trailed its way down her red cheek. “Lied,” she whispered. “You lied.”
“To protect you.”
Mercy appeared at the door and knocked softly. “Mrs. Jackson?” she asked, her smile kind and sincere. “The boys are all tucked in.”
Amanda glanced at me and sighed. “I’ll be right in.”
“They’ll be safe here,” I said, my heart breaking. “These guys are the best.”
“That’s the thing Marcus. I’ve got no say in it,” she said, sounding utterly defeated.
My mouth flapped uselessly as she shuffled from the room and down the hall to the bedroom Mercy had set up for the boys. They had some toys and books, but it was a far cry from being safe in their own room at home.
“She’ll be okay,” Mercy said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “She’s had a nasty shock today. You can’t really blame her for spinning out.”
“She found out her entire world was a lie,” I said, staring at the empty doorway where Amanda had disappeared. “And the boys… They’re too little to understand. It’s all my fault. Mr. Moltke—”
“Will pay,” she snarled. “None of this is your fault, Jackson. It’s his. You’re still here, so what are you going to do about it?”
I squared my jaw and puffed out my chest. I was just a desk guy. Science, technology, and tinkering were my things, not running around the world chasing an evil mass murderer. Miss Reid had saved my life just that morning. I would be forgiven for making rash decisions under the duress of an increased level of adrenaline. What was I meant to do?
