by Leslie Jones
She should have said, “You’re a lying sack of shit.” Or maybe, “You’ll wait till hell freezes over.” But she knew Bruce. He would take that as a challenge. The fastest way to get rid of him was what came out of her mouth. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think hard, Shel. You’re in a lot of trouble, and I can help you.”
She hung up without answering. It would hold him off for now. She leaned her forehead against the wall.
“You’ll think about it, huh? Think about what, Shelby?”
Chapter Ten
SHELBY TOOK IN a breath, steeled herself, and turned to meet Trevor’s flinty gaze. “Nothing.”
He made a disbelieving sound. “That nothing sounded like a whole lot of something. Who the hell is Bruce Clinton?”
His tone made her hackles rise. “He’s nobody. Stop interrogating me.”
Trevor grabbed his combat boots and yanked them on with jerky movements, then snatched his T-shirt from the floor. “A nobody who said nothing. Brilliant.”
She took a step toward him, hand outstretched. “It was my ex-fiancé, which you’ve already figured out. He’s offered to get me a lawyer. And yes, he said he wants to get back together, which you’ve also already figured out, so I don’t know why you’re asking me. I just said that to get rid of him.”
He stopped with his T-shirt over his arms, ready to pull it over his head. “Does he know that?”
She dropped her arm. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.”
He yanked the T-shirt into place. “And what about me? Do I matter?”
She had no answer for him. He mattered, but she just wasn’t prepared to be let down by another man.
“I can see the answer on your face. Message received, loud and clear.”
Anger surged to the fore. “I don’t see why you’re acting like this. You’re the one who said I was worthless.”
Bent over his boots, he stilled, laces seemingly forgotten. “I said no such thing. I never would.”
Humiliation suffused her face with red. “You said it wasn’t worth it to—”
He interrupted her, voice grating against her eardrums. “Sleep with you. That’s a far cry from saying you aren’t worth anything. For fuck’s sake, who did a number on you? Was it Bruce?”
Her spine stiffened. She was so not talking to him about Bruce. “What about you? Was Christina more worthy?”
“Bloody hell! For the last time—”
“I know.” She raised her voice. “You didn’t go from my bed to hers. So you’ve said. But you didn’t come back, either. Or call. Or so much as leave a note.”
He stared at her, not speaking. His face might have been granite. “Why are you in London, Shel?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Well?”
“It’s a posting, like any other posting. I did a study abroad here my senior year of college. I took the General Course at the London School of Economics and Political Science at the University of London. I fell in love with the city back then, and I’m determined to live here permanently someday. If I leave the State Department.”
He remained silent.
“What, did you think I moved here hoping to get back with you?” It was cruel, and she immediately felt ashamed.
“That would imply a relationship. We had a forgettable one-night stand. At least, that’s what you asked me to do in the hospital. Forget it ever happened.”
Her shoulders hunched. “Saying it was a mistake while you were lying in a hospital bed was beyond a crappy thing to do. I should have been throwing you a party, not . . . walking out on you.”
“Again,” he said, voice hard. “You made it clear you weren’t interested in any kind of a relationship with me when you left my hospital room and went on a date.”
Oh, shit. Hugo hadn’t come into the room. How did Trevor know . . . ?
“Yes, I know you started seeing Gunnery Sergeant Bisantz. You were dressed to go out, and I heard a male voice in the corridor, outside my room. I put two and two together. It wasn’t that hard.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, heart aching. “Hugo is just a friend.”
“Did you sleep with him? Bloody hell. Forget I asked that. It’s not my concern.”
“Trevor . . .”
“No.” He cut an arm through the air. “No more. You run hot, then cold. I don’t know what tune you’re playing, but I’m done dancing.”
The ache in her heart increased. Yet how could she blame him? He didn’t understand her. Maybe she didn’t understand herself.
“No comment? Right, then. Have your shower, and then we get to work.”
SHELBY DUG HER laptop out of her hold-all and made use of the desk to set it up. Trevor stood to the side of the window, peering through the heavy drapes at the street below.
“Don’t log in to work,” he said. “Scotland Yard will have put a trace on your UN login credentials and official email.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I know that.”
He turned and leveled a long look at her. “Then what are you doing?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Research?”
He turned back to the window, not bothering to ask what sort of research. Obviously, like him, she hated inaction. Nor did he want to dwell on their earlier conversation. What was going on inside that busy brain of hers? How the hell could she even consider getting back with a man who’d just used her for his own gain?
Her stomach growled, loudly enough that he heard.
“I’ll get takeaway,” Trevor said. “There’s a Pret a Manger a few streets over. Lock the door behind me.”
“All right. Be careful.” She walked with him to the door.
Traffic was light on a Sunday morning. A few joggers, a couple holding hands, some pedestrians. Parked cars lined one side of the road; small shops with flats above them lined the other. A few transients huddled in a doorway, sleeping bags wrapped around them even in June. Incongruously, a colorful striped umbrella sat to one side. Trevor eyed them. If he were scoping out the area, he would pretend to be sleeping rough. But they stayed on the other side of the street, barely raising their eyes.
A man in spandex jogged down the next street and disappeared. Trevor quickened his pace. The sooner he finished his errands, the sooner he could return to Shelby. The odds were with them, but he knew how fast things could go sour. And, even as upset as he was, no way was he leaving her alone and unprotected.
He contemplated their limited options. Linking back up with the Bedlamites was out. He could turn himself in and let the government sort it. First things first, though. He needed to find a telephone and call in to his superiors.
He’d cocked up this mission. No one was going to be happy with him for his decision to rescue Shelby over his mission to stop the Bedlamites. He’d be accused of poor judgment, and he couldn’t argue it. If he was going to salvage anything about this operation, it would have to be from the other end. Investigation instead of infiltration.
Handily enough, he saw a convenience store down the street. He could pick up a burner phone and maybe a razor. He pivoted abruptly.
Something whizzed by his ear and bit deeply into the wooden door beside him. The crack of a rifle followed a second later. Purely on instinct, he hit the ground, rolling twice before taking refuge behind the engine block of a Renault.
Sniper.
He scanned the buildings around him. The shot had come from his right front. There! The steeple of the church would provide a three-hundred-sixty-degree visibility in this neighborhood. The glint of light reflecting off the scope was all the confirmation he needed.
How had the Bedlamites found him?
He bit off a curse. Shelby’s mobile. With everything else that had gone on, he’d forgotten he had it. Jukes had her driving license
. With it, he could look up her address and telephone numbers, including her mobile. He’d’ve had to hack into the cellular network to trace her to the nearest cell phone tower, which would take time. Even then, it wouldn’t give them her precise location. Hence the observer with the sniper rifle.
Come to it, why hadn’t the police busted down their door? They could get a warrant for a line trace far more easily.
First things first. He risked a peek over the bonnet of the car. Nothing happened.
Okay, Carswell, figure it out. If he were searching for someone and had a general idea of where he was, he would post an observer somewhere high up, like the church tower. He would also have at least one, preferably two, roving patrols.
As if on cue, a Land Rover Defender turned the corner two blocks away. He knew he’d been detected when it peeled rubber in his direction. He turned and sprinted across the street, leaping to grab the top of the fence surrounding the church grounds and flipping over it. As he zigzagged across the lawn, a second bullet plowed into the earth behind him. Reaching the tree line, he ran flat out for the back of the church, keeping the trees between himself and the shooter. The sniper fired several more rounds, missing badly, telling Trevor this was an amateur. He didn’t have clear line of sight to Trevor, and the gunshots would bring the police.
It wouldn’t take the Bedlamites in the Land Rover long to circle around to the front of the church. When Trevor reached the church’s back door, he found an old, slightly rusty padlock. Shielding his face, he drew Shelby’s Beretta and fired at the lock. It popped open.
He moved swiftly but silently through the hallway, passing several offices and a kitchen. A staircase appeared on his left; as he turned to start up, he saw the body of a priest sprawled several stairs above him. Blood pooled from under his body and dripped down the stairs. He paused to press his fingers to the man’s carotid artery. No pulse.
It took a high degree of either professionalism or stupidity to kill a priest in his own church and fire a rifle without a noise suppressor. He could already hear sirens in the distance. Leaping up the stairs two at a time, he paused at the bend of the staircase. Someone was thundering down the stairs.
He put his back to the wall and waited. A few seconds later, a man carrying a sniper rifle barreled around the corner. Trevor simultaneously tripped him with his leg and shoved him hard. The man tumbled down the stairs, losing his grip on the rifle. Trevor followed him down, not giving the man time to react as he flipped him over and twisted his arm up behind his back, dropping his knee into the man’s spine for good measure. The man grunted in pain.
“Who sent you?” He patted the man down one-handed, removing a Springfield semiautomatic from a hip holster. He also pocketed the man’s cell phone and a snapshot of himself and Shelby, obviously taken from the news reports.
“Fuck you.”
Trevor increased the pressure on the man’s arm. “Let’s try an easier question. Were you sent to kill or capture? Because you’re a lousy shot.”
“Fuck . . .”
Trevor gave his shoulder a hard twist, dislocated it. The man screamed.
“I don’t have a lot of time. You, you’re going to jail. But if you answer my questions, I’ll let you live.”
The man’s chest heaved as he tried to breathe through the pain. “Stop. For feck’s sake, stop.”
Trevor leaned closer to the man’s face. “Kill or capture?”
“Capture,” the man gasped.
“Just me?” He would not mention Shelby by name.
“You and anyone with you. Wounded was okay, so I took the shot when Liam said to.”
“Who’s Liam? Who sent you?” Trevor snapped. The sirens grew louder.
“I don’t k . . .”
Trevor yanked the man’s arm straight. He screamed again.
“Liam sent me. He’s the one I work for. But I don’t know who the big boss is. No one knows.”
“Where were you supposed to take me?”
The man all but buried his face in the wooden floor. “To a dock on the wharf.”
Probably near the area Trevor had originally met Mr. Smith. He had time for one more question. “Do you know why you’re setting bombs in the city?”
“No. I just do what I’m told, don’t I?”
The sirens cut off as at least two police cars reached the church. Time to go.
Trevor rose. “You tell your boss that the next person who comes after me will end up in a body bag.”
He headed back the way he’d come. Leaving the door wide open, he crouched, running through the trees, reaching the fence before any of the cops thought to check the back door. He tried to tamp down his anxiety. Shelby’s phone led them here. It would lead them straight to her.
Levering himself over the fence, he took several precious minutes to scan the area around him. Nothing raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
He would be taking a chance by making a beeline for the hotel, but he did it anyway, settling into a jog that wouldn’t alarm the passersby. Halfway down the block, he saw the Land Rover, illegally parked in front of the hotel.
Shit.
He’d miscalculated. They hadn’t followed him to the church. They’d followed the mobile’s signal to Shelby.
He ignored the elevator and surged up the stairs three at a time, trying to ignore the unfamiliar feeling of panic pushing against his chest. When he reached the third floor, he cracked the fire door, but heard nothing. He risked a quick look. No one stood guard in the hallway. Continuing on silent feet to their room, he saw with a sinking heart that the door was ajar. The room was silent. He placed himself to one side of the door, the sniper’s Springfield out, his finger along the trigger guard.
“Shelby?” he called.
The slight pause felt as though it stretched on for years.
“Yes?” Her voice, at least, seemed calm. That probably meant they hadn’t hurt her. They better not have hurt her.
“How many are in there with you?”
“Two—” He heard the crack of flesh hitting flesh. Her voice cut off with a cry of pain.
“Shut up, bitch.”
He didn’t recognize the voice. “You bastards have exactly one shot at walking out of here in one piece. Let the girl go. Now.”
“You come in with your hands up, or we’ll kill you both.” A different voice this time; the second man.
“Not your orders. Liam said bring me in alive. Let her go, and I’ll come with you.” Would he? Yes, he decided. To protect Shelby.
“I am Liam, you arsehole. An’ I’ll decide who lives or dies.”
A chill swept down his spine. The voices gave him a rough idea where the men were, but entering the room was risky, at best. Shelby could be caught in the crossfire.
Before he could think too much about it, he darted in, low and to the left. In a nanosecond, he registered the scene. One man stood between the beds, holding Shelby in front of him like a shield. The other stood by the window. Trevor shot that one twice in the chest, then turned to the other one.
“Shelby, drop!” he shouted.
She went completely limp. The man, unable to support her dead weight, lost his grip, and Trevor shot him once in the head.
Before the man even hit the ground, he ran to Shelby, kneeling next to her. “Are you hurt?”
The shots had been deafening in the confined space. He ignored the ringing in his ears. Shelby had her hands over hers, wide eyes trained on the dead man inches from her.
“Shelby, look at me. Are you injured?”
She let out a shaky breath and lowered her hands, gaze finally shifting to him. “No.”
“Then we need to hoof it. More might be on their way.” He helped her to her feet, visually checking her over for injuries. Blood smeared her lip where she’d been slapped. “Bastards.”
�
��I’m okay,” she said, voice stronger this time.
“Where’s your phone?”
She handed it over, a question on her face. He popped the battery out and went into the bathroom, dropping both pieces into the toilet. Returning to the room, he searched the two men, scooping up their two handguns and wallets. Stupid of them to carry identification.
“Let’s go.” He grabbed her hold-all, shoved her laptop and the five confiscated handguns inside, and hustled them out the door. He still had the Beretta on him, and the rest he would figure out later.
They went down the stairs and through the fire door into the car park behind the hotel. Holding her hand tightly, Trevor set as fast a pace as he dared, taking her past several maisonettes until they hit a roadway. The parked cars gave him an idea. He started checking them one by one. Once she realized what he was doing, Shelby crossed the street to do the same thing.
“Here’s one,” she called, holding open the door to an older model Ford.
“Brilliant.” He trotted to her side and slid into the driver’s seat. Shelby took the other seat. Reaching under the steering column, he popped the case, exposing the key chamber. “Check the glove box for a screwdriver, would you?”
Shelby opened it and rummaged inside. “No screwdriver, but a box cutter. Will that do?”
“Perfectly.” He took it from her, leaning down so he could see the cluster of wires. He used the box cutter to strip the insulation off the three he needed. Carefully, he connected the ignition wire to the battery, then added the starter. The Ford sputtered to life. Without hesitation, he pulled out onto the street.
“Where are we going?” Shelby asked.
“Anywhere away from here.” Truthfully, he had no idea. He just knew he needed to put a lot of kilometers between themselves and Tower Hamlets. He maneuvered them onto the A12. At Devas Street, he took a left, winding his way through neighborhoods randomly. Eventually, he pointed the bonnet west, heading toward London.
“My phone caused this, didn’t it?” Shelby said. “They found us because Bruce called me.”
“My fault entirely. I forgot I even had the damned thing.”
