by Leslie Jones
Shelby smothered a laugh. “Well, you also know I was one of the hostages.”
Lark’s eyes became huge. “You’re going to give me the exclusive? That’s freaking awesome! I mean, not for you. But you’re here. Clearly unhurt. So what was it like? Can you describe the terrorists? Are you here to do the interview? ’Cause I’d totally rock the interview.”
She reached into her handbag and yanked out a laptop. As she opened the lid, Shelby saw the custom cover of a three-headed dog with a serpent’s tail wrapped around it. Under the logo, Cerberus’s questioning motto—Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
“Who watches the watchmen?” she murmured.
“Technically, it’s ‘Who will guard the guards themselves?’ ” Lark said. “But whatevs. Okay, I’m ready. Spill!”
“I’m not here for an interview. Not yet, anyway. But I will give you the story when the time comes. Deal?”
Lark’s eyes shimmered with intelligence. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“And I’ll get with the police to do sketches soon. It’s complicated at the moment. It’s just—I can trust you, right?”
Lark sat back with a snort. “Duh.”
Shelby dropped her voice, forcing Lark to lean forward to hear. “The man? Trevor? He’s not one of the anarchists. He was undercover. That’s all I can say, but he’s one of the good guys. And he needs help.”
Lark’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “What kind of help?”
“Someone else is pulling the strings. A mystery man is funding the Philosophy of Bedlam. Find him, and we stop this madness.”
Lark bounced in her chair. “Holy shit holy shit. This is awesome.”
“We have to figure out who he is.”
Lark’s eyes became shrewd. “We?”
Shelby dropped her eyes. “For the moment, yes. We.”
“So who is he? If he’s not a terror—anarchist, who is he? Scotland Yard? Interpol?”
Shelby managed a weak smile. “Would you like to meet him?”
“Hells to the yeah! Get his ass in here.”
Shelby pressed the speed dial that should have connected her to Trevor, but he didn’t pick up. After the third time the call routed straight to an automated system, she dropped the phone onto the table and twined her fingers together, squeezing them to mask her anxiety. Maybe those police sirens she’d heard . . . No. A highly trained SAS soldier would be able to avoid the police. She had to believe that.
“What’s wrong?” Lark asked.
“He’s supposed to be standing by to come in when I say it’s okay. But he’s not answering his cell.”
A small line creased between the younger woman’s brows. “You didn’t trust me?”
Shelby heard the faintly hurt note in her friend’s voice. “Of course I did—did and do. Anyone could recognize me, though. Or him. I promise I’ll give you an exclusive once we get all this figured out. You’d be helping the greater good, Lark.”
“Fuck the greater good,” Lark said, clapping her hands together and rubbing them. “I’ll nail that mystery man’s candy ass to the floor.”
Shelby felt a wash of relief. She knew she could trust Lark. They’d had first a professional relationship, with Shelby providing information required for news stories; and, later, when they’d established a mutual trust, she’d leaked Shelby tidbits as required to advance American interests in her arena.
“Thank you.”
“Ha. Don’t mention it. This could be my big break. Get me in front of the cameras.”
Shelby stretched. She felt sore in places she didn’t even know could be sore. “You still want to be a television reporter?”
“Maybe. But the producer told me I’d have to tone down the look. Don’t know about that part. Where can I contact you?”
Shelby took out her phone. “This is my temporary cell number. I’m not going home. It’s not safe. The cell’s the best way to reach me.”
Lark’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Where are you staying? Do you have a place to stay?”
“Another hotel, probably.”
Lark hefted her handbag and rooted through it. Pulling out a set of keys, she selected one and removed it. “You’re staying with me. I want to meet Hunky Guy.”
Shelby laughed. “Hunky Guy?”
Lark tapped a few keys on her computer and swiveled it toward Shelby. “That’s how his pic got out there. Girl named Chastity69 posted the pic on her Facebook page.”
Shelby leaned forward for a better look. Sure enough, there was the photo she’d seen on TV news, along with the caption, “OMG, he can marry me now. I want to have his babies.”
“Good grief. She must have uploaded it before they confiscated the cell phones.”
“Yeah.” Lark took a business card and scribbled an address on the back. “You go be safe. I’ll spider-crawl through the Philosophy of Bedlam like a motherfucker. If it’s there, I’ll find it.”
Shelby reached over and hugged Lark. “You’re the best.”
Lark grinned. “I know.”
TREVOR WAITED UNTIL the helicopter banked away from him to leave the concealment of the single tree decorating an intersection. One side of the street had been closed off for some sort of road repair. He stayed with the clump of Londoners crossing the street, then peeled off and walked through the narrow opening between the green-covered fence surrounding a construction site. Someone had left a yellow-and-gray safety jacket draped over a pile of bricks; he snagged it as he went by, tossing his cap away as he did so. The trick to evasion was to blend in. He could do little to alter his appearance, but every little bit would help. He shrugged into the safety jacket, then squatted to examine the small backhoe as a red BMW with orange stripes down the sides passed. Even without the blue letters declaring it a police car, he’d recognized the sedan for what it was.
The Armed Response Unit. They’d broken out the big guns to find him. These officers would be armed. They normally participated when a situation required special weapons and tactics, but clearly he was now the subject of a larger manhunt. He felt the first tightening of concern. He’d left Shelby alone too long as it was.
Crossing behind a Salvation Army church, he headed into a residential neighborhood. A long line of unbroken architecture told him he’d made a mistake. One side was connected townhomes. The other was upper-end flats. He couldn’t see any egress other than the far end of the road. Reversing directions, he reentered the construction zone.
The Armed Response Unit sedan revved its engines as it backed up. A blue Mazda swerved into the next lane to avoid it, horn blaring. The cop must have realized construction laborers didn’t work on a Sunday.
Left with little choice, Trevor ran past the Mazda and down the one-way road. The ARU couldn’t back up forever. Trevor turned right past a sandwich shop and a bus stop onto another one-way street. On the left was some sort of school, but the right held some older houses. The rear of the homes backed up to an alley. Trevor didn’t hesitate as he leapt for the top of a slatted gate, slapping his palms on the top and lifting himself up and over.
The usual trash bins, broken crates, and other rubbish littered the alleyway. He stripped off the safety jacket. By now, the ARU would have called for backup. He eyed the end of the alley and rejected it. The odds of another police vehicle cutting him off, or at least spotting him, were high. The best choice was up.
The rain pipe two buildings down looked sturdy enough. He went up it hand over hand, digging in with his toes where possible. When he was close enough, he leapt for the ledge of the roof, threw a leg over, and rolled onto the flat portion near the chimney, keeping his head below the roof line.
He heard no shouts or engine roars that told him he’d been spotted. Good. Keeping a low profile, he maneuvered to the other side of the building, checking several times for police cars. Nothing.<
br />
The gap between this building and the next wasn’t more than ten feet. Backing up to give himself some room, he sprinted to the edge, leaping at the last moment into the air. As he landed, he rolled twice, coming to his feet in a nanosecond. From there, it was child’s play to hop from rooftop to rooftop along the blocks of flats. Flocks of pigeons and sparrows took flight in protest.
He cut as straight a path as he dared back toward the Pret a Manger where he’d left Shelby. The rooftops ended at the next street. Trevor entered the roof door and took the stairs to the ground floor. Exiting into the washed-out daylight, he prepared to jog back to Shelby’s location.
“Freeze!”
Trevor jerked around. He didn’t know who was more shocked, himself or the young beat cop staring at him with round eyes. Of all the confounded luck, to walk straight into what had to be the greenest cop on the force. Who had managed to clear his weapon from its holster and point it at him with shaking hands.
“Since when do beat cops carry firearms?” he asked, surprised.
The question threw the youngster off for half a beat. “Since you, I think. They just got issued this morning.”
“Lucky me.”
The cop took a deep breath. “Down on the ground. Hands behind your head.”
“Look, Junior—”
His eyes got even bigger. “I will not hesitate to fire this weapon. Get down on the ground right now.”
Trevor sighed, dropping to his knees and clasping his hands behind his head. He really didn’t want to hurt the kid.
Who had the sense to keep his Glock 17 trained on him as he pulled handcuffs from his utility belt and cuffed him, one wrist at a time. He patted him down, finding the Beretta and tucking it into his own belt. Helping Trevor to his feet, he walked him the twenty yards or so to his patrol car. Trevor obediently climbed into the back.
The cop had his weapon, but hadn’t done a thorough search. Even with his hands behind his back, Trevor was able to slide his pick tools free. Before the youngster finished calling the dispatcher, voice triumphant, to declare that he’d captured wanted terrorist Trevor Willoughby, he’d already unlocked the cuffs. Three sledgehammer kicks to the door and it popped open, unable to withstand the force of the blows.
The cop cursed, jumping out of the front seat. Trevor popped him twice in the face, then grabbed him, spun him around, and threw him up against the police car. He whipped the cuffs onto the cop’s wrists, closing them tightly.
“Doubt you have my training, Junior, so don’t feel bad about this. I’m going to put you in the back of your car. Your buddies will be here soon enough. I’m sorry, genuinely sorry, if this causes you embarrassment.”
The cop glared at him with one eye. Trevor turned him around, and the cop kicked him. If Trevor hadn’t seen it coming and moved his leg, his knee might have cracked.
“You’re brave, I’ll give you that. Look, believe it or not, I don’t want any trouble. Just . . .” Trevor shook his head, frustrated. “Would it help if I punched you a couple more times, so you look like it was a fight to the death?”
The youngster hung his head. “Yeah, maybe. I’ve only been in the job two weeks.”
“And they let you out on your own? This is their fault, then.” Trevor walloped the kid’s temple right where it would swell and bruise. “All right, into the car. I’m really sorry, mate.”
He closed the vehicle’s door, turned, and ran flat out toward the Pret a Manger. With any luck, Shelby would still be waiting for him.
Chapter Thirteen
HE’D DONE IT again. He’d abandoned her. Left her high and dry. He’d lied about waiting for her. He wasn’t answering his cell phone. He must have decided he would do better on his own.
What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t go home. She needed to talk to the police, but how would she explain her disappearance from the museum without implicating Trevor? Yet if she didn’t, they would assume she was one of them, and her status would change from Person of Interest to Wanted Felon.
For now, she’d go to Lark’s flat. It was only about seven blocks from here. Needing the fresh air and exercise, she hefted the gym bag to her shoulder and started walking.
So what had Trevor decided to do? Go after Eric and the other anarchists alone? As well as he’d been trained, even he couldn’t take on five of them alone.
Walking along the sparsely populated roadways left Shelby feeling exposed. What if someone followed her? What if Crawley found her? Without Trevor to protect her, she didn’t stand a chance against the insanity swimming behind Crawley’s eyes. Wishing now that she’d kept her Beretta, she quickened her step.
Lark lived in a brown brick building fronted by flat faux columns. Vertical windows leading to a tiny balcony were inset between each column. From the sheer number of windows, Shelby guessed the flats were small. The sign over the front door announced the building to be Gorse House. She pushed through into a plain, functional white hallway. Communal postal boxes lined the right wall. The lift, doors already open, beckoned on the left. Shelby darted inside, almost bowling over an elderly lady using a walker.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry. Here, let me hold the door for you.”
The lady nodded her thanks and made her creeping way to a letterbox. Shelby pressed the button for the eighth floor, not relaxing until she found Lark’s front door and closed it behind her.
Lark had installed a deadbolt to supplement the simple lock on the door. Shelby shot it home, then set the gym bag onto the floor. It made an unusual clatter.
It hadn’t been her computer making the noise. Curious, she knelt and zipped it open, moving her clothes aside. Two revolvers and three semiautomatic pistols gleamed up at her. Where had they come from?
She racked her brains. Okay, one of the thugs from the alley near the museum had threatened them with one of the revolvers. Trevor had taken it. The other revolver he’d lifted from Nathan outside of her flat. Liam had threatened her with a gun; Trevor must have taken it. But the others? Where had they come from? For now, she closed the bag and left it by the front door, turning to inspect her surroundings.
Much like the woman herself, Lark’s flat was full of life and color. The door opened into the living room, full of overstuffed chairs with bright pillows, abstract art, and lots of knickknacks. Magazines and several books littered the coffee table. Shelby peeked into the single bedroom. Lark’s bed was unmade, and clothes were strewn all over the bed and floor. The door on the other side of the hall turned out to be the bathroom. Makeup crowded every surface. Nylons hung from the shower rod. The curtain, pulled back, showed SpongeBob and Patrick frolicking underwater.
Hoping the kitchen wasn’t as messy as the rest of the house, she went through the door. Dishes filled the sink, and foodstuffs littered the countertops. Apparently when Lark shopped, she didn’t bother to put the groceries away. Shelby opened the refrigerator, afraid of what she might find. A jar of pickles, mayonnaise, and a plastic container full of grapes that had probably gone bad a month ago.
“Good grief,” she muttered. Lark was a flamboyant character, but a terrible housekeeper.
She jerked as someone knocked on the door, heart thumping. Had the Bedlamites somehow found her? No, that was silly. It was probably a neighbor.
This time, whoever it was pounded on the door. “Shelby!”
She recognized his voice. She ran to the door and almost yanked it open. “Trevor!”
He came inside fast, closing and locking the door behind him. He looked her over from head to foot, then surprised her by pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly.
“All right?” he asked.
She nodded against his chest. “I’m fine.”
His scent enveloped her. God, he smelled good. She’d missed that. She’d missed a lot of things about him; but above all, she regretted having missed the opportunity to develo
p a real relationship with him. It was too late. He no longer had feelings for her. That meant it wouldn’t have worked out between them anyway, didn’t it?
If he felt nothing for her, why did he hold her like he’d been worried? As though he cared?
Don’t read anything into it. She let herself just enjoy the feel of him, disappointed when he released her and stepped back.
“Nothing untoward happened in the Pret a Manger?” he asked.
She swallowed, also stepping back. “No. Lark’s going to help us. How did you find me, anyway?”
He gave the shadow of his usual grin. “I followed you.”
She raised her eyes to his. “You were there?”
“I got back as you were leaving. I wanted to be certain no one else paid you any mind.”
“I told you I trusted Lark.”
“That’s not why I did it.” His look was somber. “Your face is plastered all over the news broadcasts, right next to mine. The cops launched a manhunt for the Bedlamites, but they’re particularly looking for you and me. I didn’t want us to be seen together, not with the coppers so close.”
“They didn’t find you, though, right? You did your SAS ninja thing?”
He chuckled, though it sounded forced to her. “I might have run into one or two.”
She sucked in a breath. “You . . . didn’t hurt them?”
Trevor gave her a disappointed glance and walked into the living room. “You’ve got a high opinion of me, obviously. No, I didn’t hurt them.”
“I-I’m sorry I asked. Of course you wouldn’t if you didn’t have to.”
He seemed to have already put the matter from his mind as he looked around. “Good god. Did a circus explode in here?”
Shelby laughed, a surprised burst of sound. “You’ll understand when you meet her. Lark is . . . unique.”
Trevor checked the rest of the flat, much like Shelby had done. “That’s one way of putting it. Slob is another.”
