London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  He continued hiking over the land as he waited. Would she have a clue how to help him?

  “There are three entrances,” she said when she came back.

  Three? Emma could be at any of them. “Which one is closest to me?”

  “Do you see an orchard?” she asked.

  He looked around. A clump of about seven or eight fruit trees stood on a hillside about a kilometer away. “I see it.”

  “There’s an opening on the far side of the orchard, away from the road.”

  “Okay. I’ll check it out.”

  He hurried to the location the operator had described. He couldn’t see anything. He hiked farther past the orchard until he found a small opening in the hillside. A cave.

  When he arrived at the opening, Emma’s limp body, covered in blood, stretched partway out into the rain. He raced to her.

  Please let her be alive.

  He knelt by her side, touching her neck for signs of life. Her skin was warm to his touch, her heartbeat solid. He relaxed until she jerked awake.

  Her eyes opened in a flash, and she shifted her position. The pain was both visible and twisted within high-pitched moans as she struggled to regain consciousness. Her body was covered in dampness and blood. Her face was bruised and bloodied. She was awake on sheer tenacity alone. Her eyes flamed, darting to him, beyond him, and back toward the darkness.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “Macknight?”

  “I’m here.” He held her in his arms, trying to provide some warmth to her cold, limp body.

  “They attacked us. Russians.” She squinted through the rain toward him. “Dawson was working with them. Talking to the leader in Russian. Told them to take me. He’s—he’s a traitor.” Her voice faded again.

  “I know.” He needed her safe. The sight of her hurt gutted him beyond reason. He brushed her hair back from her face. “Are you okay?”

  All bloodied and scraped up, she nodded her head in the affirmative. “It’s just my knee.”

  Her prior words circled back at him and nearly knocked him out. He held his breath for a moment to try to calm himself. She heard Dawson speak Russian and understood what he’d said.

  “Is your face in pain?” he asked in Russian.

  She shook her head. “Just scratches. I’m fine,” she responded fluently in the same language. Her hands shook inside his, and her back stiffened as though shot through with pain.

  “It’s going to be okay. I’ll get you out of here.” His lips pressed to her forehead, his body warming hers. Nothing was as it seemed. She could be dying, he could lose her, and yet he wanted to shake her back into a waking consciousness to ask a million questions.

  He held her tight, trying to provide comfort and support. Tears fell from her eyes as her body writhed and trembled. Her eyes closed, and she sank into his arms, listless and cold. He pulled out his phone to call for help, all while never letting her go.

  Chapter Twenty

  The trauma from Windfield had knocked the spirit out of Emma. Her body couldn’t move, her mind couldn’t think. She just existed for a while, part in this world, part far away in New Hampshire, a place so peaceful her dreams sent her there to recuperate from all the blood and violence.

  She woke in what was most likely a hospital room. The place was sterile enough. Pale blue walls and a bed with railings to keep her from falling to the floor. No television mounted on the wall, to her disappointment.

  The room didn’t scream comfort and healing. It felt like another roadblock in finding her father. The lack of windows provided no sense of security. No place felt safe anymore.

  A shadow fell across her bed. Macknight. She’d dreamed of him, too, but not like this. In her dreams, he was a guardian angel, half god, half red-blooded man. In the reality of her confinement, the angel stood in her doorway, dressed in black, and his gorgeous long hair trimmed to almost nothing. Half demon, half human. She blinked.

  His face was bruised, and his eyes narrowed as though he’d been to hell and was still blinded by the flames. Tattoos crawled over his arms in strange patterns mixed with swords and dragons. Something sinister in black ink peeked out of his collar.

  He walked into the room, his face in his permafrown. Never asking to enter. Never saying hi.

  “What happened to you?” she asked. A vague image of him somewhere in the rain appeared in the deepest corner of her memory.

  He sat on the edge of her bed, avoiding her wrapped leg. “I had another assignment.”

  “Another assignment? You look like you were recruited for the Hells Angels.”

  He grinned, not all the way, but enough to make her feel a little more comfortable.

  “I shouldn’t have left you,” he said, as stoic as a priest confessing his sins. “I’m sorry about everything. I let my guard down. I had a gut feeling the facility had been compromised, but I ignored it. I screwed up, and everyone suffered.”

  The apology took her off guard. Law enforcement rarely second-guessed their decisions, especially out in the open. It was too risky, a verbal implication of their failure. Yet here he was with a huge I’m sorry. His words kept her silent, staring at him, wondering if he was there for business or to help her heal.

  As she was contemplating why he was pouring his heart out to her, his eyes scanned her injuries. “How are you doing?”

  “Good.”

  He shook his head. “Bullshit. Your leg is a mess, and your face has so many bruises across your cheeks and forehead it looks like you lost a round to a prizefighter.”

  “Physically, I could be doing better, but I could be a lot worse, too. I’m counting my blessings. What about you? You still haven’t told me where you’d gone.”

  “You’re not entitled to classified information. But if you want to know, I had to fit in with some assholes.”

  “You must have fit in perfectly.”

  Another half grin. “Yeah. What about the rest of you? Mentally. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Can I tell you in a few weeks? Because I’ve never experienced so many bullets flying over my head and men dying within feet of me. It was a nightmare. The smoke and fire and all the people screaming orders and hollering at each other. I’m glad you weren’t there.”

  And she was. Which didn’t make sense, because he seemed so capable. Maybe he could have saved Ian. Or he could have been killed as well. That thought ate away at her ability to breathe, as did the death of the men around her. It stabbed at her conscience, making her feel guilty for being alive.

  He remained silent for a few moments. She closed her eyes and absorbed some of the warmth he’d brought into the room. She was alive, he was alive, and her father, as far as she knew, was alive. Yet the threats could follow her. They’d attacked a safe house. They could get to her here, too.

  “Is Grace okay?” she asked.

  He delayed his answer a fraction of a second too long. Images of the battlefield flashed back over her. She tightened her arms into her chest, bracing for something.

  “Grace…” He shook his head and swallowed hard. His eyes focused on his hands, away from her scrutiny. “By the time I arrived, it was too late to save her.”

  Dead.

  The news struck her with a pain so deep, she choked.

  The sweetest person she’d ever met. A woman who had grabbed a rifle to protect a virtual stranger. Her loss hit Emma almost as hard as losing her mother years ago.

  Tears flooded her eyes, a fragile dam that weakened with more and more bad news.

  Macknight continued to stare at his hands, his expression shuttered. She didn’t have the ability to hide such profound sorrow. Her body shook uncontrollably. She gripped the blanket on the bed.

  “She saved my life.” More tears cascaded across her face. “She killed one of the men threatening me and pushed me into the escape hatch. I wouldn’t be here without her.”

  He nodded, his eyes never meeting hers. “That was her job. She understood the risk.�
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  “It was Dawson. He had to be a mole or something.”

  Macknight must have known, because there was zero surprise in his expression. “Dawson screwed us all. I wonder if there aren’t other secrets he sold over the years.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” she spit the words out. “He was a monster if he betrayed the people who trusted him. He pushed me straight into the helicopter, but some creepy guy with a scar on his forehead shot him in the head. I didn’t understand why. If they were together, why kill an ally?”

  “There are no allies in this business.” His answer was so cold, she almost shifted away from him.

  “What about Fleming?” she asked, trying to change the conversation, unsure if she was moving into calmer waters or another storm.

  “She’s staying at my flat. A little bruised, but she’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Good.” She took a long breath, trying to pull her emotions back inside of her. “I should have pulled Grace inside the cupboard with me. What about the others? I saw soldiers knocked to the ground and…Ian. He was trying to save my life, too.”

  His bloodied body wouldn’t leave her mind. He’d never play chess with her again. He’d never sit in the guard tower. He’d never live. Shaking, she covered her face with her hands, trying to squeeze out the misery.

  Macknight placed his fingers under her chin and turned her head, making her drop her hands and look at him. His eyes were wide and ice blue, his entire being a loaded crossbow, so tense it could explode with a touch. “They were all doing their job.”

  “Toby?” She had to know, but feared the answer.

  “He’s fine.”

  She wiped away the tears, ignoring his attempt at comfort. He was a trained intelligence officer. His emotions were at his beck and call.

  “They were after me,” she said. “Everyone died because of me. You were right. I have a target on me.”

  As she spoke, his thumbs pressed into her shoulders, relieving the tension there. Her body craved his touch. Or maybe she was craving the touch of anyone who could hold away her nightmares. Her brain circled around the dead. They weren’t leaving her. They’d haunt her for a long time. Macknight couldn’t protect her from them. He couldn’t protect her from anything. He was a stranger who had admittedly screwed up her life, and now he was offering her sympathy. She wanted him so badly, and yet this miserable situation was hers alone to escape.

  “The fact that you’re alive means everything.” He pressed his cheek next to hers, so softly she could feel the heat of his skin, yet no pressure on her wounds. “You were meant to survive.”

  For a moment, she relaxed. There were still monsters outside these walls and her father to find, but for now, she absorbed some comfort from the man with the angry-looking tattoos next to her.

  His lips touched hers, melting away some of the emptiness that had lodged in her stomach. The care he took to avoid hurting her made the kiss sweeter, yet more intimate, more intense. Grief didn’t hurt quite so much in his arms. His touch enticed her back from hell and closer to the sunshine, although storm clouds lingered offscreen. She wasn’t sure whether her life would be a happy-ever-after or end in tragedy. But right now, she was okay in Macknight’s arms.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By Friday of the following week, Macknight and Jack had worked with Derek to examine every problem, every solution missed, and every option available to rescue Ross and Owen. Exhausted, Macknight sat at a conference table with Jack and Derek in Vauxhall Cross.

  “Windfield is being scrubbed by the army. Once the guard towers and barracks are taken down, it’ll be placed for sale.” Derek tapped on his computer, unable to comprehend how deeply the loss affected Macknight and Jack. Bureaucratic bullshit.

  “What about the Russians that were captured or killed?” Jack asked.

  “The whole incident didn’t exist. If word gets out to the press, it would be a nightmare. We’ll hold the men prisoner until the Russians want to make a swap. It happens about once a year.”

  “No memorials for the Brits who died?” Macknight asked.

  Derek shook his head. “Too risky. We’ll add their names to the memorial in the basement.”

  The weight of Grace and Ian’s memories lost in a bureaucratic crypt dragged Macknight’s mood further underground. He’d always hated the darkest parts of his job, but these past few weeks had wrecked his faith in all the workings of the Secret Intelligence Service.

  In addition, he couldn’t get Emma out of his head. She’d somehow hijacked his thoughts, embedding her presence in everything he did. He tried to treat her as if she were another assignment, but his attraction to her overrode everything. The best he could do was dial back the affection he wanted to shower over her.

  “Macknight, are you listening?” Derek asked.

  “No. Whatever you said was probably unrelated to Owen’s rescue. Until I hear a solid plan from you, I don’t give a shit what comes out of your mouth.”

  “I said we don’t have clear access into the prison at this point,” said Derek, conveying wariness that wasn’t deserved. Maybe when he held the hand of a dying teammate, he’d toughen up and understand how complex this job could be.

  “That’s because we don’t have the right leverage against the guard.” Macknight was as sure as he could be.

  “We have to proceed carefully. If we blow his cover, he could take out Owen.”

  Derek was right, but Macknight wasn’t in the mood to agree with him. “This entire operation should have been planned and activated days ago. The longer we wait, the more risk of Ross being coerced into handing over information while Owen’s life is teetering on a Russian blackmailer’s greed.”

  “We have a plan. You need more patience.” Derek shook his head, doubt adding lines to the area around his eyes.

  “My supply of patience was depleted when Owen didn’t return home with me.” Failing his team had been worse than failing his family. With age and experience, he was more than capable of protecting them. He couldn’t shake the image of Windfield as a battle scene. All he’d had to do was be more vigilant, and Grace would be alive. All he’d had to do was keep Ross safe during the lunch with the asset in Belarus, and Lucy would be back at the flat preparing for her next sex-for-spying operation.

  As the black clouds circling his head dissipated, he returned to his current problems—Owen’s incarceration and the possibility of Ross exposing the Russian assets assisting MI6 from the inside.

  Jack pulled out a large map of the Black Crow with the estimated cell locations of Owen and Ross. “Our best bet to getting the guard to work with us again is bribery. As much money as we can legally offer him. He’ll fold.”

  Macknight shook his head. “If this guy won’t cooperate, we should stick a knife between his closest family member’s shoulder blades. If he thinks we’re not above destroying everyone important to him, he’ll lie, cheat, and steal before letting Owen out.”

  Jack stared at Macknight as if he’d told the room he wanted to drop a nuclear bomb on the country. Derek fiddled with his pen and wrote something down.

  “When this task is done, you need time off,” Derek said. “Owen had warned me about you falling apart, but I didn’t realize how far off-kilter you’re getting. Focus on your task or remove yourself from the mission. I won’t have everything going to crap because you’re becoming unhinged.”

  “I’m fine.” He placed both hands on the conference table and tried to look relaxed. It wasn’t working. The strain in the back of his neck needed a serious massage to pull out the tension, but even that would be worthless until Owen was free and Macknight understood Ross’s history.

  Someone knocked on the door, and Lord Hanson strolled in, never waiting for a response. A pompous ass who had life-and-death authority over every operative in three sections, he strode to the head of the table, his face unreadable, his manner always top-notch and authoritative. He sat down and unbuttoned his suit coat. Some young assistant fo
llowed behind and handed him a few files and a cup of black coffee in a proper teacup with a matching saucer instead of a mug.

  “That will be all, George.” Hanson waved the man away with a flick of his fingers.

  The guy, probably a recent graduate from university, turned back to the door but glanced over his shoulder as though waiting for someone to invite him to stay. Everyone ignored him. When the door closed, Hanson asked for an update, and Derek outlined the logistics for pulling Owen out using the security guard.

  While the guard worked to obtain Owen’s release documents, Macknight would enter the prison with GRU credentials to move Ross to a new location. If MI6 analysts could access a database of Russian personnel, they could alter the information to include Macknight’s phony employee history, tricking anyone who wanted to confirm his identity. Jack would wait outside with a truck to transport them to a waiting helicopter.

  As detailed a plan as it was, there were still too many holes in the mission—Jack’s weakness speaking Russian, the danger of Macknight being recognized by someone inside the prison. They’d be lucky to get out alive. But it was a plan. Owen was Macknight’s priority.

  Hanson nodded. “Sounds like you did your homework. Impressive. But let’s keep it simple. I want Ross. Owen Knox’s release is secondary.” He gave Macknight one of his famous down the nose glares. “If you screw up, I’ll bomb the entire bloody prison to protect my assets in the Kremlin.”

  The air drained from Macknight’s lungs. Blowing the prison would kill everyone inside. But he wasn’t losing Owen. He’d save his ass if he had to pull apart the prison stone by stone.

  Derek pointed his pen in Hanson’s direction like the barrel of a gun. “It would be easier to move Ross with the phony GRU escort. Give us a chance to take him out alive and rescue Owen. He’s a fantastic resource that HQ would regret losing.” Derek glanced over the plans they’d finished minutes ago and tossed his pen onto the table.

  Hanson shook his head. “Ross has to be terminated. He’s too much of a risk.”

  His ruthless decision made Macknight even more curious about Ross. “What do you know about Ross being in prison before?”