“Nicely done, Emma.” Owen lifted his beer to her. “Macknight loves to win with the most pathetic hand possible. Not tonight.”
Macknight finally smiled at her, a huge, dimple-producing smile that sent butterflies straight into her heart.
“Are you kidding me?” Dawson stood and cashed in his chips. “We lost to a set of pairs? Son of a bitch.”
“She outshoots you, and she out-bluffs you.” Ian stood as well, but he was far cheerier in his loss. “She’s your match, Macknight, even more than Lucy was.”
Macknight’s lightheartedness blacked out. The smile fell into something so dark, Emma’s joy evaporated. “You don’t know a bloody thing,” he said. “Lucy was one of a kind. The best of the best.”
The insult bit into her. Obviously, she hadn’t gained Macknight’s respect. Not compared to the woman named Lucy.
So much for an enjoyable evening in captivity. Macknight stormed out of the room, and Dawson and Ian excused themselves from the awkwardness of it all a minute after their heartless leader departed. Only Owen remained.
Emma stared down at her winning hand, with her ego half full from winning and half deflated from Macknight’s outburst. She ignored him and focused on the win. She’d trusted her instincts in the game and caught a break. She could do the same with her father. Listen, learn, and capture all opportunities. Her father would appreciate her having a plan. He’d raised her to look for multiple solutions to every problem. The advice often provided her an edge in the police force and enabled her to move to SWAT at a relatively young age.
“Would it help if I told you he’s been under a lot of stress lately?” Owen remained in his seat, his smile gone, replaced by an overabundance of pity.
So much for not thinking about Macknight. “Does it matter? I’m not at a single’s retreat. This is a kidnapping, and you’ve all been so wonderful to keep me from restraints and a padded cell. What more could I ask for?”
“It’s not a kidnapping. We’re protecting you.”
“What if I preferred to take my chances?”
He reached over and touched her hand.
She yanked it away. “I’m in no mood for your fake sympathy. I understand your job is to distract the prisoner from feeling anxious enough to plan an escape, but you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I’ll be suckered into some artificial friendship based upon a benevolent smile and an Irish brogue.”
He stared at her for a few seconds with his mouth partly open. “You have me all wrong.”
“I’ve known enough guys like you in high school, college, and at the police academy to keep you at arm’s length. Unless you want to be a real friend. Why not hide the games and tell me the truth? Macknight says my father might be dead already, and if he isn’t, they’re waiting to capture me to pressure him to talk. Is that the truth?”
Owen’s facade didn’t collapse immediately, but there was a definite crack in his charisma. She waited. He didn’t seem too put off by the silence. Neither was she.
“Macknight’s right,” he finally admitted. “Which makes it that much more important to protect you, not only for your sake, but his as well.”
“What if you never find him?”
He shrugged. “We could change your name and appearance, and you could carry on with your life.”
“Seriously? That’s your big plan? Witness Protection?”
“Not exactly, but something similar with a lot less oversight.”
“Could I remain in New Hampshire? As a police officer?”
His sympathetic armor reappeared. “No, but I’m sure it would be a decent life just the same.”
“What if I ripped your job, friends, and family from you? You wouldn’t sit idly by as someone destroyed everything you’d worked for.”
“Probably not, but in this case, you don’t have a choice. You’re set up quite comfortably at present, and it would be next to impossible to escape. Besides, you’d find yourself in more of a pickle if you did leave Windfield. A very large pickle.”
“I can help you find him.”
He turned more serious. “Your skill set, as far as I’ve read, is police work. Have you performed international manhunts in the past?”
“No.”
“Worked to expose spy networks?”
“No.”
“Exactly. Which means you’d be in the way.” He stood up and cleared the table. “This isn’t personal. We have a job to do, just like you had assignments that needed completion in your tiny New Hampshire town.” His words stung even if she knew them to be the truth. “Did you ever allow a crime victim to determine the method of investigating the crimes?”
She didn’t answer. It was too obvious. She wasn’t a player in this; she was a pawn.
Keeping herself busy, she assisted in the cleanup, arranging the cards in a single pile and wiping off the table. She didn’t want kiss-ass Owen or mean Owen. She wanted to be alone. “If you’ll excuse me, I need some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“See you in the morning.” His easy smile returned, probably convinced that she’d stand down.
“Perhaps,” she said and glanced to the window and then the door.
His smile fell enough to give her some satisfaction.
Chapter Sixteen
Macknight walked through the cool night to escape from his complete overreaction to Ian’s comment.
Dawson, always in search of gossip from outside the camp, caught up with him near the guard house. “I’m sorry I didn’t know about Lucy. Big loss to the team. She was a great woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“Do you know who set the detonation?” he asked, walking in step with Macknight. He didn’t have the clearance to learn about the meeting or anything the team did outside these walls.
“I’m not really in the mood to speak about this right now.” He turned away toward the garage.
“Sure.” Dawson’s presence faded into the background.
The one person who could always get him through the darkest times was Lucy. She’d flop beside him on the couch with her legs tucked under her and proceed to go over how important he was to the team…to her. He often believed her. But this time, he hadn’t seen through Ross, and someone died because of it. It was unforgivable.
A sliver of the moon provided enough light to guide him through a part of the trail that circled the property. He inspected the perimeter again, noting three more locations that needed improvements he had missed on his prior walkabout with Emma. His relationship with Lucy had never screwed up his judgment, yet Emma’s presence shifted his attention away from important matters. The Ross family was great at messing with his mind. For the sake of the mission, he had to get away from her.
He slipped back into the cottage and ran into her in the kitchen with a cup of tea. She stood up as he entered, poised to bolt.
He wanted her to leave, wanted to keep his mind on his overall mission, but as she reached the door, he called out, “Please, wait one moment.”
“I’m pretty tired.” Her movements slowed then stopped. When she turned back to him, the humiliation from his uncontrolled tirade at the end of the poker game flickered over her expression with annoyance and anger.
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It had nothing to do with you.”
“It’s no bother. I’m an assignment. You have no other obligation to me.”
Yet he did owe her an explanation of his outburst. “Lucy’s my teammate.” He looked over her shoulder, out the window, over the hills, to the clouds where Lucy had to be sitting, watching over him. That’s what she’d always done best. “She was my teammate with Owen. One of my best friends. She died a few days ago.”
The stiffness in Emma’s posture softened, and she stepped closer. “A few days ago? I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not quite over it.” He tried to smile, but the loss still stung.
“How could you be over someone’s death in like three days? That would make you an emotionless j
erk. You don’t have to be sorry. It’s been decades, and I’m not over my mother’s death. Damn, I feel like an ass.” Emma placed a tentative hand on his arm. The touch broke through the stone wall he’d placed between himself and most everyone around him.
“After everything we’ve put you through, you have the right to be annoyed, especially when I make it seem like you aren’t as amazing as you are. I’ve never met anyone who could have handled this situation with such strength.”
She rolled her eyes at the compliment. “I couldn’t imagine losing someone so close and continuing to work mere days after. Honestly, I’ve never been that close to anyone.” She paused, her hand dropping to her side. “Except my father.”
She’d experienced the same amount of loss on the same day in the same location, except she hadn’t caused it, and she wasn’t a witness to the destruction.
“We’d been together for almost six years,” he continued. “She was more than a coworker, more like a sister, my conscience.”
“Why didn’t they give you time off? You must hate being stuck with me when her loss is still so fresh.” She remained a breath away from him, her companionship grounding him when he should be running away.
“Work tends to consume our lives. It’s been nice having you around to give me something else to think about.”
“Glad I could help.” Like a sunset after a hurricane, her presence calmed much of the torment that had been twisting through him in the days since Lucy had died. Yet there was still a storm swirling around, and he had to focus.
“What did she look like?” she asked.
He sighed, the need to talk about Lucy overwhelming. “A blonde bombshell. Brilliant at reading people, very capable in the field, and a hard-ass who expected me to perform ten times my best on every mission.”
“She sounds pretty damn cool.” She stared up at him, the most beautiful, bright eyes, all focused on him. Having Emma understand Lucy in even the most remote way meant more than he realized.
“She was one of a kind.” Sort of like Emma, although Emma was more serious, less overtly sexual, a bit more of a mystery. Both could kick the ass of most men who bothered them.
“And you were never attracted to her? That sounds unbelievable.”
There was a deep emotional connection between him and Lucy, but nothing that smoldered. Nothing that sent him into a hunger he could never satisfy. Lucy cleared his head, made him better at his job. Emma had the opposite effect.
“Men and women can work together without falling for one another.”
“I know that. It’s just the way you speak of her. I can feel the connection and sense the loss.” It was in those words that he found himself ensnared. Her awareness, her understanding.
“What’s unbelievable is that I’m attracted to anyone. I’m not the most sensitive person you’ll ever meet.” Never had been. Yet she remained close to him, her hand within reach.
She swallowed hard. “You were a bit bearish when we met.”
“I used to have better manners before everything blew up.” His thoughts jumbled, sending him second-guessing his objectives.
“Maybe a few days at the cottage will ease your spirit.” She sighed. A breathy sigh that offered so much more than he could handle.
“Perhaps.” One step closer and he could take her in his arms, which broke all kinds of boundaries. She needed protection, not someone draining her compassion for his own benefit.
“Well then, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning?” She took a small step back, out of easy reach.
He could finally breathe fully. “Sleep well, Emma.”
It was approaching midnight when he entered his bedroom. The silence provided plenty of space for his thoughts to torment him, until Owen barged inside while he was undressing.
“I’m going to sleep.” He tossed his jeans over the chair in the corner.
“You should apologize to Emma.”
“I did. I’m also planning on leaving in the morning. You can watch over her. You’re good at this sort of thing.”
“Coward. What are you scared of?”
“Her presence is messing with my brain. Can’t you feel it?”
“She’s intuitive, I’ll give her that, but she needs us, even if she doesn’t agree with our decisions.”
Macknight sat on the edge of his bed, exhausted, wide awake, and in need of a shot of hard liquor. He didn’t want to feel anything. Not sorrow for Lucy, anger at Ross, or care for Emma. “Why didn’t we quit this career when we were all alive and able to leave?”
“Because we’re making a difference.”
“One traitor and someone dies.” He spit out the words. “I should have been more focused on Ross.”
“Do you really believe he betrayed us after all these years?”
His father had, Ross wasn’t anything more special. “Why else did he leave?”
“He’d finished linking Panin up with Lucy. Why would he have stayed? Maybe he was kidnapped.”
He sent himself back to Belarus and the warning Ross gave him in the bathroom. Something wasn’t right. Why would he say that if he’d been planning to bomb them?
“He didn’t trust Panin,” Macknight said to Owen.
Owen’s brows rose. “When did he say that?”
“Inside when I met with him.” And instead of focusing on his warning, Macknight ignored it and carried on with the plan.
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
The rush of failure hit into him as hard as the blast had been. “I was too busy with a barmaid.”
“Not your fault. Who would expect an ambush in a public meeting place?”
They sat together, the crush of memories playing out different scenarios, different motives, different outcomes.
He’d been so focused on Ross as a traitor, that he’d disregarded all the signals he’d given before the bomb detonated. “I ignored his warning. Then I accused him of being a traitor.”
Owen shook his head. “Get over it already. He didn’t tell you to abort the mission, just to be cautious with Panin. We have to move forward and take the facts as they are now. We need to find Ross.”
Macknight had already thought this through. “If we find him, there’s only one solution. Ross has to die. If the Kremlin is on to him, they won’t stop until they have every name from him. Emma’s life will be permanently in the balance.”
Owen stood and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I wish it didn’t have to come down to this, but I agree.”
“Thanks.”
He tried to sleep, but his mind circled around his failures, waking him up at uneven intervals. He forced himself to remain in bed until seven to give his body some rest. A lack of sleep was doing things to his thought process, and he needed a clear head.
When he arrived in the kitchen, Owen and Emma already had coffee in their mugs and toast on their plates.
“You’re bloody wrong,” Owen said with a bit of a prickle in his voice. “Without the back line, Chelsea wouldn’t have had a chance in the game. Giroud couldn’t get a goal if the goalkeeper up and died on the field.”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t need to score with both Morata on the field and the defense holding off Liverpool. The only reason the Reds won was with a wrongly called penalty kick.”
When they noticed Macknight, they went quiet and stared at him as though he’d interrupted an intelligence briefing.
“Morning,” he said, pouring himself some coffee.
Emma greeted him with a smile; Owen, however, was preoccupied.
“Can you believe she’s a Chelsea fan? Clearly America has destroyed some of her brain cells,” Owen said, full on attacking her.
“They’ll land at the top of the league before long. I’m positive,” she stated with conviction.
“Think what you want, but you’re wrong.” Owen’s usual flirtatious demeanor was replaced by an argumentative attitude and not an ounce of deference for their guest.
They both paused to
eat and breathe while Macknight wandered around rummaging up something to eat for himself. He needed an entire pot of coffee and some eggs. Lots of eggs.
When he sat down to eat, he added his love for Liverpool to the conversation, and Emma defended her beloved Chelsea with an extensive array of statistics as ammunition.
“It seems I’m outnumbered.” Emma stood up and placed her dishes in the sink.
Owen remained seated, not offering to help, but continued badgering her about her weak choice.
“Say what you want, you’ll be eating crow at the next match.”
“If I can get tickets, we should go. Macknight, too. Although I’m not sitting next to you if you’re in the wrong gear.” He headed out the door.
She smiled at him. “That would be fun.”
One night at poker and some coffee and Owen and Emma were best friends. Her relaxed demeanor might keep her satisfied to remain at Windfield and out of the way of their operation. The thought eased some of Macknight’s guilt.
Alone with her, the mood of the room shifted. “I thought you might like to go back to the gun range. You owe me a rematch.”
She leaned against the counter. “What weapons?”
“Ladies’ choice.”
She grinned. “In that case, lead on.”
His desire to pull her away from the rest of the staff at the cottage had contained more selfish reasons than any that would benefit the Crown.
Once back at the range, she chose the Glock, and he picked up the Sig Sauer. She easily outshot him. Her focus was solid and so was her ability to block out distractions. She then asked to switch guns. So they did.
He wasn’t a fan of Glocks, for the sole reason they didn’t fit his hand as well as a Sig. He’d also learned to shoot with a gun similar to a Sig and preferred the grip. She outshot him again with his own gun, although he was more focused on watching her technique and her absolute concentration than on his own shooting.
The afternoon had turned sunny, which added some playfulness into the air. Blue skies did that to most situations. Emma seemed more relaxed, too. She had the kind of complexion that didn’t change color with her moods. No slight blush or reddened expression gave away her emotions, but her body language more than made up for it.
London Calling Page 9
