by Leslie Jones
Trevor nodded slowly. “Who has just become engaged to Gabriel Morgan from the Combat Applications Group.”
He meant Delta Force. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Natch. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I mean, with her, you know. Being with another man.”
Trevor frowned. “I did not go to her for any romantic reason whatsoever. She’d been arrested by a local imam. She needed a male to pretend to be a family member to pay a fine and promise to beat her and lock her in her room. Does any of that sound romantic to you?”
“Only if you’re into that.” Shelby scratched the corner of her eye with her forefinger. “You and she were involved prior to that, though. I heard things.”
“Speculation and innuendo. My team and I were able to give assistance during an operation gone wrong. There was never anything more to it than that.”
So the rumors were inaccurate. That shouldn’t surprise her. “You have the reputation as quite the womanizer, though,” she said. “Is that gossip, too?”
Trevor simply looked at her, puzzled. “No. I’m a healthy man with healthy appetites. The issue is my profession. The life of a soldier is hard enough, with deployments and separations, missing birthdays and holidays. Multiply that by a hundred, and you come close to the life of an operator.”
“What do you mean? Because it’s dangerous?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I deploy at a moment’s notice. Often, I either don’t have the time, or am not permitted, to call and let someone know I’m going. Not parents, not a wife and children, not a girlfriend. How would you feel if the man you’re dating simply disappeared, for weeks or months at a time? My chosen career makes relationships challenging.”
“But the right woman—”
“Is incredibly rare to find. I love what I do. I won’t give it up. But it makes it damnably difficult to form a serious relationship. I’m not home often enough to build a solid foundation as a couple, nor to meet a woman strong enough to be a partner, to understand and accept that part of my life. Divorce rates amongst special operations forces are extremely high, and there’s a reason for it.”
Her brows pulled down. “So you sleep around. It’s easier that way?”
“The women I sleep with are looking for the same thing as I am. No strings, no commitments. Just healthy, recreational sex. Given those parameters, it’s virtually impossible not to get a reputation. But it’s equally difficult to find a woman who wants that.”
He stood and took their dishes into the kitchen. She followed him in. He rinsed the plates and put them on the drying rack, then turned to her, hurt in his eyes.
“The irony of life is that the first woman I’ve had romantic feelings for in years dumped me while I was lying in a hospital bed.”
Chapter Eight
BLAM. SO HE’S said it. Put it out there for her to see, examine, pierce him with her indifference. He waited for her reply.
Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Finally, she croaked, “You have romantic feelings for me?”
“Had,” he corrected, hardening his heart. “And yes. Why does that surprise you?”
She took a deep breath, then another. “You’d have to know how I was raised, and we don’t have the time for that. I’m afraid we’ve stayed here too long as it is. Eric has my driver’s license. They know where I live.”
He knew that. He’d been mentally calculating how much time they had before Eric either called him or came after him. And he would. He didn’t take betrayal lightly.
“He’s got to get organized first. That probably means a visit to my mystery man in the limousine.”
“Who?”
“You’ve sussed out my mission, I presume. Get tight with the Bedlamites and stop them from bombing any more museums. The difficulty is they’re not acting alone. I know Eric Koller from years ago. I did some undercover work in Northern Ireland when I first joined the SAS, during Operation Banner and beyond. Eric Koller was IRA, and we fought together, as far as he’s concerned. Now, years later, MI-5 tells me he’s the head of a home-grown anarchist group calling themselves the Philosophy of Bedlam, who have bombed three art galleries in and around London. MI-5 and the SAS have mounted a task force to find and arrest them. I’m the man on the inside.”
Shelby gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m the one who screwed up your mission. Great.”
“No,” he said at once. “I made the choice. I take the blame.”
“Huh.” Clearly, she did not believe him.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye, Shel. I’m posing as a sympathizer with my own reasons for wanting to hurt our government. I offered my services as an explosives expert. But for that incentive, I insisted on meeting the brains behind the group. We agreed to meet at Canary Wharf. Limo pulls up, man gets out of the front passenger seat. I know right off this isn’t the brains. The man in charge rides in the back of the limo; the flunkies ride in front. So either Mr. Smith isn’t there, or he’s in the back, watching.
“The flunky talks to me about the anarchist movement, the whys and wherefores, the ideology. But this guy . . . there’s something off about him. Expensive, tailored suit. Shined shoes. Nothing about him says he’s a disaffected youth. Or that he has a grudge. Or that he’s anything other than successful. So I told him flat out to stop wasting my time.”
“What happened?”
“Turns out he’s an accountant. I was invited into the back of the limo to meet Mr. Smith.”
“Mr. Smith, huh?” Shelby said. “Clearly, this is no garden-variety terrorist.”
“No. Definitely not. I convinced him I wanted in on the action. After I joined Eric’s group, I barely managed to text the time of the attack to the task force. They tracked the GPS in my phone and called the police. We were supposed to go in after the museum closed, but the police very nearly beat us there. Hence the standoff.”
Shelby blew out a breath. “Those paintings were priceless.”
“Go pack a hold-all,” Trevor ordered. “You’re right; we need to leave. I’ll just put my dirty clothes back on.”
“It won’t take them long to dry, and you’re too conspicuous walking around with just a towel.”
He laughed.
Following her as she headed down to her bedroom, he watched her pull out a hold-all. She threw in some clothing, toiletries, and her laptop. At the last minute, she went into her firebox and pulled out some cash and a Beretta.
“Here,” she said, stretching her arm out to him. “For home protection. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Bloody brilliant.” He took it, automatically popping the magazine and locking the slide back. There was no round in the chamber. He corrected that, then flipped up the external safety and laid it on her bed.
“Oh, my God!” The horror in Shelby’s voice had him whirling around. She’d stopped midway to putting the cash into her pocket and was staring, eyes glued to the telly, and he saw with dismay that his face filled the screen.
“This man is wanted for questioning in the hostage standoff that occurred this morning at the August Museum of Modern Art in Soho. He is a person of interest in the investigation, possibly even one of the terrorists himself. He should be considered armed and dangerous. If you see him, please do not approach him. Scotland Yard has set up a special hotline. If you see this man or know of his whereabouts, call . . .”
Trevor tuned out the commentator. The photo was slightly blurry, obviously taken with a cell phone, but there was no doubt it was him.
“How did they get your picture?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was tight. “Someone got a pic before the mobiles were confiscated; it’s the only explanation. This changes things.”
“Now you need to turn yourself in. Or contact your superiors.”
“Yes. I�
�ll do that, but first I have to put you somewhere safe. Do you have a friend you can stay with for a few days?”
Shelby met his gaze steadily. “I’m not leaving you to flounder through this alone. I can help.”
Brows pulled down and confusion in his eyes, he asked, “Why would you want to help me?”
“Trevor, for God’s sake. I don’t hate you. I don’t like what you did, but I understand now why you did it. So can we just move past that, please? I know I hurt you in Ma’ar ye zhad, but you said yourself you don’t feel anything for me any more. Let me help.”
He hesitated, but finally nodded. “Let’s get moving, then. We’ll go to a hotel.”
His clothes were still damp when he pulled them on and shoved the Beretta into the waist of his cargo pants, leaving the T-shirt untucked to hide it. He took Shelby’s hold-all.
“Last chance,” he warned her.
“Come on.” She ended the discussion by heading toward her front door. He beat her there before she could open it.
“Let me look first. Stay here.”
She slowed, allowing him in front of her. He cracked the door and checked the hallway. Clear.
They moved down the hall to the stairwell that would lead them out of the building. Empty. They descended, but he placed an arm in front of her, tacitly warning her not to approach the door to the flats. He placed himself to one side, risking several looks through the glass panes to check outside.
A white Volkswagen Polo pulled in across the street.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “We have visitors.”
Shelby tried to peer around him, but he shifted so that his body blocked her view. “Who?”
“Nathan and Fay. Bedlamites. Is there a back way out?”
“Not really,” she said. “There’s a tiny patio and some grass. And a ten-foot privacy fence. Even then, all it gets you to is someone else’s backyard.”
“Shite. They’d head us off a long time before we made it out. Go back upstairs. Wait there, yeah?”
She trotted back up the stairs. He positioned himself to one side of the door, reaching out long fingers to click the lock open. In a few moments, he heard footsteps coming up the walkway. The doorknob began to move.
“It’s open,” Fay whispered. “Stupid bitch.”
“Shut up and open it,” Nathan said.
The door cracked open, then eased inward. Just as Fay made to enter, Trevor clamped a hand onto her arm, yanking her forward. She slammed into the door. He immediately let go, pushing her backward and into Nathan. Fay tumbled down the three steps, but Nathan leapt over her and barreled through the door. Trevor used his momentum, pushing the man past him and into the wall. Two short jabs to the kidneys. Nathan grunted, but turned and threw a punch that Trevor slipped. Nathan catapulted himself into Trevor. The table onto which residents dropped junk mail broke apart as two heavy male bodies fell onto it.
Trevor was back on his feet in an instant. He saw Nathan draw a Smith & Wesson small-frame revolver from his coat pocket.
“Gun!” Shelby shouted.
Trevor crossed his wrists, catching the short barrel in one palm and Nathan’s fingers in the other. He twisted the revolver free while yanking the fingers up. Nathan screamed as two of them broke. Trevor reversed his arm’s trajectory, nailing Nathan on the temple with the grip. Nathan slid to the floor, unconscious.
“Come on.”
Shelby ran down the stairs.
Trevor grabbed her hand and hustle her out the door. “Where’s the Tube from here?”
“Finsbury Park. This way.”
They ran down the street, bypassing curious stares until they reached the mouth of the London Underground. There, Trevor forced them to slow, fingers still entwined with hers. He paid for two day passes. They inserted their tickets into the turnstile. The paddles opened, and they went through.
Once they reached the platform, they faded to the back of the crush of people. Even late on a Saturday night, crowds swirled around them.
“Thank God they switched up the Victoria line to be twenty-four hours.”
“The constancy of movement and the crush of people will help conceal us,” Trevor said quietly. “But there’s the danger of being tracked via camera or seen by local police. London is called the Most Surveilled City in the World for a reason.”
“Let’s head into Central London. This is how I go every day.”
“Okay, good. Just follow my lead, okay?” Trevor turned to scrutinize her face. “Are you all right?”
Her laugh sounded forced. “I’m good. You?”
“Right as rain.” Of course she wasn’t all right. It had been a silly question. This type of situation was as foreign to her as it was normal for him. Still, she was being a trooper.
“I know where the cops patrol in the Underground,” she said, and seemed gratified by his look of surprise.
“How?”
This time, her laugh was more genuine. “Training in counter surveillance is mandatory for all Foreign Service Officers. I took a refresher in Azakistan before I left, just for fun. The Tube ride is pretty long and can get boring, and I can’t work because what I do is mostly classified. So I started playing a game with myself on the Tube, and in and around Central London. I know numerous ways from around the city to get to the United Nations’ UK building, which stops and at what times the Tubes are the most crowded, and I even trained myself to notice cameras and patrols.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. She crossed her arms defensively.
“What?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s grand.”
For the next hour, Shelby used her knowledge and Trevor’s expertise on a surveillance-avoidance run. They switched cars in the Tube frequently, avoiding security, hopping from line to line until Trevor announced himself satisfied.
“Even if Jukes picked us up at your townhouse, I doubt he was able to follow us. He’s a good hacker, one of the best I’ve seen. He’ll find us eventually, no doubt, but we’ve bought ourselves some time.”
He felt the pull of fatigue. The museum already seemed a lifetime ago, and it was barely after midnight. If he felt it, Shelby must also feel drained of all energy. Adrenal letdown.
“Now what?” she asked.
“For now, let’s find a hotel. I could use a coffee. We’ll figure out our next step from there.”
Chapter Nine
TREVOR TOOK THEM to a rundown hotel in Tower Hamlets. The place was beastly. The last time it had been painted was, no doubt, circa never. The window in the front door was cracked. The name of the horror was tacked to the office roof, listing to one side. An equally foul tavern had attached itself along one wall. He made a pained sound.
“It’s okay,” Shelby whispered. “I know why we’re here. We have very little money, and you’re a wanted fugitive. We don’t have much choice.”
He gave a sharp nod. Under normal circumstances, he’d never let her come within a hundred kilometers of a dump like this. Him, sure. He’d been in worse places. But Shelby deserved roses and champagne, silk sheets and soft towels. Now, though—He mentally hitched up his trousers and pushed through the front door.
The tiny reception area wasn’t any better than the exterior. A couple of yellow plastic chairs rested on a suspiciously brown carpet. The scent of mildew hit him hard. Behind him, Shelby coughed.
“Help ya, mate?” The balding man with the horrendous comb-over let his chair rock back onto all four legs and folded his newspaper.
“A room. A clean one, if you have it.”
The man hawked out something that was probably supposed to be a laugh, showing his chipped front tooth. He fished an old-fashioned metal key out from under the counter and held it up.
“A pony an hour, mate.”
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “Twenty-
five pounds? That’s outrageous. I’ll give you seventy-five for the night, and be damned lucky for it.”
The man shrugged, turning his attention to Shelby. He leered at her, licking his lips. “If ye like. Looks like she’ll ride you ragged. Aya, come on down here when you’re finished with this blighter. I could use a roll meself.”
Shelby made a choked sound; but then, to his astonishment, she snugged herself into his side, reaching up to caress his hair. “Like you said, luv, I intend to ride him ragged.”
The man guffawed. “Room two-oh-four, then, ducks.”
They walked up the flight of stairs, which creaked and groaned. When they reached their door, Trevor unlocked it and pushed it open, peering in uneasily. Shelby walked in, so he followed.
To say the room was outdated would be kind. At least the mildew smell was absent, but the bedspread had clearly seen better days and had several cigarette burns on one side. The telly was ancient, an old tube model. Despite the June warmth, heat wafted from the wall unit. Shelby made a beeline for it and turned the heater off.
Trevor dropped Shelby’s hold-all onto the floor and pulled back the comforter and bedding to check the mattress for bedbugs, which were mercifully absent.
“I guess it could be more godawful,” Shelby said, looking around with her hands on her hips. “Don’t know how, but things can always get worse.”
He grimaced. He’d slept in trenches half filled with mud that looked better than this rubbish heap. He switched on the telly and changed the channel to BBC News. The commentator gravely updated viewers on the state of emergency declared in an Asian country after a devastating earthquake.
“Those poor people,” she murmured. “It’s heartbreaking.”
“Yes.”
“So what now?”
Instead of answering, he sat in one of the two Naugahyde chairs. Shelby perched on the edge of the second.
“Not even a desk. This really is a hotel where prostitutes take their tricks.” Trevor felt a grin tugging at his lips. “You were great downstairs.”
