by Edie Harris
As confirmed by her nod. “You have siblings, Faraday. I have Pip. She is all I have, and vice versa, and if I missed her wedding... I wouldn’t have a single goddamn reason to help you with your death wish.”
He shifted, widening his stance. Attend a wedding—with Chandler McCallister. The logistics of it would take some maneuvering, but it was...doable. Unfortunately. He was unwilling to capitulate quite yet, though Polnoch’ Pulya was so close he could taste it on the tip of his tongue. The need burning inside his bones went beyond the revenge that was a secondary benefit to his ultimate goal. “I thought we’d agreed to call it ‘redemption.’”
“You’ve never come in here before.”
He stayed silent in the face of her sudden change in subject, realizing she was right. Their previous interactions had all taken place outside the walls of her cell, in the interrogation room down the long hall, separated by one-way glass from the main tactical chamber of the Underground. Never before had he crossed the threshold of Chandler’s domain, instinct—and manners—dictating that he not invade the only space she possessed.
She watched him carefully, as a boxer would her opponent, seconds before the starting bell. “You might consider letting me go.”
“No.”
“Really? All I get is a ‘no’?”
“You’re a smart woman, Ms. McCallister. Need I explain the nuance of your situation?” Disavowed by her government, without security or sanctuary—except for that provided by Faraday. By him. “All right. I agree to accompany you to your sister’s wedding—” he held up a hand to forestall any response “—on the condition that you return here after our time in Moscow without an attempted escape, complicit with the knowledge you would be Faraday’s prisoner. For the foreseeable future.”
“The foreseeable future,” she repeated wryly. “It’s my only option, yeah?” Her lips twisted in resignation, and Tobias found himself staring, momentarily—very momentarily, of course—transfixed by their shape and mobility. “Not like there’s a spy agency in the world that’d want me after all this.”
A knock sounded on the door, surprising them both. They turned to find Freya framed in the open doorway, warm light from the subterranean hallway filtering in behind her. “Actually, McCallister,” the redhead intoned lightly, her interested gaze darting back and forth between them, “on that, you might be wrong.”
Chapter Two
“Wrong?” Hope zinged through Chandler like a high-voltage electric shock. “Wrong how?”
The MI6 analyst—and Chandler’s former colleague—lifted a mobile phone. “Got a text from Management. Yang wants to discuss your future. In an hour.”
Faraday turned to frown at his cousin. “That seems awfully precipitous. Your doing, Freya?”
“You told me, when I got the job at MI6, that I was free to share intel with my fellow agents when I deemed it necessary.” Shrugging, the young woman backed out of the cell doorway. “I deemed it necessary to alert Management that you were about to bring McCallister out of confinement.” With a wink, Freya disappeared down the hall, leaving the entrance to Chandler’s cell wide open.
Chafing her palms over her bare arms, Chandler stared at the empty doorway. “My future. That sound a bit dire to you, too?”
“Knowing your Management, yes.”
Well, look at that. Enemies in agreement; who would have thought. She glanced up at him, trying to read his closed expression. “Are you going to take me there?”
Nodding, Faraday moved to the door. “But not dressed like that. Come.”
She stayed in place. “Pardon?”
He gestured her forward impatiently. “Come with me, Ms. McCallister. Pajamas are not meant to be worn in public.”
With no retort for that particular truth, Chandler tentatively approached, doing her level best to ignore the weight of his hand hovering at the small of her back—but definitely not making contact—as she stepped out of her prison cell for the first time in weeks.
Since being unceremoniously handed over into Faraday keeping after the disastrous confrontation at St. Mary Axe a month before, the opportunities to observe Tobias Faraday had been many, as he’d stood on the threshold of her cell multiple times. But this was her first chance to look at him, to see him as she had the night she lost her freedom. Her memory of that particular showdown was clear: Faraday in one of his natty three-piece suits, buttoned up higher than a Victorian virgin on her wedding night and holding a gun as though he’d left the womb with it surgically attached to his hand.
With the notable exception of the gun, he appeared now as he did then. Ice in his clear gray eyes with their slight upward tilt and long dark lashes. Skin like toffee caramel stretched taut over angular features too sharp to be considered traditionally handsome, but the strong line of his jaw, the bluntness of his chin and the length of his nose remained compelling. His dark brown hair, clipped short and neatly combed, appeared almost black in the shadows, his brows sleek wings of the same shade. The man was so groomed he made her teeth hurt.
And that was just his face. The rest of him, long and lean like a runner but with the broad shoulders and tightly packed musculature that made him a designer’s ideal—evidenced by his impeccable tailoring—screamed of wealth, and of a power that even wealth couldn’t provide. Tobias Faraday’s strength came from a lineage most Americans couldn’t claim, and from social standing and political sway entire nations would start wars to obtain.
As he led her into an open room bearing the rough brick of the abandoned Underground, overlaid by active computer screens and some of the most expensive-looking technology Chandler had ever seen, she noted the easiness of his stride. This was a man who moved with grace but controlled every inch of himself, who was aware of his body as a fighter needed to be aware.
If she took him down, she would need to be prepared to take a few hits, because he moved as though he knew precisely how to sneak in a jab or two with a less-than-aware opponent.
Freya reappeared carrying a folded set of clothes, what looked to be dark jeans, socks and underthings, a soft blue sweater and a brand-new pair of Converse trainers. Chandler eyed them covetously, suddenly immensely irritated with the quality cotton loungewear she had on. “Are those for me?”
“That depends on you,” Faraday said in a markedly superior tone. “You won’t attempt escape.”
“No.”
“Or to injure me.”
She paused for effect, enjoying the cloud that darkened his expression. “I won’t hurt you.”
His black look didn’t recede. “For the entirety of our agreement—from now until we’re done in Moscow.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Toby. Go ahead and untwist your knickers.” Taking the neat stack of clothing and footwear from Freya’s arms, she lifted a brow. “Now, I want to put on a pair of socks more than I want to breathe. If you’re quite done questioning my word?”
With a magnanimous wave of his hand, he gestured toward the open door of a blue-and-white tiled bathroom situated off the main chamber of the facility, clean and gleaming and looking a bit like heaven, in Chandler’s opinion. For the first time in far too long, the door closing behind her was closed of her own volition. Her choice, her decision, free to make.
Setting the clothing on the vanity, the shoes beneath the pedestal sink, she turned in a circle and noted her options. No window, one exit—the door she’d willfully closed and deliberately locked. At the tub was a wrapped bar of soap and small bottles of shampoo and conditioner. She opened the spigot to the tub and continued her search as warm water pounded into porcelain, the thought of a real bath filling her with anticipation.
The medicine cabinet behind the mirror revealed a lady’s razor still in its packaging, a small bottle of aspirin with the foil seal intact and a fresh toothbrush with—strangely enough—her preferred brand of toothpaste. A quick
glance at the bar soap and hair product revealed they were also her favorites. French, and not easily obtained.
She narrowed her eyes on the door, imagining she could see through it to the man who’d no doubt stocked the bathroom for just this eventuality, whether she were released today or tomorrow or two weeks from now. “Icy bastard,” she whispered as she stripped down, stopped the faucet and climbed into the tub with a heartfelt moan.
Thirty minutes later, Chandler opened the door—once again, her choice—and stepped into the Underground’s central chamber. Conversation between Freya and Faraday ceased, and Faraday crossed to her, his gaze dipping to take in her appearance. “You look refreshed, Ms. McCallister.” He motioned to his cousin. “Check the bathroom. Make sure she didn’t take anything.”
Chandler rolled her eyes as Freya did his bidding, noting with some amusement that the other woman appeared equally beleaguered by the command. “If you doubt my ability to keep a promise again, I’m going to forget to thank you for the luxuries you just provided.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Except I didn’t thank you yet.”
“I assumed it was implied. Again, you’re welcome.” Freya returned, nodded, and any hint of friendly banter, so out of place to begin with, fled. Reaching into his trouser pocket, Faraday withdrew a strip of white plastic. “Wrists together, please.”
Eying the zip tie with distaste, she acquiesced. But only because he said please. And because he didn’t threaten her with a blindfold.
Indeed he seemed unconcerned as they moved to a steel-reinforced lift set into the original brick and stone of the tunnel. The lift carried the three of them up and up, and when the doors opened again, it was into a warehouse vestibule. Faraday punched a coded sequence into a wall-mounted keypad, and another portal unlocked before them. And then...
Daylight. “Ah, fuck, that’s nice,” she whispered, blinking against the brightness of a cloud-covered London afternoon. Unable to stop herself, she preceded them through the door and stood in a tiny rear alley, staring up at the gray sky and breathing in the mixed stale scents of the populous city that had been her home for all of her life.
A hand at her elbow, large and long-fingered. “Ms. McCallister?”
That couldn’t possibly be actual concern in her captor’s voice. No way. “Another moment, Toby.” And because he’d said it first: “Please.”
He let her have the moment, again, behaving with more consideration than she wanted to give him credit for, before directing her to a plain black sedan parked at the mouth of the alleyway. Freya drove, with him in the front and Chandler in the rear, and the city passed by until Chandler recognized her surroundings once more. The silence between them felt necessary as the car approached the home of the Secret Intelligence Service, large and imposing along the embankment.
Her breath caught as they entered a guarded garage. So many times she had been inside the walls of this structure, days and nights and weekends, eating and sleeping and showering here. This was where she’d learned the various trajectories her life would take, what countries she would fly into, what languages she would be expected to speak with native fluency. In this building, she had forged ties with her colleagues and loyalties to an agency that had knowingly offered a future to a woman with the dirtiest of family secrets. Her vision blurred briefly as she exited the car and followed her jailers into what had once been her true place of belonging, and tried to ignore the indignity of being visibly bound. A prisoner in her home.
The offices at the SIS building lacked the impact of St. Mary Axe, with views of concrete walls and wooden paneling instead of the London skyline, but upon reaching the basement level where Section T-16 housed its headquarters, Chandler exhaled to be surrounded once more by the comfort of the familiar. For the five years she had worked for MI6, her daily life had centered around the time spent in this belowground section.
Once through the airlocked doors coded to protect T-16 from all but permitted entrants, groupings of desks divided by low cubicle walls were scattered throughout, one of which had been Chandler’s. A large wall of screens dominated the space, some displaying active desktop feeds, others live television news broadcasts and CCTV footage. People made phone calls and typed madly away at their computers, saving the world one keystroke at a time.
Saving the world had been Chandler’s mission. Now look at her. At least Faraday had snipped off the zip tie binding her wrists before they departed the elevator. The shame of wandering through her former workplace shackled like a criminal would have been unbearable.
The door to an internal office opened, filled by a tall, slim woman in her early fifties. Straight hair styled in a silvery bob, attire elegant from head to toe, section chief Colleen Yang was as imposing a figure as she had been upon recruiting Chandler years earlier, but no longer as impressive. Betrayal had a way of knocking the stars from one’s eyes, as had Yang’s disavowal of Chandler when the chips were down and the Faradays were applying pressure.
What good was a leader who didn’t protect her followers, Chandler mused as she struggled to keep her expression blank. The spy business was too fraught with intrigue for the spies themselves to be waging invisible warfare against one another, but warfare was precisely what Yang had engaged in. The section chief’s aggression against Chandler had been spurred on by John Nash, and by God, Chandler would demand a reckoning.
Unless Yang had a better offer. “Mr. Faraday, a pleasure to see you again.” The older woman ushered them into her office, ignoring Chandler to stop Freya with a raised hand. “Quinn, I need you to go with Hadad up to Level Three.”
“Yes, mum.” Though Freya looked anything but happy as she moved stiffly toward a glowering young man of Middle Eastern descent sitting at one of the desks. Dare Hadad had been Freya’s partner for the past year, and though Chandler didn’t know him as well as she knew some of the older agents, she liked him. Smart, strong, approachably handsome, Dare had incredible potential for undercover work.
So long as he got his temper under control. The truth had come out about Freya—that she was cousin to the Faradays and had, during the confrontation at St. Mary Axe in February, knocked Dare out and tied him up in order to come to their rescue—and Chandler had the suspicion, based on his fierce glare, that he had not quite forgiven his partner for her lies.
The office door closed, redirecting Chandler’s attention to the two people in the small room with her, both now her enemies. Though one enemy acted with considerably more politeness than the other. Faraday adjusted one of the two chairs opposite the desk and indicated that Chandler should take it, then waited until she sat before lowering into his own seat. Brushing off the twinge caused by his unexpected kindness, she attributed his manners to show. Prison wardens weren’t meant to be considerate.
Seated across the expanse of desk, the section chief finally deigned to meet Chandler’s gaze, her eyes dark and direct and not those of the friend Chandler had considered her boss to be up until a month earlier. “McCallister.”
Well, that formality stung, but Chandler’s backbone had long consisted of steel, not snowflakes. “Yang. You never write, you never call...”
“Aren’t you funny,” Yang deadpanned, hands folded neatly atop her desk. “You look healthy.”
Lounging carelessly in the chair, Chandler crossed her legs and smiled coolly at the woman who had so easily discarded her. “The British penal system could take a lesson or two from the Faradays.”
“Good to know, though I expected no less than the best from them.”
Chandler’s mouth twisted in derision. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to woo Faraday here. Hasn’t he given you everything you wanted yet—the moon, the sun, a herd of prancing unicorns?”
“To be clear,” Faraday interjected dryly, “unicorns are not included in the scope of Faraday services, prancing or otherwise.”
“Shame.” Chandler turned her tight smile on Yang. “Did you hear that, Colleen? No unicorns.”
Yang sighed as though greatly put-upon, a sound that set Chandler’s teeth on edge. “I can admit my mistakes in my attempt to convince Faraday Industries to join forces with MI6.”
“So blackmail is a mere ‘mistake’ now? You had me shoot at a colleague with the intent to injure.” Regret sprinted through her mind as she remembered the orders she’d carried out against Raleigh Vick, the former British spy who was madly in love with Beth Faraday, and Colleen’s decision to callously leverage that love for her own gain. “We destroyed a woman’s home under your orders. We threatened her and her family at gunpoint. We—”
“You,” Yang corrected. “You colluded with your ex-partner, John Nash, to convince us the Russians demanded Beth Faraday’s head for her part in the death of Polnoch’ Pulya’s leader, Karlin Kedrov.”
It might have been her imagination, but Chandler thought she saw new tension sneak into Faraday’s lean frame at the mention of Kedrov. “What I did, Colleen, was go undercover into Moscow for nine months, embed myself into the deadliest black-market arms organization on the planet and do my best to collect intelligence from what was left of Kedrov’s inner circle, and attempt to move your asset into a position of power. All of which you ordered me to do. It was my job to do it.”
“It was not your job to give that inner circle Beth Faraday’s name.”
True. “Nash was deeper into Polnoch’ Pulya than I was. I followed his lead when he ran with the Beth Faraday angle. The Russians were already suspicious of me, and I was facing another...another round with their enforcer, so honestly? I would’ve done anything to get home again.” And she had done.
Faraday shifted beside her. “What do you mean by ‘another round with their enforcer’?”
“What do you think I mean, Toby?” She didn’t look at him, but at Yang. “There are rites of passage to joining a high-functioning crime operation. Those rites differ depending on whether you’re male or female.” Or if you were Reggie McCallister’s daughter.
