by Amelia Price
“He said something similar.”
“Then he gave you more comfort than he usually does. It's also not something you should have told me. But enough talking. We'll spar again, and this time I really want you to try and hit me. One of these days I want to leave here with at least a large bruise, if not a broken bone.” Tom grinned to take the edge off his words, but she knew he was serious.
After taking a moment to push back her fears and the distracting memories of everything that had happened in the Russian compound, Amelia flung herself at her teacher. Reacting far quicker than she thought humanly possible, he side-stepped and punched outwards. Just in time, she blocked it with her arm and grunted in pain. There would be a bruise there in a few hours.
Fifteen minutes later she was in an exhausted heap on the floor. She'd still not managed to hit him, and she wasn't sure she could get up after the last throw he'd performed on her unwilling body.
“Better,” he said and helped her up.
She found herself shaking as she stood, her body drained of what little energy she'd had left. Having a lesson after spending the day travelling might not have been the best idea, but Myron had insisted upon it.
She was still thinking of him as Myron. It was better than making a mistake and calling him Mycroft to his face, but another night at Sebastian's house had given her time to think about the strange findings. She still couldn't think of another good explanation.
Tom handed her a chocolate bar and a bottle of water.
“Get some energy back.”
Leaving her to eat, he went over to his phone. It had uncharacteristically buzzed during their fight, and she caught a quick frown as it flitted across his face while he read the message. A few seconds later, he tucked the phone into his pocket and smiled at her.
“Do you want to continue?” he asked, giving her an option he wouldn't normally. So far, every lesson had been exactly the length he said it would be. No more, and definitely no less. It was an offer she was intrigued by, especially given how curious his message had made her.
However, after thinking about it, she shook her head. It would prolong the feelings of fear that rose within her when she thought of sleeping in her own home alone, but she knew she couldn't put it off longer. Myron was right. Fears were meant to be faced, and it was time she dealt with this one. If need be, she could always head back to London. He'd allowed her that.
It didn't help that Myron had evidently had a second reason to want her out of London. It didn't bode well when there was something he wouldn't tell her. Still, she'd told him she trusted him, and that meant she also had to go home at some point.
“Finish that first,” Tom said, cutting through her thoughts. “When you feel like you've got your energy back, head home.”
She nodded, noticing there was a steely light to his eyes and his jaw was a little more set than normal. If he hadn't once told her that he'd never talk about his missions for Myron she'd ask him what was going on, but she knew he wouldn't answer her. It would be better if she stayed focused and tried to work it out for herself. Not only would that be more likely to yield a result, but if she did figure something out that Myron wouldn't have wanted to know, she could point to his own training in her self-defence of discovering it.
Normally Tom beat her to the changing rooms, but she watched him linger today, fumbling with his equipment and the mats.
“See you at the next lesson,” she said, trying to act more casual than she felt. He nodded and waved his goodbye, giving her no choice but to hurry off.
Feeling refreshed after the food and drink, and pre-occupied enough that she wasn't thinking about her actions, Amelia was dressed and ready to leave in record time. She tried not to think about how it would feel alone in the house as she walked out of the fitness centre.
The chill in the late February air made her shiver and shrug her coat collar up a little higher. The night was clear, showing a full set of stars, or at least as many of them as could be seen with all the street lights in Bath.
Trying to push away her fears, Amelia set out for her home. It was an easy walk from the centre, along a few roads and then down one of Bath's many hills until she arrived at her street. Her feet walked it automatically, allowing her mind to take in the sights around her.
Although she'd enjoyed being in London, there was something peaceful and bubble-like about the small city that helped her feel pleased to be back. It had its own feel and atmosphere that over the years had come to be so familiar she only noticed it when she came back after a vacation.
As Amelia was thinking this, the sound of light footsteps on the pavement behind her came to her ears. A frown flitted across her face and she strained her ears to hear more.
It wasn't entirely uncommon to see others out walking even in the evening, but given everything that had happened to her, she was already worried it wasn't something harmless. Doing everything she could to look relaxed, Amelia gradually upped her speed.
At the next junction, she used the opportunity to look for traffic to glance behind her. There was a man dressed in a thick winter coat, with a hat pulled so far down over his face she couldn't see much, and only twenty or so metres behind her.
With so little skin showing, she had no idea if he was someone she knew, but she decided she was going to force a resolution if she was being followed. Right where she stood was the last well-lit busy place before she turned down a small street and put herself in further danger.
She put her hands in her coat pockets as if she was looking for something, then unbuttoned the garment to reach inside. With the arm he wouldn't be able to see, she stretched for one of the blades tucked up against her back while she continued the charade with the other.
“Don't bother,” the man said and stopped several metres away from her. She raised both eyebrows. “I believe a mutual acquaintance of ours sends his regards from London.”
Amelia kept the knife in her hand but relaxed a little.
“Does he now?” she replied, not entirely sure she should trust whoever was talking to her. It wasn't someone she recognised.
“You're better trained than I expected, but I can't walk you home.” He gave her a brief glance and then closed the last of the distance.
“Got a lighter?” he asked more loudly and with an entirely different accent.
“No,” she replied, patting her pockets again. “That's what I was looking for. Don't you just hate that when you're dying for a smoke?”
“Completely. Have a good evening, love.”
“You too,” she replied and hurried onwards, speeding up so he could follow her at a distance again.
Knowing Myron was taking her protection seriously both alarmed and comforted her as she made her way along. It worried her that the elder Holmes felt it necessary, but at the same time she knew she had back-up, if anything did happen.
Keeping the knife in her left pocket and clutched in her hand, Amelia had little option but to continue on home. Within minutes she could see her house up ahead, and it only took her a couple of seconds to realise the light was on in her living room despite the attempt to cover it with the curtains. As she got closer she also noticed the post that should have been gathered on the floor the other side of the privacy glass was too neat, as if someone had put it back from the inside.
She slowed and looked behind her to spot the agent Myron had instructed to follow her. It didn't take long to catch his eye. As soon as she had his attention she looked pointedly at the house, hoping he'd spot what had concerned her.
While he sped up to join her, she took a few cautious steps forward, listening for anything out of the ordinary. As she moved she took the second knife out of the holder underneath the edge of her corset and gripped both the way Tom had shown her.
“Wait,” her accompanying shadow said as he joined her, a small messaging device in his hands.
“Back-up?” she asked and was pleased to see him giving her a curt nod. Giving her no more attention, he co
ncentrated on her house, looking and listening for movement as she had.
Every few seconds he eased forward, being careful where his shadow was cast by the street lights and making no noise. Silently, she copied his movements. Whatever was about to happen she already knew she was safer with this guy than without.
A few minutes later another man came the other way down the street, gave them both a quick nod and snuck up close. He obviously knew exactly what was going on, because he stood the other side of Amelia and focused on the front door as well.
Not long after that, she watched her back gate open. Tom slunk through the gap, keeping low. He winked at her, mouthed all clear and hunkered down to watch the back exit from her house. It was then she noticed the gun in his hands.
Both of the agents beside her then pulled guns and took the last few steps towards her front door.
“Keys?” the nearest agent asked. She nodded and pulled the set out of her bag as quietly as she could. After a few seconds of fumbling to find the one that would unlock the front door she handed it over.
“Stay here,” the first one whispered close to her ear. She shook her head.
“If they know you're watching me they might be luring you inside thinking you'll leave me out here,” she said back, even quieter. His eyes went wider as he processed what she was saying before he nodded. It seemed she'd thought of something he hadn't.
Feeling a little apprehensive about having only knives in what everyone else was treating as a gun fight, Amelia followed the two men to the door.
After a couple of seconds, one signalled to the other to head in and pulled the door open for him. Amelia hung back and kept half her focus behind them, but Tom soon anticipated this weakness and crept back to cover the group from behind.
Before she could follow the two agents into her house, she heard the sound of silencer-repressed gunfire from her hallway. A few seconds later there was the sound of something smacking into wood and china breaking.
Amelia took a deep breath and went into the house. Her eyes honed in on the source of smacking sounds and grunts. Immediately, she saw the agents fighting with a Russian she recognised.
Her breath caught in her throat as Nesterov glanced her way, before images of the cell he'd kept her in flashed across her mind. She gasped as one of the agents flung the Russian over the coffee table, smashing the already partly broken vase even more.
For what felt like an eternity she could only stare at the carnage that had once been her living area. The sofa cushions spewed stuffing where bullets had torn them up and the glass door on her display case was shattered.
Moving away from the fighting, she noticed the items on her kitchen counters had fared little better. Tea cups were smashed and a gun lay on the floor. She went over to it, but before she could pick the weapon up the fight ended with a very well-aimed punch to Nesterov's jaw. He flew back, smacking his head on the edge of her book shelves with an almighty crack. Books tumbled down, fluttering their pages before thudding into the Russian and the carpet around him.
One agent rushed over to check the man's pulse while the other stood and aimed his gun at the slumped form.
“He's alive.”
“Good. Sweep the house. I'll watch him.”
While they watched Nesterov and Amelia stood, her body unwilling to move, behind her kitchen island, the first agent made his way down her hallway to the rest of her rooms. With his gun outstretched, he opened every door and swept the area inside.
Less than a minute later he came back, looking relaxed. The gun was still in one hand, but he pointed it down and went back over to Nesterov. Still, Amelia couldn't move. All the memories of being held in the Russian compound were making her shiver, and she realised she wasn't as recovered from the ordeal as she'd hoped.
They restrained the still unconscious Russian, ignoring her now that she was safe.
“I'll go get the car,” one said and hurried out the door. A few seconds later Tom came in, his gun hidden again. He took one look at Amelia and walked over to her kitchen side to grab the kettle.
“Tea?” he asked her. A smile spread on her face, breaking her from her frozen state. Over the next few minutes she busied herself getting out unbroken cups, saucers and making tea for all three agents. She didn't ask if they wanted it and none of them complained when she handed them a cup.
“Take him. I'll stay here for a bit,” Tom said when all three had downed their drinks, despite the heat of them, and had turned their attention back to their captive.
They nodded their goodbyes and picked Nesterov up, one carrying his feet and another his shoulders. Tom held open the doors for them, and then shut the front door firmly.
“Your locks should be all right. Looks like he picked them.”
“Will there be any more?” she asked, knowing not a single part of her felt safe. Her teacher shook his head.
“No, there was only him. You'll be perfectly safe now, even if you don't feel it.”
She nodded, understanding Tom's reference to her physical state. With the shivers she still emitted and how light-headed she felt, she knew she must look terrible. A few seconds later a small device on Tom's belt that looked a bit like a pager buzzed. He looked at it and then put it back.
“I can't stay but you're safe now. If you're worried about anything, contact him.”
She nodded, knowing she'd already planned to message Myron. Given the last few minutes of her life, she knew there was no way she felt safe in her home anymore. Even if she could sleep, she would need new furniture, and as she took in more of the damage she noticed several stray bullets were embedded in the walls. It would take weeks to make everything look normal again. No part of her doubted that she'd return to London the following day.
Chapter 7
Sipping a cup of tea, Mycroft studied Nesterov. The Russian was sprawled out on the concrete floor, exhausted and grimacing in pain.
His agents had brought the man to a small military outpost just outside London not long after they'd captured him, and Mycroft had been there since the early hours of the morning. Now he was taking his time, letting Nesterov know exactly what he thought of the treatment they'd given Amelia.
In the few hours since Mycroft had entered the small room Nesterov was being held in, the Russian had gained a split lip, an assortment of fractured and broken bones and several other lacerations on the arms and legs. In addition, he'd lost three teeth and a couple of finger nails.
Now that he felt calmer and had allowed his temper to be expressed in a satisfying way, Mycroft was planning to get down to the actual interrogation. It would take some time to break a man like Nesterov, and even if he did talk under duress, it was unlikely to be the truth for several days.
Normally, this sort of thing made Mycroft feel a little uncomfortable, but every time he looked at the Russian all he could think of was the many hours he sat and listened while Amelia was waterboarded and beaten. It left little room for compassion.
“We both know how this works so I won't waste breath. I understand that you have been taking orders for your recent actions. I want to know who gave them.”
“I assume we both know I won't give you that information willingly,” Nesterov replied, spitting out bloody saliva when he was done.
“And we both know you will eventually. You can only last so long before you'll do anything to end the pain. Everyone breaks.”
Nesterov didn't answer this statement. There was no point lying about it. Every person who had ever practised torturing another for any length of time knew they wouldn't hold up under the entire set of torture methods known to man. If nothing else, man was an expert at inflicting pain upon others.
Mycroft picked up a small knife and a thick flannel-like cloth and sat down on a stool, near enough to Nesterov that he could take one of his hands and pin it in place on a small wooden block.
Ignoring the cries and grunts of pain, Mycroft peeled back the skin on his smallest finger, working slowly but expert
ly to remove just the right amount at a time. This wasn't a method of torture he'd used before, but he knew it needed to be effective, and he could think of little more direct.
By the time an hour had passed Nesterov was no longer conscious and one set of his fingers was almost entirely devoid of skin.
“Get him awake again,” Mycroft said as one of the agents who'd brought Nesterov in came into the room.
“Yes, sir. There's a car for you, sir. From management.”
Mycroft blinked his shock and recovered before the agent could even notice anything out of the ordinary.
“Good. I was thinking of taking a break. Make sure he doesn't get any sleep while I'm gone. No food, and only the necessary water.”
“Yes, sir. I'll see to it personally.”
Mycroft didn't look back but put the knife and cloth somewhere they'd be cleaned while he was gone and left the room. Outside was a small sink, and he took his time washing his hands, getting every last little fleck of blood off before he left the building.
A familiar car sat alongside his usual one, the driver talking to Daniels. When his own chauffeur glanced his way the man turned and nodded at Mycroft.
“Good morning, Mr Holmes. Would you please come with me? You're wanted at the palace, sir.”
“Of course, Mr Newton. As always, I am at her majesty's command.” Mycroft added a fake smile to his words and the driver opened the door for him.
Before he even sat down, he took in the unexpected presence of Amelia sitting on the other side of the car. She gave him a brief smile.
“I've been summoned as well, for some reason,” she said, the apology evident in her voice. It was obvious why, but he wasn't about to tell her.
They had realised she hadn't yet become an agent, and neither he nor his brother had declared themselves engaged. If there were any other reasons than this, they would be secondary.
