by Leslie Jones
She nodded. “Thank you. For saving my life.”
He glanced over at her. Though her face seemed pale, she sounded calm. “You did great back there.”
She nodded again, then turned to look out the window.
“It’s okay to be scared,” he told her. “You’d have to be every kind of a fool not to be scared when a gun’s pointed at your head.”
“Have you?” she asked, voice small.
“Had a gun pointed at my head? A time or two, yeah.”
She finally turned to look at him. “Were you scared?”
“Natch. Of course I was.”
She let out a long, ragged exhale. “Okay.”
He relaxed marginally when they hit London proper, with its crowds and anonymity. Spotting a Starbucks, he pulled to the side of the road.
“I think we could both use a coffee,” he said. “It’s as good a place as any to catch our breath.”
He grabbed the hold-all and came around to open Shelby’s door. She nodded her thanks. “Won’t someone spot the car?”
“Statistically, probably not. But we’ll leave it here when we go.”
He ushered her inside and set the hold-all on a table in the far back. “I’ll be right back.”
He felt her anxious eyes on him as he went to the counter and ordered two coffees. When he brought them back to the table, he saw that she had opened her laptop.
“We won’t get a second look. People work at Starbucks all the time.” She sipped the too-hot coffee and pursed her lips, sucking in air as the liquid burned its way down her throat. “If we can’t get this mess straightened out, you’ll go to jail and I’ll lose my job, at the very least.”
“We’ll figure it out.” And he would. Somehow. He couldn’t let his rash actions jeopardize her career. He again considered turning himself in.
Above all else, he needed to find Mr. Smith. The puppeteer.
“As soon as we find a place to land, I need to call in to my task force commander. Update him. Although I think he’s already aware of our situation, to some extent.”
“From the news?”
“I’d imagine so. I think he intercepted a Metropolitan Police request for a trace on your mobile. That’s the only explanation I can think of why the Bedlamites found us and the police didn’t.”
“So that’s a positive. Is it safe to log into my personal Gmail account?”
“Safe enough.”
Shelby logged on and scanned through her messages. “I have dozens of emails. Friends, coworkers, and my boss. All asking where I am and if I’m all right.”
“You can’t answer any of them.”
She leveled a look at him, eyes narrowed. “I know that.”
“Sorry.” He drank the coffee, glad for the kick of caffeine. Shelby started deleting the emails, one by one. He discreetly scanned the other patrons and the perimeter.
Shelby made a sound halfway between a laugh and an “Aha!”
“Let’s have it,” he ordered.
She pointed to her email queue. She’d highlighted an email from someone at Cerberus News International. “I have an idea.”
He was already shaking his head. “Do you know what they do? They tout themselves as an independent watchdog news source. They are relentless.”
Shelby swiveled around to look at him. “No, but my friend Lark does background research for news stories at Cerberus. She might be able to help us find your mystery man. Cerberus isn’t far from the UN building I work in. We have lunch occasionally.”
He pointed to the email. “This person wants an exclusive interview? No.”
“Listen to me. I know Lark. She—”
“Shel, my face is all over the news. I can’t go into a newsroom. Particularly Cerberus. Particularly to talk to a reporter, for fuck’s sake.”
“Lark isn’t like that. You’ll see. Anyway, I wasn’t suggesting you go in. Maybe I can invite her for coffee or lunch? You could join us.”
Trevor thought about it for a moment. “Dangerous, but possible. Do you trust her?”
“I do. She and I have worked together on some news pieces. I’ve been her source, she’s been mine. I’ll go in on my own.”
“You have the same problem. You’re no longer a missing person. You’re a person of interest in a domestic terrorism investigation.”
“Do you have a better idea? I’m all ears.”
He hesitated. He didn’t want to put her in any danger, either from the Bedlamites or the cops. Still, they couldn’t stay here for long. “A cafe, then. It’s too risky for you to go inside.”
“All right.”
“Do you want to stay here while I find a shop that sells mobiles?”
Alarm filled her face. “No, I’d rather stay with you.”
“Done. Let’s go, then.”
She packed her laptop and walked with him to the counter. The young woman behind the counter smiled. “More coffee, luv?”
“Thanks, but no,” Shelby said. “Do you have any idea where I might find a phone store nearby?”
“American, are you? Yes, as it happens, there’s a Sainsbury’s a few blocks up. Go out the door to your left, that’s Fleet Street. Head toward Peterborough Court, and it’s right there.”
Shelby thanked the woman, and they went out and turned as instructed. Trevor kept his head on a swivel as they walked, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The convenience store sat right where the woman had said. Trevor took Shelby’s hand as they dashed across the street and pushed through the doors.
“It’s a supermarket,” Shelby said. “Are they going to have cell phones here?”
He chuckled. “They will, and anything else we need, besides.”
In short order, they assembled toothbrushes and toothpaste, razor, soap, shampoo, and changes of clothing for them both. To that pile he added two pay-as-you-go mobiles.
“I think that’ll do for now,” he said. “I don’t want to muck about with too much baggage.”
“I’ll call Lark.”
Chapter Eleven
THE WATERY SUNLIGHT did little to brighten the gloom of the day. The scent of rain hung in the air. Shelby turned left, and they walked for several blocks in silence until they saw the Pret a Manger at the corner.
“Having the taxi drop us away from the coffee shop was a good idea.”
He shared a brief smile with her. “I might have done this a time or two.”
“Well, at least one of us knows what he’s doing.” Her shoulders hunched. “I wish I could see a way out of this mess.”
He did, too.
“Tell me about Lark.”
“Her real name is Hadley Larkspur, of the Nantucket Larkspurs. Off Cape Cod in Massachusetts? Old money. Her parents have no idea what to do with a genius daughter with ADHD. They sent her to the best schools, but she’s brilliant and easily bored. Right now, she’s doing a study abroad, but she’s supplementing her studies by doing research at Cerberus. She says she wants to be in front of the camera, reporting from the front lines, as it were. But her producers won’t even talk to her about it. Not until she becomes more conventional. And I doubt that will happen anytime soon.”
“What do you mean? More conventional?”
She slanted him a sly smile. “You’ll see.”
He let it go. He’d know soon enough.
“We’ve met there in the past. It’s very quiet.”
“How close is it to the Cerberus offices?”
“About three blocks. I don’t know why, but reporters don’t come here.”
Bringing a reporter into this mess seemed risky, but Shelby trusted this Lark. Worse came to worst, he could disable Lark and get himself and Shelby out of there.
Both had changed their appearances before hailing a black cab. Instead of looking like a
career woman, Shelby wore an overlarge, shapeless gray T-shirt, with a sweatshirt tied around her waist. Her sweatpants were baggy and indistinct. She’d scraped her hair up into a cap. With her face scrubbed free of makeup, she looked far younger than her twenty-eight years.
To him, nothing could hide her innate beauty.
He’d chosen baggy wide-legged jeans that sagged around his waist. He then paired a rugby sweatshirt with Timberland work boots, and topped it with a random cap of the Los Angeles Lakers. The look was popular amongst London teens.
He was down to a hundred thirty-some-odd pounds in his wallet, and Shelby had maybe a few quid left from her emergency stash at home.
“I’ll call you when I’ve made contact with Lark,” she said. “Don’t get into any trouble, okay?”
“I’ll do my best. But trouble seems to be following me around of late.”
She screwed up her face into a playful frown. “Well, don’t kill anyone.”
“Right, then. Off you go.”
He faded into a doorway, watching her as she walked down the block carrying the hold-all. The Pret a Manger chain was as ubiquitous in London as Starbucks was in America.
He didn’t like letting her out of his sight even for a moment. Too many things could happen. Left with little choice, though, when she entered the coffee shop, he turned and jogged up the street toward the Cerberus offices.
Let’s see how trustworthy this woman is.
The Cerberus offices crouched within a modern office building sporting a clear glass façade and exposed support beams. Most of the other buildings were older, with shops on the ground floor and offices above. He scrunched into a doorway half a block down, hands in his pockets, trying to look harmless. From here, he had perfect line of sight to the office building’s entrance. The longer he waited, the more likely it was that something would go wrong. Either Jukes would find him, or—
“You there. What are you doing?”
—or the police would.
Trevor looked sideways at the cop in front of him. “Just waiting, aren’t I?” he said. “For my missus to come off work. So we can have a bite.”
“I don’t recognize you, do I, and I’ve been patrolling this patch for three years. Show me your identification.”
None of the Bedlamites had carried ID in their wallets for the museum job. Even his fake ID, which Eric had hidden at the hideout, announced him to be Trevor Willoughby, a man now wanted countrywide. He didn’t answer.
“Sir, your ID.” The cop came a few steps closer.
“My wallet was pinched, wasn’t it? I haven’t gotten my driving license replaced yet.”
The man considered him, hands on his hips, head cocked. “Come with me, then. We’ll get you sorted at the station.”
Trevor grimaced. “My missus will be bleedin’ pissed orf,” he said. “She only gets the half hour for tea break, doesn’t she.”
“I’ve orders to detain anyone suspicious. We’re searching for the men who took hos—”
Trevor saw the exact moment the cop recognized him. A slight flaring of the eyes and nose as he simultaneously reached for his radio and Taser.
Trevor lunged at him, closing his fingers around the man’s wrist so he couldn’t deploy the Taser. One hit with that, and he’d be cuffed before his muscles stopped twitching.
“Forty-eight Charlie Papa. Officer in need of aid—”
A quick punch just under his jaw made the patrolman stagger back. Trevor snatched the radio speaker from his hand. “Belay that. Everything’s fine.”
The radio crackled to life. “Dispatch to all available units. Officer injured. Proceed to . . .”
Bollocks. Trevor tuned out the noise. He hadn’t really expected his ruse to work, but he’d had to try.
The cop tried to deploy the Taser again. Quick as a cat, he spun the beat cop around until his back faced Trevor, twisting the speaker cord around his neck several times to control him. The man’s fingers scrabbled against the wires, trying to clear his airway. Trevor put him into a choke hold, cutting off oxygen to his brain. Seven seconds later, the man slid to the ground, unconscious.
Trevor crouched down to unwind the speaker cord. Fingers pressed to his neck, he verified that the officer’s pulse beat strong and steady. He would wake up in about fifteen seconds; Trevor had to be long gone by then. He walked briskly away from the office building. What would Shelby think when she saw him gone? Probably the worst.
A patrol car, siren wailing, squealed around the corner behind him and slammed to a stop near the beat cop. A motorcycle marked with red and blue checks tore in from a different direction, the police decal prominent. In a matter of seconds, he would be spotted.
Sure enough, the motorcycle revved its engines, making a tight turn and gathering momentum as it sped toward him. He opened the nearest door, ducking inside, and found himself in a bootmaker’s shop. Rows upon rows of brightly colored fashion pumps, ankle boots, and shoes passed in a blur as he headed toward the back of the shop.
“Hiya, lover. Can I help you find anything?” The rather portly woman’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled at him. “A tasty snack like you will want the Jeffery Wests, yeah? I’m thinking the Lundy brogues.”
Trevor forced a chuckle, stopping to rotate in a slow circle. “Those shoes cost near about three hundred quid. What about this costume says I can afford those?”
She winked at him. “Breeding shows, love.”
That gave him an idea. “Right, you caught me. Here’s the thing. I’m trying to avoid my ex. She’s . . . relentless.”
“And yer needing a back way out, am I right?”
“I do.”
The motorcycle jerked to a stop at the curb.
“What makes it worse is she’s a response officer. Motorcycles.” He turned and leveled a resigned look out the window, silently urging the saleswoman to make a decision. “She’s got a grudge on, and reported me in for something or another.”
She followed his look out the window. “Right, then. Straight back are the restocking rooms; don’t go there. Go into the far right corner, where it says the toilets are. There’s a broom closet with a door at the back of it. I share it with my old man’s shop next door. Good luck to ya, lover.”
She gave him a push in the right direction, and Trevor sprinted across the shop. He ducked into the short hall just as the cop jingled open the bootmaker’s entryway. Sure enough, a metal door led him into a duplicate corridor of the next area, which turned out to be a barbershop. Only this hallway also had a rear egress. The security gate had been propped open; a few short steps took Trevor past a trash bin to a narrow lane.
Barely taking the time to look around, he took off. A siren grew strident as it neared. The lane held a hodgepodge of architectural designs from different periods; a typical London street. He hesitated at a brick-and-concrete archway, but the gate was closed and padlocked. The next arch had no fence and led into a short tunnel with—oh, shit—a dome-shaped security camera mounted on the upper left. He turned his head as he ran past it.
A response car rolled into view in the street ahead of him, blue lights flashing. Trevor ducked into a stairwell and slid the six steps down the handrail to the bottom. His hand grasped the solid metal fire door’s handle even before he stopped. Locked. Fuck and double fuck. That meant he’d have to return to the street.
The response car had continued on. Trevor doubled back the way he’d come and raced at top speed across the roadway and into the next lane.
And then he heard the helicopter.
Chapter Twelve
SHELBY TOOK A seat in the back of the coffee shop, dropping her gym bag at her feet.
“Howya, luv?” the blond man behind the counter called. “What can I make you?”
“Just water for now, please. I’m waiting for a friend.”
>
“Lovely. Give me a tick.”
She’d thought it strange when she’d first come to London as an undergraduate that the English found everything to be lovely. Later she realized it was their equivalent to “Okay” or “Got it.”
The blond man brought her a large glass of water. Customers ebbed and flowed. The blond man poured tea, coffee, made sandwiches, and served up pastries. Some sat and ate; most took their food to go. None gave her a second glance.
The wail of police sirens jerked her upright in alarm. She twisted in her seat, trying to determine how close they were. Blocks away, at least. She found herself hoping for a simple fender-bender or bank robbery. Nothing that involved Trevor.
The sounds faded.
Finally, she saw Lark—Hadley Nia Larkspur—power-walking down the sidewalk, clutching an enormous handbag. As usual, she radiated inexhaustible energy. Today, her hair was bright purple, cut into a short, messy pixie cut. Her hair matched her makeup—purple lipstick, a shade lighter than her hair, and purple eye shadow, making her already huge eyes even more dramatic.
Lark saw Shelby and dashed the final few feet, bursting through the door and causing every head to turn in her direction. Rushing over, she enveloped Shelby in a hug and the scent of an expensive perfume.
Shelby returned the younger woman’s hug with genuine affection, hiding her sigh. Lark was anything but subtle.
“Shelby! Fantastic! I was thinking about you this morning. You got my email? How’s tricks?”
Shelby took a deep breath. “Been better, Lark. I need some help.”
Lark dragged a chair out from the table and plopped into it. “Fucking awesome. I was bored with the shit I was doing. So what if that douche wants to run for president? He’s got an icicle’s chance in hell. Tell me what you need.”
A helicopter buzzed overhead and moved away. Shelby rearranged herself in the chair and crossed her legs. “You heard about the hostage crisis at the August Museum?”
“Duh. It’s been all over the news. It’s why I emailed you. I wanted to be the one to find out who this Trevor Willoughby is, but they assigned fucking Trisha to it. Like she can get access to what I can. Simpering little bitch. Got into Danny’s pants. Can’t even hack.”
