Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  “So we succeeded.”

  He wasn’t willing to go that far, but she seemed to need reassurance, so he nodded. “We’ll find a less obvious way out.”

  They faded back to the wall. With her purple hair, Lark fit in well here. Even Shelby with her blonde pixie cut and revealing dress looked normal in this crowd. It was Trevor, in his suit and tie, who stood out.

  Lark came to the same conclusion, running a critical eye over him. “So much for your disguise. Get rid of the jacket.”

  He slipped out of the expensive Burberry coat.

  “Are you wearing an undershirt?”

  “Erm, yes, actually.” Where was she going with this?

  “Lose the shirt, too.”

  He stripped off his shirt and tie. Lark tugged at his undershirt. He gently removed her hands and pulled it free from his pants. She flipped the tie back over his head and arranged it into some sort of complicated knot. When she was done, she stood back, hands on her hips, looking him over critically.

  “Well, you still look like a dweeb, but it’s better than Uptight Suit was. What do we do now, Hunky Guy?”

  The truth was, he didn’t know. “We’re in a bit of a pickle. None of us have valid identification, and I’m down to about twenty pounds in my wallet. It’s not enough to disappear.”

  Lark frowned. “I didn’t think to grab my purse when the car wrecked.”

  Shelby bit her lip. “We should go to the police. Get this whole mess straightened out.”

  “You should do that,” he agreed immediately. “You and Lark both. Ask for protective custody.”

  Lark blew out an annoyed breath. “And miss this? No way. So what I’m hearing is that we need money? Is that right?”

  “In a nutshell.” Maybe Danby would front him some funds.

  “ ’Kay. I can handle that part.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’m sure I haven’t lost my touch.”

  Trevor just looked at her. Surely, she was not suggesting pickpocketing?

  “Hey,” she said airily, “you’re not the only juvenile delinquent here.”

  “That’s a brave proposal. But might we consider some other options?”

  Lark snorted. “I’ve lived here long enough to know that what you’re really saying is that I’ve got a screw loose and you hate my idea. Fine. Give me a better one.”

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t. Their options were too limited. “The police—­” he started lamely.

  “Will arrest Shelby. And Max is a pretty powerful guy. Do you really think he doesn’t have at least some of England’s finest in his pocket?”

  Shelby put the nail in it. “Pretend you’re on a mission somewhere, and you don’t have the resources you need. Are you really going to tell me you wouldn’t do whatever it took? I’m not thrilled with the idea, either. But what choice do we have?”

  Lark laced her hands together and reversed them, cracking her knuckles. “Excellent. I’ll be back.”

  Before he could stop her, she’d vanished into the crowd. He couldn’t even follow her purple hair, because too many conference attendees also had colorfully dyed hair, both men and women. He sighed. “If she gets caught . . .”

  “She seemed pretty confident.” Now that it was done, Shelby sounded troubled. “What do we do in the meantime?”

  “We wait.”

  “HOW DID THEY find us?” Shelby asked.

  Trevor continued scanning the crowd. “Facial recognition, I’d guess. Jukes will have tied into the traffic camera system. He probably got a hit on me, since they have that double-­damned Facebook pic.”

  “Even worse, now they know about Lark.” Had she dragged her friend into danger?

  “I’m sorry. I’ll get you two out of this, I promise.”

  “We’re not leaving you to fend by yourself,” Shelby said, for what seemed like the thousandth time. “We can—­”

  What was staining his pants leg? And dripping onto the floor?

  “Good God, Trevor. You’re bleeding! Were you shot?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing?” she practically shrieked. “How can it be nothing?”

  He finally turned to look at her. “Keep your voice down. I’ll tend to it in a bit.”

  Don’t freak out, she told herself. Clearly, he could still function so maybe it wasn’t that bad. On the other hand, he’d proven himself to be stubborn when he got an idea into his head, and his sole goal at the moment was to protect Lark and her.

  “We need to find one of those family bathrooms, so I can see how bad it is.”

  Trevor’s grip on the rail tightened. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  Shelby felt like screaming. “You are a stubborn, hardheaded . . . stubborn man! It won’t help us if you pass out from blood loss.”

  Before she could say anything else, Lark materialized next to them. She slipped her hand into Trevor’s. When she disengaged, Trevor turned his back to the balcony at large and counted the bills.

  “Just under five hundred quid,” he said. “You did great. Time to stop.”

  Lark hummed happily. “Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch. I returned the wallets, just so you know. Now what?”

  Trevor pocketed the money. “Now we take the fight to them. Now we stop running, and become the hunters. Max wants me dead. I’ve seen his face. I can connect him to the Philosophy of Bedlam. Be damned that I can’t prove anything. He can’t take the chance. If I publicize what I know, his reputation will suffer, and apparently that’s everything to him.”

  Shelby knew Trevor’s next words were going to be to put Lark and her someplace else until he resolved the matter. “He’s trying to kill us, too. He’s probably assuming you’ve told us about him.”

  He shook his head decisively. “You’re not the targets here. You’re just collateral damage.”

  “Terrific,” Lark groused. “Most fun I’ve had all year, and someone’s trying to kill me because of it. I guess I should be scared, huh?”

  Shelby felt a smile tugging at her lips. Lark sounded anything but scared.

  “We have to go. I need to make contact with that Mossad agent.”

  “So we need to find a back way out of here,” Lark said. “Happens I might know of one.”

  Shelby smiled at the younger woman. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  They followed Lark down the stairs and into another wing of the building. Long lines of patient ­people waited to get into a lecture hall. The line wrapped around the area twice. They eased their way through, ignoring the mutterings of those who thought they were trying to cut into the line. Shelby murmured apologies.

  At the other end, Lark directed them into the back areas of the conference center. They entered a storage area packed with pallets of water and coffee, sodas and teas. A walk-­in refrigerator stored who-­knew-­what. At the other end, a fire door warned that opening it would set off an alarm.

  Trevor studied the door for a few minutes, then took a Leatherman multi-­tool from his front pocket. He followed the line of the door and probed it carefully with what looked like a wire cutter. In moments, he pushed open the door. No alarm sounded. He stepped outside, looking around for long minutes before he allowed them out. They ended up in a delivery alley. Two men pushing dollies were unloading even more pallets of water from a truck. They didn’t even spare so much as a glance at the three.

  “I’ll get us a car,” Lark said. “Want a Jaguar? Oh, sorry, that was thoughtless of me. How about a Ford instead?”

  Trevor just shook his head. “I’ll get us a car. You two wait here.”

  As they waited, Shelby wrapped her arm over Lark’s shoulders and hugged her. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

  “Ha! I jumped in with both feet, remember? You’d’ve sucked if you didn’t go to my apartment. And brought
Hunky Guy, too, so I could meet him. He’s fairly awesome.”

  He was, wasn’t he? Shelby’s thoughts returned to her earlier epiphany. She led a lonely life. Sure, she had friends. She went to functions and the occasional party. But who did she really have in her life to share things with? Trevor had made it clear he wanted more with her. Wanted to see what developed between them. Maybe, just maybe, they could make it work.

  A nondescript white Camry pulled into the alley. Trevor pushed open the passenger door.

  “Get in.”

  He’d removed his tie and wrapped it around his thigh, above the blood soaking his pants. She cast him a worried look. They couldn’t take him to a hospital. The doctors there would report a gunshot wound to the police. Did they have a choice, though?

  “How bad is it?”

  “It’s fine for now.”

  She just shook her head. “Stubborn man.”

  It took them more than an hour to get to their destination. The Metropolitan Police had cordoned off the area using blue-­and-­white police tape and strategically placed vehicles. Even exiting the car and trying on foot, they couldn’t get close. Worse, the Mossad agent was nowhere to be seen. Trevor bit off a curse.

  “He’ll be at the Israeli Embassy,” Shelby said. “He’s certain to work out of it in some sort of capacity. Whatever his cover is. Or maybe the Mossad are different and don’t have covers.”

  “No, you’re right,” Trevor admitted. “I don’t know where it is off the top of my head. We’ll need to stop somewhere.”

  “Easy peasy.” Lark sat up straighter in the back seat. She pulled out her smartphone and brought up a browser window. “It’s at the western edge of London, beyond Hyde Park. On Exeter Street off the B217.”

  The stolen car was equipped with a GPS. Shelby tapped in the address while Trevor drove. He was careful to stay with traffic, she saw. Nothing to draw attention to them.

  Trevor had to drive around the block three times before they found parking. The spot sat about half a block from the embassy. There was nothing to distinguish this building from any other, except for an Israeli flag and a small guardhouse by the front gate. A low fence surrounded the structure.

  “Plenty of surveillance,” Trevor said. “You can bet no one goes in without being vetted.”

  Shelby reached for the door handle. “Do we just go in?”

  Trevor grabbed her hand. “No. We wait for him.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake? We could just go in and ask for him.”

  “Too much surveillance, as I said. One look at me and they’ll call Scotland Yard, then it’s game over. For you, too. Your face is up there right next to mine.”

  “Oh.” She settled back into the seat.

  “I’m hungry,” Lark announced.

  Chapter Twenty-­Two

  IN THE END, Trevor sent Lark down the street to a café to pick up sandwiches and coffee. Stakeouts could be long and boring. It was possible the man they sought had already gone home for the night. It was going on six o’clock, after all. Trevor’s gut said he was still inside, though, dealing with the aftermath of the bombing.

  “I should go with her. Help her carry bags.”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” The point wasn’t open for debate.

  Shelby’s eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together. “Oh, and it’s fine to risk Lark’s life? I don’t think so.”

  His eyes slid her way. “It’s a calculated risk. They may or may not have gotten a good look at Lark. On the other hand, they know good and well what you and I look like.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue, but in the end sat back in a huff.

  Lark strolled up the street, juggling bags and a drink carrier. She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her surroundings, and she came straight to the car. It was his fault, of course, for not giving her instructions. He supposed she could be less discreet, but he couldn’t fathom how. Letting his head thunk against the seat, he briefly closed his eyes.

  She climbed into the back seat, distributing food and coffee. They dug in hungrily. Halfway through his corned beef and pickle, their quarry stepped out a side door. If they’d been at the other end of the street, they would have missed him entirely. Trevor set his food aside.

  “There you are,” Shelby whispered.

  Lark laughed. “He can’t hear you, Shel.”

  The agent walked across the street to the park. He strolled past grass and trees, head down as though he were deep in thought.

  “Will you ladies stay put whilst I speak with him?” Trevor asked, resigned to the chorus of no’s that followed.

  Shelby and Lark jogged after him into the park. He might as well be pulling surveillance with two of the Three Stooges. The agent paused to watch a group of footballers just as one kicked a goal, then continued on. The path curved to the left up ahead. Trevor didn’t hurry. A copse of trees on the right side of the path was where the man would “introduce” himself. For there was no doubt in Trevor’s mind that the agent knew he was being followed.

  There. Those two trees. That’s where the attack would come from.

  He came at Trevor fast, shoving him back against a tree, forearm up and across Trevor’s throat. He let himself go limp so as not to have the wind knocked out of him, leaving his hands loose at his sides. “I need to . . .” Talk to you, he’d intended to say. He didn’t get the chance.

  The Mossad agent clocked Trevor hard in the jaw with a left hook. He increased the pressure against Trevor’s esophagus. A few more ounces, and he could crush it. He landed several hard blows to Trevor’s ribs, and kicked him in the leg very nearly on top of his bullet wound. It would have sent him to one knee but for the pressure on his throat.

  His training kicked in. He slapped the elbow of the arm across his windpipe, pushing it across his body and away from his throat. The agent twisted his body for a cross hit to Trevor’s jaw. He parried it, slipping to the inside of the man’s guard and clocking him in the temple with his elbow. Trevor grabbed the man’s other wrist, controlling it as he shot his left arm up and over the agent’s, wrapping the arm and catching his own wrist to complete the rear hammerlock. Quick as a snake, he hooked his foot behind the other man’s and let himself fall backward, still maintaining the hammerlock. The Mossad agent twisted his body and Trevor lost the ankle hook. As they fell, the Mossad agent rolled forward. Each ended up stretched flat, head to head in the grass.

  Trevor slammed his left palm against the man’s shoulder, spinning himself around and planting himself across the other man’s chest, twisting his arm up behind him.

  “I just want to talk,” he said through gritted teeth.

  The Mossad agent cracked Trevor across the face with a palm strike up under his jaw. It snapped Trevor’s head back. In a lightning move, the agent threw his legs over Trevor’s head, wrenching him sideways. He lost his hold. Both were on their feet in an instant. They faced one another, both lethal, both ready to fight.

  “I need your hel . . .”

  With a banshee cry, a figure threw itself at the agent. At the same moment that Trevor recognized Shelby, the agent turned, already braced to punch her.

  “No!” he shouted.

  At the last second, the Mossad agent checked his strike, instead moving aside as Shelby stabbed her fingers at his eyes. She grabbed him by the shoulders and drove her knee at his groin. He twisted, taking it on his hip. Lark launched herself at his back, an arm wrapped around his neck as she clung to him, yanking his hair and trying to bite his ear.

  “Ow,” the agent said, moving his head away. “Leave off.”

  Trevor rose, ready to tear the man to pieces with his bare hands if he harmed either woman. But the man simply stood, holding Shelby away with one hand on her shoulder and keeping his head away from Lark’s teeth. He looked more puzzled than angry.

 
“You bite me again,” he said to Lark, “and I’ll bite back. Now, get down.”

  Lark slid down till her feet touched ground. The Mossad agent turned so that all three of them were in his line of sight. Shelby glared daggers at him, still trying without success to punch him. The agent began to laugh.

  Keeping his arms out and open to show he had no weapons, Trevor moved to Shelby’s side.

  “Easy, tiger,” he murmured. “You can stop now.”

  Shelby lowered her arms. He was shocked to see her eyes were brimming with tears. “He was hurting you,” she choked out, hiccupping as she tried to catch her breath.

  The Mossad agent let go of her shoulder before Trevor could order him to. He gathered her into his arms, pulling her head to his shoulder as she collected herself.

  “This your backup?” the Mossad agent asked, humor glittering in the depths of his eyes.

  “Apparently so.” Trevor released Shelby, tucking her behind his back. “I need your help.”

  The agent assessed him with cool, intelligent eyes, the humor disappearing as fast as it arrived. “You’re a wanted felon. Why would I possibly help you?”

  Trevor turned to the ladies. “We need to talk alone. Please wait here.”

  Shelby nodded, still looking at the other man distrustfully. Lark pouted, but stayed put as the two men walked farther down the path.

  “It’s unlikely a common anarchist would have your skills,” the Mossad agent admitted. “You’re an operator. Who do you belong to?”

  Someone had to trust the other first. And since it was his picture on the telly as a criminal. . . . “I’m part of a task force trying to stop these maniacs.”

  “Done a bang-­up job so far.”

  He couldn’t argue that.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He looked down at Trevor’s leg. The white-­hot agony of the kick to his wound had faded, but he needed to get the bullet out, and soon. Red seeped over the older, dried blood above his knee. “Why were you at the site of the bombing? Mossad doesn’t investigate crimes.”