by Leslie Jones
From the aerial photographs, Trevor learned that the terrain around the estate was mostly an open expanse of grass. A cluster of some sort of trees abutted the manor house, behind a wall that looked to be at least fifteen to twenty feet high.
“All right,” he finally said, pushing away from the table. “That’s about as much as we can do in the time we have.”
“Time to assemble our toys.”
Simon grinned. “Come with me.”
“Toys?” Lark muttered. Shelby shrugged.
Simon took them to the back of the embassy, through a functional hallway. He stopped at a reinforced metal door with a cipher lock. Punching in the code, he twisted the handle and led them into the armory.
Trevor looked around, hands on his hips. A variety of weapons lined two walls. The third contained flak vests, handcuffs, batons, and riot shields, as well as other tactical equipment. A surgical steel table in the center supported a contraption with continuous tracked wheels and a robot arm. Lark made a beeline for it.
“It’s a bomb robot, isn’t it? I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Don’t touch it.”
Trevor examined the arsenal, moving from the wall-mounted shotguns to the scoped rifles. He stopped in front of the assault rifles. Three Uzis, several Ace carbines, and a sniper rifle.
“Yours?” he asked Simon.
“Yup.”
“Nice.” He ran an admiring finger over the barrel, then chose one of the Uzis and slung it over a shoulder. Moving on to the neatly mounted pistols, he selected two Jericho semiautomatics. “I’ll leave my assortment of crap here, if that’s all right.”
“Good call.” Simon nodded to one corner of the room, where Trevor saw Shelby’s hold-all and Lark’s computer bag. “My weapons are in pristine condition.”
“Knives?”
Simon intercepted Lark’s hand as she reached for a shotgun, gently pulling her away from the wall. “In the case next to the bomb robot.”
Trevor was pleased to see a curved folding knife. He picked it up and flicked it open.
“What’s that?” asked Lark.
He slipped his index finger into the finger guard and flipped it so the blade pointed downward from the bottom of his fist and curved forward. He flipped it out and back several times to get a feel for it, then sliced it through the air in a figure eight, then a spiral. “It’s called a karambit. Good slashing weapon.” He looked to Simon for permission, then pocketed the knife when he nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Any chance you can get your hands on some C4?”
Simon laughed. “Just where do you think you are? Beirut? Gaza? No. No explosives.”
He took one of the carbines and a semiautomatic, then unlocked a standing cabinet. Passing Trevor several boxes of ammunition, he also grabbed extra magazines for them both. Trevor opened the box and started loading the magazines.
Simon added a couple of radios, two flak jackets, and a roll of duct tape to the pile. “Can never be too careful.”
He slipped the flak vest on and tightened it down, then strapped the holsters for the semiautomatics to his thighs. He and Simon looked at one another.
“We’re set.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SIMON TOOK THEM into an area of unused offices. For the rest of the afternoon, he and Trevor practiced. Assault drills, room-clearing drills, and something they called bounding overwatch, which Lark called leapfrogging. They discussed how they would team up to scale the wall, if needs be. Shelby and Lark became, by turns, hostages or bad guys.
It brought home to her just how dangerous the situation was. They might be injured or shot.
They might not come back at all.
For Trevor’s sake, she put on a brave face, keeping Lark by her side as the two soldiers loaded their equipment into Simon’s SUV.
Finally, it was time.
While Simon climbed into the driver’s seat, Trevor came over to where they stood. He hugged Lark.
“I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”
Lark sniffed. “If you die, you’ll suck big fat monkey farts.”
That drew a laugh from him, but his gaze grew somber as he turned to Shelby. She stepped forward into his embrace, and he hugged her so hard it hurt. She didn’t mind. She held him just as tightly. When his mouth found hers, she melted against him. What started as a tender kiss burst into flames as he practically inhaled her. When he pulled back finally, she was breathless and laughing.
“To be continued,” he murmured. “Yes?”
“Definitely yes.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Lark crowed. “I’m glad you two idiots finally got it together.”
Simon tapped his watch. “Time to go.”
Shelby stepped away from the SUV. Trevor gripped the roof as he prepared to swing his body inside. He locked eyes with her.
“Be back soon,” he said.
Simon put the car into gear, and they were gone.
Shelby rubbed her arms, cold despite the mild June weather.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Lark said.
She turned away from the street.
“You’re always starving.”
“We didn’t exactly get lunch. And it’s practically dinnertime. I wonder if there’s a café in this place.”
Their security escort took them inside and to the small café. Shelby grabbed a sandwich, unsure if she would be able to eat a bite. Lark filled her tray with schnitzel, fries, and a salad.
“You need to keep your strength up. You won’t be any good to me if you pass out from hunger.”
Shelby wrinkled her brows. “Good for what?”
Lark put down her fork. “Well, we’re not really going to sit here and do nothing, are we?”
“Of course not,” she scoffed. “But what I have in mind doesn’t require strength.”
“Tell me, tell me.”
Shelby ticked off each priority on a different finger. “One, we get our stuff back. Two, we make sure our car’s where we left it. Poor Dr. Lowenstein. We didn’t return it in time for him to teach his class today. Remind me to send him a note of apology.”
Lark rolled her eyes. “Apology note. Check.”
“And I’m going to call the curator of the clock museum.”
“But Trevor said—”
“I can pull it off,” Shelby said. She hoped she could, anyway. “Trust me.”
Lark gobbled her meal down. “We should escape before they lock us in for the night.”
“They can’t do that. Can they?”
Lark took a huge gulp of her soda, swallowed it wrong, and hacked and coughed to clear her windpipe. “I’m not taking the chance. Let’s go.”
Their security escort waited by the door.
“Excuse me,” Shelby started.
“We’re leaving,” Lark interrupted. “And no one’s going to stop us. Are we going to have a problem here?”
The escort looked at her quizzically. “You’re a guest here, miss. You’re free to leave any time you like.”
“Oh. Well, good.”
Shelby mentally smacked her head. “We had a couple bags with us when we came in. Simon put them in the armory. We’ll need those back.”
“I’ll need to find the armorer, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” he said. He pulled the radio from his hip, keyed the mike, and spoke rapidly in Hebrew. A female voice answered him in the same language. “She’s still in the building, fortunately for you. She’s on her way down.”
“Thank you,” Shelby said. “And a bathroom? Before we go?”
She and Lark ducked into the lavatory. Lark hummed in her stall, while Shelby discovered— “Oh, hell.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I need a tampon.
”
Lark flushed and washed her hands. “I’m on it. I bet someone here can hook you up.”
The proof she wasn’t pregnant relieved her; of course it did. She wasn’t ready for motherhood yet. But the idea of holding a tiny curly-haired infant someday didn’t send her into a panic any more. A baby boy with Trevor’s brown eyes.
“I’m back. Here you go.”
Lark pushed the white-wrapped package under the door, and Shelby took care of her problem rapidly. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. We ready?”
Retrieving their bags turned out to be painless. Their escort carried them to the door, handing them over as the women left. The door closed with finality behind them.
What if she was making a mistake? What if she just made things worse?
“No. No, no, no,” Lark said. “You’re having second thoughts, I can tell.”
Shelby straightened. She’d never gone wrong trusting her gut. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
They crossed to the car. Lark stowed her bag in the back seat and slipped into the driver’s seat before Shelby could say a word. She pulled down the visor. The keys dropped into her hand. Shelby resigned herself to a wild ride and set her gym bag behind her seat. She strapped in.
“Where to, kemosabe?”
“Back toward the August Museum. We have to pick something up we left a few blocks from there.”
While they drove, Shelby looked up the number for the clock museum. “The curator’s name is Larry Upton. Wish me luck.”
She took a deep breath, and dialed.
“Intercontinental Museum of Clocks and Watches. How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Upton, please. It’s rather urgent.”
“Certainly. May I tell him who’s calling?”
Dropping her voice to its most soothing, she said, “My name is Jane Edison.”
“One moment. I’ll transfer you.”
She drummed her fingers on her knee.
Lark asked, “Who’s Jane Edison?”
Shelby covered the cell phone. “My tenth grade social studies teacher. First name that popped into my head.”
Lark made an approving noise.
“Miss Edison? This is Larry Upton. How can I help you?”
“Oh, thank goodness I got you,” she said, voice breathy. “I’m Mr. Whitcomb’s personal assistant. Max Whitcomb? He told me he was heading up your way, but like a silly dolt I forgot to write anything down.”
Mr. Upton’s voice grew amused. “You’re in luck, my dear. Mr. Whitcomb hasn’t yet arrived. He’s not due until six o’clock.”
Shelby felt a wash of relief, and knew it reflected in her voice as she said, “Oh, yes. I do remember now that he said six o’clock. Do you . . . do you suppose we could keep this just between ourselves? I’ve been such a silly, forgetful thing all day.”
“My lips are sealed,” Mr. Upton said. “Good day, Miss Edison.”
“Goodbye.” Shelby sat back. “First hurdle jumped.”
“Liar, liar,” Lark said, admiration in her tone.
She grinned. “I deal with politicians all day. A certain amount of dissembling goes with the job.”
“We’re almost at the August Museum.”
“Pull over up there, on that street.” She pointed in the direction she and Trevor had exited the underground pipe system. “You’ll have to help me with this.”
The manhole cover still sat ajar, as Trevor had left it. Bending down, they tugged and pulled. The cover didn’t budge.
“Try again. Put your back into it,” Shelby urged. This time, they pushed with all their might. The cover shifted half an inch.
“Criminently, Nutsy! How much does this thing weigh?” Lark panted, bent over, hands on her thighs.
Too much, she could have said, if she had any air left in her lungs. She tried peering into the hole, but it was too dark.
“Okay. New plan. Stick your head in there.”
Lark started laughing, but stopped abruptly as she realized Shelby was serious. “No. Hell, no.”
Maybe she could reach inside, feel around . . . she couldn’t find the ladder.
A man stopped beside them. “Do you ladies need help?”
“Yes,” gasped Shelby, pulling her arm out and standing so fast she almost fell over. “I, uh, I . . .”
“Dropped her wallet in there,” Lark said. “Silly rabbit. Can you help us move the cover off?”
The man tried. In the end, it took three volunteers to shift the lid far enough so Shelby could see in. The assault rifle was right where Trevor left it, hanging from one of the ladder rails.
“Thank you,” Lark said. “We can see it now. It’s all good.”
Shelby saw the next problem. “How are we going to get it out without people seeing?”
“Shit—” Lark reached in and grabbed, lifting it out. “It’s a Halloween prop, people,” she called. Pedestrians hurried past, heads turned away. They didn’t want to know whether or not it was a Halloween prop. Shelby grabbed her arm and hustled her back to the car.
“Let’s go, before someone calls the police.”
Once they were safely in the car, Shelby heaved a sigh of relief. She was so not cut out to be a commando. She brought her phone to her ear, hesitating. This next call would be difficult.
“Carswell.”
The clipped tone threw her for a moment. He was in full warrior mode.
“It’s . . . it’s Shelby.”
“What’s wrong?” She knew from his tone she suddenly had his full attention.
She cleared her throat. “Uh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I, um, have news.”
She heard car horns honking in the background. He remained silent, waiting. His silence sounded ominous to her, as though he knew what was coming. That was her guilt talking; or, hell, maybe he had some superpower and already knew what she’d done.
She forced herself to continue. “Max has an appointment with the curator, Larry Upton, at six o’clock this evening. Uh, I guess Dr. Berkowicz was convincing.”
When he finally spoke, her heart sank. “And just how in the bloody hell did you get that information, Shelby?”
“You’re angry,” she said quickly. “I get that. I know you said not to call, but, well, now you know exactly when he’s going to arrive. That’s a good thing, right?”
“You called the museum.”
“Yes, but I was very convinc—”
“You. Called. The. Museum.”
Shelby tightened her grip on the cell phone.
His sigh traveled down the connection. “Did you tell them to evacuate?”
“No! Nothing like that. I pretended to be Max’s assistant and forgot the appointment time. That’s all.”
He didn’t speak.
“Trevor, this is what I do. It’s my job. I convince people of things. To do things and think things. I didn’t put you or Simon in any danger. I swear.”
“It’s a moot point. We’re committed now. Whatever the fallout is, we’ll deal with it.” He blew out a breath. “At least tell me you’re still at the embassy. What’s that I hear in the background?”
“Yes,” she lied. “We’re both safe. That noise is just a vacuum cleaner.”
“That’s a relief, anyway. We’re stuck on the M4. A lorry rolled over, blocking all lanes. We’re at a bloody standstill.”
“Well, that explains the honking I’m hearing.”
She heard Simon curse. “This is taking too long. We’re going to have to backtrack and find an alternate route.”
Trevor said, “We don’t have to get there before him. We just have to get there before he leaves.”
She didn’t know what to say. If they missed this chance, they wouldn’t get another. It just made her all t
he more determined.
“Hey, Shel?” This time his voice was softer.
“Yeah?”
“We make a good team.”
She resumed breathing. “Then I’m forgiven? You’re not mad?”
“You made a judgment call. I’m not mad at you. But—”
But don’t do it again. But listen to me next time. But. . .
“But I am mad about you.”
It took her several moments to process what he’d said. To realize what the words meant. He was mad about her.
“Shel?”
“I . . . I’m here.” She gave a rueful half-laugh. “Buddy, your timing needs serious work. You can’t say something like that without being able to kiss me senseless after.”
His laugh rumbled warmly in her ear. “I’ll do better next time.”
If there was a next time.
“Make sure you do,” she said in a rush. “So I can tell you that I’m . . . I’m mad about you, too. Now go save the day.”
She disconnected. “Lark, find us the nearest Radio Shack. Now.”
“Maplin’s,” Lark corrected absently, already thumbing through a browser window. “Here Maplin is the electronics store. You see I’m ignoring your very private conversation. Not eavesdropping at all. What are we looking for?”
As Shelby explained, a slow smile spread across Lark’s face.
“Fuck, yeah!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DESPITE SOME VERY aggressive driving on Simon’s part, it still took them two and a half hours to backtrack through the snarled traffic and wind their way up the A316 to the M3. Every other driver heading west seemed to have had the same idea.
“Three hours to make an ninety kilometer trip,” Simon groused. “After this, I think I’ll go back to the West Bank so I can take it easy for a while.”
Trevor grinned, but it was mostly a warm glow from the conversation with Shelby settling into his heart. “I’ll take camels and sand any day over pissed-off drivers.”
Simon chuckled unexpectedly. “I’m glad you and the boxer got things sorted. Equally relieved those two stayed behind. They are quite the pair.”
“You have no idea.”
“The biter—Lark—brings chaos wherever she goes, I’m betting.”
