London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  “Where are you headed, princess?”

  Her breathing was labored, her body tense. “Let me go.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. It seems you’re friends with the wrong crowd. MI6 wants their traitor back.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I’m not a traitor. Two men are after me. I swear it.”

  He guided her toward his car to grab the handcuffs he stored in the boot. She squirmed but had no room to free herself. He remained in lockstep with her, so they appeared like a couple out for a stroll in the park. Beautiful lawns, lush bushes, and a traitor in his arms. He loosened his grip again, and she wheezed in big breaths of air, her eyes watering.

  “I thought you were headed to Russia,” she said in a feeble voice.

  “My girlfriend walked out on me without giving a reason why. I delayed my trip to talk some sense into her.”

  “You’re delusional if you thought I was your girlfriend. I was a prisoner in a basement.”

  “True. You escaped your prison without any trouble. Impressive. Did your Russian boyfriend help you?”

  “You’re such an ass.” After rolling her eyes, she pointed behind her. “They’re after me, not with me. Two Russian slugs. They killed an innocent woman, all because I didn’t go with them.”

  “I don’t believe you.” His heart strained with each step he took, weighted by a mixed-up train wreck of emotions, some that would help him take her down, some that wanted to shield her from whatever she was involved in.

  She’d admitted the Russians were nearby. But she had no idea he’d seen her walk off with Maslov after murdering the woman. “So where are the evil Russians?”

  “I fought them and escaped.”

  Another pack of lies. How the hell would she get away from Maslov? “You made the right choice to run from them. You saved your father’s life and the lives of other people.”

  “I’m no help to anyone. People keep dying wherever I go.” Tears formed in her eyes but didn’t fall.

  The act didn’t tug at his heartstrings anymore. He saw straight through her performance. “You are a help. As long as you stay out of this, I can complete my assignment. I can’t save your father if I’m worrying about you.”

  She slowed. “Have you found him?”

  “He’s stranded in a hellhole, and if I don’t work quickly, he may never get out.”

  Her gaze shifted from him to the ground as the lines in her forehead deepened. “I screwed up so badly. I practically handed them my location. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  She rubbed her shoulder and winced. “Can you loosen your hold on me?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll go back with you without a fight.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Two men stepped out of a copse of trees in front of them, blocking their path—Maslov followed by one of his goons. Macknight kept one arm around her neck and clasped her other arm to keep her from running to Maslov. He moved them behind a tree and changed his grip so he could pull out a weapon. This was not the showdown he’d wanted with Maslov, but killing him anywhere would be good. Lucy and Grace deserved quick retribution for their murders.

  “What are you doing? Let me go. We have to get out of here.” Emma pulled at his arm.

  “Let her go, and I’ll leave here in peace,” Maslov shouted toward them in English. He shifted behind a large tree and held his gun low by his waist.

  Emma fought to release herself. Macknight held on to her and avoided her swinging arms and legs. He wasn’t letting her go. He’d already let her father live. Ross’s progeny wasn’t going free without paying for her crimes.

  He aimed his gun over her shoulder. “Nice to see you again, Maslov. Your presence here makes it easier to burn a hole in that thick skull of yours.”

  Maslov lifted his gun and aimed back at Macknight. “Let her choose who she will go with. She’ll choose me. Won’t you, kukolka.”

  One more bit of proof of their involvement. What an ass he was for thinking she was interested in him. For the first time he could remember, he’d been played by a woman.

  “Not today. Emma’s dying to remain with me.” Killing her would be difficult, but not impossible if he put his mind to it. Yet seeing the anguished look on her face made him unsure again. Nothing made sense in his world since Lucy had died. “You don’t want me to shoot him, do you?”

  “Are you kidding? Go ahead and kill him.” She attempted to escape his grip again, fear plastered across her face.

  “Russian isn’t very handy in New Hampshire, but if you’ve spent time with Maslov in the past, your fluency would make sense,” he spoke in Russian, the language of murderous liars.

  “You’re an asshole. Leave me alone,” she yelled back at him in English.

  Maslov stared at her, a huge smile lifting on his face. He switched to Russian to speak to her. “Miss Emma Ross. You are full of surprises.”

  “I hate you,” she said to Macknight in English. Her fight faded. She looked back over to Maslov. “I hate you even more. I will never go with you. Ever.” She glared at him as though right now she’d prefer him dead.

  Maslov was moving closer. “Send her over here. Now.”

  The second Russian moved behind them, weapon aimed. His face was bloody, as though he’d been in a fight and lost. Before Macknight could kill him, Emma stepped between them, holding Macknight’s backup weapon, and shot the guy in the chest. Twice. He went down fast.

  Damn it all, she was a pickpocket now, too. A really good one. Then she moved between him and Maslov.

  “Move, Emma,” Macknight growled. He needed Maslov dead, not only to finish this nightmare, but to make up for Grace and Lucy’s deaths.

  “He won’t touch me. I’m worth more alive than dead, but you might be worthless to him.” She stretched out her arms to protect him. Risking her life for someone she claimed to hate.

  Maslov could easily shoot her. And from the malice on his face, he would. Understanding and regret slammed through Macknight. He’d failed her, and despite that, she’d protect him.

  Before Maslov could harm her, Macknight threw her to the ground in front of him and fired at Maslov, hitting him in the arm. He fell back but pulled himself up quickly. Emma jumped to her feet and tried to shoot at him as well, only managing to hinder Macknight’s next shot.

  When Macknight found another chance to fire at Maslov, he was gone.

  Emma clasped her wrist and was bleeding from her forehead, all injuries from Macknight tossing her to safety. “Why don’t you trust me?” she asked, the gun still in her hand. “Did you really think I’d ever betray you?”

  She dropped his gun onto the ground, wiped off her hands, and moved away from him toward the embassy. Blood dripped from her cheek.

  “You’re in danger.” He picked the weapon up and placed it back in his holster, but she’d picked up her pace.

  “I’ve been in danger since the minute I met you,” she called out over her shoulder.

  “I can protect you out here, but once you walk inside those walls, my hands will be tied.” If he’d had the chance, he would have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her away to a safer place than with the CIA. Damn, he wanted to.

  A corps of onlookers and two street officers blocked him from chasing after her. He roared after her, but she was gone. The Metropolitan police raced to Macknight’s side and forced him to the ground. He didn’t fight. The contact with the pavement relieved some of the pain in his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Entering the embassy was for the best, Emma tried to convince herself. Every part of her psyche hurt. She trusted no one, and it seemed no one trusted her, either. A very lonesome place to be.

  She’d seen Macknight arrested, but he’d be out within the hour, with his connections. Maybe someone would beat some sense into him while he was there.

  Not that she gave a damn about him. In her mind, he was dirt. That son of a bitch. He’d thought
she was helping the Russians. Despite all the ridiculous praise everyone heaped upon him, he was incompetent. How did someone come to that conclusion with so few facts?

  It didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, he’d been a lukewarm shoulder when she’d needed one. She didn’t need hand-holding anymore. They had different futures in front of them. He was James Bond. She was a small-town cop from the mountains, more Andy Griffith than anyone who would live in Ian Fleming’s world. And Emma didn’t belong with Macknight. If she never saw him again, her life would be a whole lot better.

  Besides, Maslov was still after her. Her situation required better protection than failed MI6 agents could offer. They had moles in their midst, security leaks, inadequate facilities, and operatives who couldn’t put two plus two together without a calculator.

  The embassy security met her with guns pointed at her heart. They marched her inside, and someone in a military office questioned her. When she mentioned her father worked with MI6, a few of the younger recruits snickered. It did sound ridiculous, but in this situation, the morons couldn’t see the sky through the sunlight. She kept her frustration buried deep and smiled and nodded at appropriate times to ensure that she’d be taken seriously.

  Eventually, she was fingerprinted and handcuffed and sent to a department that seemed to have more authority. They had offices with windows and a somber undercurrent.

  Her first meeting was with a pencil pusher, Paul French. He was young, enthusiastic, and interested in her story.

  “So you escaped from the safe house through a trap door. Unbelievable. You’re lucky to be alive.” Was he being an ass or was he serious? She leaned toward inexperienced.

  “Can you protect me and help my father?” she asked.

  “Let me see what I can do.” He left her alone in his office.

  Despite her handcuffs, she scanned the papers on his desk and looked over his photographs. About twenty-five, not married, liked cycling, his official title was public diplomacy officer. This was not a mover and shaker and not a decision maker.

  When he returned, an older woman came into the office. Jane Something. Within a half an hour, she proved to be as worthless as Paul French.

  After trying to explain an unbelievable situation to a few more members of the office staff, she ended up in the basement. Her knee was swollen from all the running and fighting she’d endured and being tossed onto the ground by Macknight. Her face was bruised from him, too. Fantastic. She’d probably have a scar on her forehead to remember him by. She allowed her anger at his stupidity to move her through the next hour. The betrayal a few years ago by an ex-boyfriend who had neglected to tell her he was married had hurt beyond measure, yet Macknight’s knife in her back proved far more lethal.

  A new interviewer escorted Emma to a conference/interrogation room and removed the cuffs. An icy chill kept her from relaxing. Shock. She sat in a wooden chair and wrapped her arms around her waist to keep the shivering to a minimum. The room they’d placed her in was built for utility. A heavy, oval wooden table. No corners. And the chairs all had soft edges. There was nothing else inside except mirrored glass in the wall for superiors to watch the proceedings. Cool air blew through a small vent in the corner, making her chills worse. For the first hour, she was never offered so much as a glass of water.

  After another hour, they sent out for sandwiches. Her only point of contact was Ms. Harriton, a woman with way too many interpersonal skills. Everything about this woman was designed to make people at ease. After Emma’s training and her time at Windfield, the woman appeared predictable and annoying. Her black suit was off-the-rack at Ann Taylor, and it suited her slender frame perfectly. Although she probably imagined herself as an everywoman, she needed a flaw to be more relatable.

  She was most likely the CIA case officer for the embassy or someone assigned to that department. She asked more detailed questions, with a better understanding of foreign affairs of the clandestine variety. Not that she spilled anything, but she wasn’t that amazing with her poker face. The bureaucrat tried to pull the real story from Emma. As though everything she’d said was a lie. It wasn’t, and the urge to run grew.

  “So Russians are chasing you because your father has the names of Russian spies in the Kremlin, and if they capture you, they can force the names out of your father.” She spoke as though dictating into a transcribing machine. No emotion. Perhaps walking in after a public shootout had been a mistake, and maybe her story about Russians and spies had been too farfetched to believe, but all they had to do was contact Derek Barlow, and he should explain everything to them. If he would. With her out of the way, Derek and the team would be free to focus on saving her father. So maybe this was for the best.

  Eventually, Ms. Harriton’s frequent excuse mes to rush off and confer with someone watching from behind the glass told Emma that her presence had caught the notice of someone higher up. If she was an unwelcome walk-in, she would have ended up in Scotland Yard.

  “I understand this sounds crazy,” Emma said when Ms. Harriton returned.

  “We take every person’s issues seriously. Once we confirm your story, we can make the next move.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ms. Harriton left Emma alone for another hour. One hour to think about Macknight. What a sap she’d been. He hadn’t cared about her—he was trying to figure out her background. He was completely off, but that was his reason for getting close to her. No wonder she’d felt the cool chill of indifference in his kisses at the infirmary. He must have been disgusted to have to pretend to like her.

  This whole adventure was something she needed to close the books on. Her sole concern was to locate her father and find her way back to New Hampshire, although she wasn’t fully confident in receiving help from the U.S. right now.

  Being stuck inside the embassy was almost worse than being stuck in the basement of MI6. At least there, people talked to her. Not here. When another nameless staff person dropped off a cup of coffee and left again, she’d had enough.

  She walked over to the door and tried to open it. Locked. Coming here had been the ultimate in bad ideas. She banged on the door until Ms. Harriton arrived, a half smile plastered on her face.

  Emma kept her foot in the door to hold it open for herself. “I’d like an attorney.”

  Harriton moved back into the room. Her smile strained at the request. “It seems we have a situation. Please come back inside so we can discuss it.”

  Emma hesitated. Something told her to run like hell, but at this point, she’d only make it to the elevator. After all, she was now a murderer. She returned to her chair and sat.

  Harriton remained standing. “I’ve heard from the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. She’s requesting we hold you until someone from her service can pick you up. They have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Her stomach cramped.

  “I’m being placed under arrest?” Emma stood, her height throwing shadows on Ms. Harriton.

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that. Both the Commissioner and C are interested in you.”

  “C?”

  “The chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service.”

  People were fighting over custody of her. It was as though she’d fallen into hell and nothing she did could turn her fate around. “I’d like an attorney present if this is going to be about possible crimes.”

  After Ms. Harriton ignored her request, sat at the table, and began scribbling on a pad of paper, Emma sat again. She was going nowhere with murder charges hanging over her head. What if MI6 didn’t back her claim? She could end up in prison. Her career over before it started. The idea of losing her position to this fiasco broke her composure. She rested her head in her hands and struggled to keep her tears at bay.

  “So Ms. Ross,” Ms. Harriton lifted her eyes from the paper. “We also contacted Mr. Barlow as you requested. It seems they’re more than willing to help you through this situation.”

  “The Russia situation.”


  She shook her head. “The murder charges.”

  Bile rose in Emma’s throat. She wanted to scream. “You don’t believe me. I’m in danger, and so is my father.”

  “It’s not for me to make judgment calls. I’m working within the diplomatic branch, and as of right now, MI6 has trumped Scotland Yard and taken charge of your security.”

  “I’m a U.S. citizen.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It gets tricky when a person has double citizenship, and you’re on U.K. soil.”

  It wasn’t tricky at all. Something was going on in the background, and they were playing fast and loose with official protocol. Once again, Emma was left with no information and everyone around her lying. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Harriton shook her head. “I’m trying to help you. It’s not easy with your stories. How do we know you aren’t using us to get out of the murder charges?” She stood and walked to the door. “I’ll be back when your escort arrives.”

  “My escort?”

  “I told you. We’re transferring your case to MI6.”

  “This is insane. If I walk out the front door of the embassy, my life is in danger.”

  “The Intelligence Service’s car can enter the compound, so there’ll be no public access. They’re the best at what they do.”

  Grace and Ian would disagree. “Tell that to the woman gunned down in the park today. Did they ever catch up to the men?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Exactly. I’m a bit hesitant to trust them again.”

  “I’m afraid they’re going to be your only choice. At this time, we’re not authorized to assist in this operation.”

  “Who hasn’t authorized you?”

  “Langley. Please remain here until your escort arrives.” She shook Emma’s hand. “Good luck, Ms. Ross.”

  So they did go up the chain. And they weren’t interested. This didn’t make sense. Langley liked their fingers in everything.

  Chapter Thirty

  Getting arrested sucked. Macknight couldn’t blame it on anyone but himself. He’d pulled out a handgun and fired it at Maslov like a gunslinger in the Old West. He was arrested as an accessory to murder. Emma had killed Maslov’s goon, but she was now in U.S. custody.