London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  “Actually, you do. You don’t have the right identification.”

  “It’s already on the way,” Jack said, his presence destroying the intimacy of their conversation. “Headquarters downloaded your passport photo from the U.S. State Department. We’ll have everything you need in a few hours.

  “You can’t go against me.” Macknight pointed at Jack as though his finger were a trigger.

  “I’m setting up options, boss.” Jack winked at Emma in a show of support.

  Son of a bitch. She made sense, and yet he wanted to punch a wall.

  He finally had to acquiesce, despite every part of his heart telling him to hold her back. “My orders are to rescue your father and Owen. If you insist on doing this, you follow my orders at all times. I’m team leader, and you’re now part of my team.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  This woman made him irrational and made him feel more than he’d ever wanted to feel. “How do you know you’ll even make it out alive? Do you have any idea how your decision affects me? I care about you.”

  She lifted her eyebrows and laughed, not the sympathetic demeanor he’d expected. “Grow some balls, Macknight. You just met me.”

  “There’s something about you. I can’t explain it.”

  Jack coughed. “It’s pathetic.”

  She burst into laughter. “It’s okay, Jack. I get that way around him occasionally, too.”

  “In that case, I’m going to the bar for a nightcap. One hour.” He disappeared before anyone tried to stop him.

  Macknight remained standing, took a chance, and wrapped Emma in his arms. She didn’t push away. In fact, she circled her arms around his neck.

  He angled her head and kissed her lips. She winced but held him close to her. The cut on her lip tasted of blood, and as his tongue rolled over the spot, she moaned. Their kiss was hungry, as though neither of them had eaten in weeks and this was the sweetest dessert. The need to protect and keep safe this beautiful, strong woman warred with everything he’d preached about women standing strong on their own. She was capable in the world at large, but his tiny corner of it had so much violence that even the strongest warriors found themselves up against impossible odds. He brushed his fingers through her hair.

  Love wasn’t something he wanted, and she certainly didn’t need his attachment to her at the moment he was to rip her apart from her father forever, but he couldn’t let her go. Her body curved into him, making him need her more than ever. The emotion flooded his senses.

  The kiss ended with her stepping back from him, leaving too much space between them. His breath caught in his lungs. He wanted all of her.

  She placed her hand on his chest and inhaled deeply. “Stop, I have to focus. I can’t become the lovesick puppy I was when stranded at the training facility or the hospital. Owen and my father are my first priority. Can I have a rain check?”

  She was right. They had to concentrate on a perfect outcome, but missions like this had a way of destroying tomorrows.

  “Name the time and the place.” Although he wanted her right now, on that bed, he had enough self-control, and she was so worth the wait.

  They sat next to each other. His hands rubbed down her back. She was thinner than when he’d first met her at MI6. “You need to eat.”

  “This look is perfect for now. Heroin addict.”

  Always positive. Always tougher than him. She was literally born into this profession.

  There was only one way to succeed, and that was to rescue everyone. If he could take Ross out without killing him, he’d send him into protective custody in the United Kingdom and give Emma back her life.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “I am Nadia Ivanovna, wife of Yakov Borisovich,” Emma told the gatekeeper at the Black Crow prison. Her hair was dark and straggly, and her clothes gave her that five-bucks-for-five-minutes kind of a look. Jack had procured her some jeans one size too small and a shirt cut low enough to grab a guy’s attention for all the wrong reasons. The dark circles under her eyes were real. No makeup necessary. She used her limp to make her look almost drunk, but she tried not to seem too out of it, or they could keep her from visiting Owen.

  The guard, a thirtysomething-year-old guy who liked small talk with his visitors, looked over her paperwork. She had full confidence that everything was official and in order, but she needed to know if her husband was still incarcerated there. She tapped her acrylic nails with the mostly worn off red polish on the counter.

  “Did you take the train here?” he asked in Russian. He didn’t acknowledge Owen at all.

  “I got a ride. A truck driver helped me out, and I helped him right back. I think he got the better deal.” She laughed until she started coughing. One of those hacking coughs that made you step back from the person for fear you’d catch something deadly.

  He made a face. Apparently, she wasn’t his type. He appeared relieved to send her on to the next prison guard, who wasn’t that into her, either. Perhaps being the world’s most unapproachable sleaze was her superpower.

  “Hold up.” The guard picked up his phone and called someone, asking the location of Borisovich.

  The wait for the answer was so long, the tension inside of Emma twisted almost to the point of cramping. She plastered on her indifferent face and kept tapping those nails.

  Finally, he nodded and stamped her papers. “Go in over there.”

  She wasn’t headed to see Owen yet. Instead, she had to endure a woman guard giving her a body cavity search. The guard seemed more run down than Emma felt, although they bonded in a gross way after she manhandled her in places her gynecologist never probed. This was a relationship Emma never, ever wanted to rekindle.

  She arrived in a small chamber with a dirty twin bed and a floor that needed more than a cleaning—it needed an excavation.

  They locked the door behind her, and she sat on the bed staring at her lack of a manicure. She tried to take a few deep breaths, but the stench of dust and mold and some bodily fluids that must be carrying all sort of hazmat dangers made it impossible.

  At least she was in jeans and all her body parts were covered. If they weren’t, she’d have to stand the entire time in this cell to avoid contracting some disease from the past one thousand conjugal visits on the bed.

  About ten minutes later, her husband arrived. She choked up at the sight of him. Tears rushed from her eyes. No acting necessary. Owen was emaciated, like a toothpick with carefully defined muscles. His face was gaunt, and his eyes hollow. His naturally reddish hair stuck up in shoots, and gruesome tattoos covered every part of his skin—skulls and spiders and vines dripping blood.

  She ran over to him, wrapping her arms around him, and feeling the warmth of his returned embrace. She’d known him a short time, but somehow he’d become the brother she’d never realized she needed. Perhaps his importance to her was because he was Macknight’s best friend. A man Macknight would die for without hesitation.

  The guard was staring at them from the door, so they kissed until he locked them inside.

  She pulled back but remained holding him. “You look like shit,” she said in Russian. They couldn’t switch to English. It was too risky.

  He laughed. “The first woman I’ve seen in weeks, and that’s your reaction to me.” He lifted her chin with his finger. “You don’t look so great yourself. Are you okay?”

  “I’m good. I ran into a few thugs. They’re dead now.” Her body tightened at the memory of the boot in her face.

  “Good to hear it.” He kissed her softly on the tip of her nose and stared into her eyes, assessing, examining. Always the operative.

  She squeezed him tighter, and the tears continued to fall. This was the life of an undercover operative. No wonder Macknight had such a tilted idea of reality. It wasn’t just guns and hidden microphones; it was torture and the mind-crushing task of giving up your life and sanity to save someone else, someone the world feels is more important. “I’m so sorry you have to go thro
ugh this.”

  He brushed away her tears with his knuckles. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m a lot stronger than I look. Literally. I spend part of every day in the gym. I’ve worked out more here than I did during all the time I was in the Service.”

  “In that case, you look fantastic.” The corners of her mouth quivered in her attempt at smiling.

  “Had I known I’d be married to you, I would never have left you at Windfield. That would have been a perfect few days.” His body was still in the cell, but it seemed as though his mind had traveled back to the cottage and Grace’s cooking.

  He had no idea that both Windfield and Grace were gone.

  She couldn’t tell him. He needed hope. “You promised me a tour of London, and I intend for you to get me into Buckingham Palace for tea with someone from the royal family,” she said.

  “At your service.”

  They leaned into each other, forehead to forehead and absorbed the human contact.

  “So how am I getting you out of here?” She sat on the bed again, her emotions sucking away her energy.

  He sank down next to her. “No idea. There’ve been a lot of changes around here. Let’s hope the information you have is more practical than mine.”

  “And my father?”

  “I do know a lot about him. I’ve worked my way into his circle. It took me a few tries, but I’ve spoken to him. He’s healthy but more and more isolated. I last saw him three days ago, holding strong. Your father is one ferocious bastard.” He smiled, and the knot that had been in her stomach since he’d disappeared loosened. Dad was alive.

  She’d always seen him as the carefree businessman, but after years of him practicing martial arts and participating in treacherous activities he claimed were simply fun hobbies, she should have seen him for what he really was—a warrior. “He’s here still, right?”

  “I think so, but I can’t promise how long until they move him. Access to him has grown more difficult.”

  Her stomach twisted at the thought. Once he was moved, they might lose him in the system forever. If they didn’t make the transfer correctly, they’d lose Owen as well.

  With the knowledge her father was in this building, she wanted to scream out his name, just to touch him in some way. To let him know she was here and alive and working hard to see him again. But she was better than that. She remained true to her role.

  They spent the next hour catching up and formulating a plan. She was allowed only one visit and then would have to wait six months for another. Everything had to be organized and ready to get them out as soon as possible.

  She hugged him one last time and stood in the room as he was escorted away from her, hooded, with his hands cuffed. Pain speared through her heart. Two men she cared about were relying on her to make the impossible happen. One mistake and they’d be locked away forever.

  When the prison guard escorted her from the visiting room, they stopped outside the prison director’s office. She was led inside. The man was sitting at his desk. At her entrance, he stood and approached her.

  “Welcome, Nadia. I trust your visit went well?” He circled her once and then brushed back a wayward strand of hair from her face. “Sit.”

  She did as he told her.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It had been over two hours, and she wasn’t out. Stories of the treatment of anyone stupid enough to cross through the gate into the prison compound plagued Macknight’s mind.

  He called Derek, who had been informed of the change in plans the night before. He wasn’t happy about it, but he was in an office in London, and Jack was very convincing.

  “We have a problem. Emma’s not out yet,” Macknight said.

  Derek didn’t respond.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Monitoring the communication of the black ops team in the area. A highly trained SBS group specializing in explosives,” Derek answered, then didn’t say another word. The tapping of keys was the only sound.

  “You have access to their communications?”

  “One of our analysts owed me a favor. She knew a back door into the SBS team’s network. Anyway, the team saw Emma enter the prison. They don’t care. They’re moving in at noon.”

  “Noon? Without contacting us? What the hell is that?”

  “They have their own orders. Maslov is in the area. They have to stop him from accessing Ross. I’ll make a few calls and slow them down. You need to get in there and pull everyone out. I can’t hold them off forever.”

  Macknight had always thought his team was invincible, but they were nothing in this game. Just pawns, moved around without regard for whether they lived or died, sacrificed so the politicians and military officers could keep their white-collar positions and their six- and seven-figure salaries.

  Now Emma and Owen were stuck in the prison.

  Jack finally called in. He’d finished modifying the truck to handle the kind of driving they’d be doing. Without Emma as the driver, Jack would have to take her place instead of being the communications and navigation specialist. It was preferable to leave him in the background because of his weaker Russian skills and superior computer skills.

  “How long do we have?” Jack asked.

  “Less than two hours until HQ lets loose the black ops team to destroy the prison.” Macknight grabbed his suit and got dressed as he relayed orders to Jack. “Emma’s not out yet. I need you to come with me. I have to get inside now to find her.”

  “Son of a bitch. If anyone asks me anything, we’re screwed.”

  “Just get here.”

  “This isn’t optimal, but I’m headed to your hotel to pick you up.”

  “Screw optimal. Our beloved military is about to detonate enough explosives at the prison to incinerate Emma, Owen, and Ross. Everything is riding on your ability to do your job, no matter what it entails.” Macknight’s insides had turned into a massive tumor of dread. He couldn’t lose them. “Hurry up. If we’re one minute late, we’re all dead.”

  He transformed into his alter ego, Officer Oleg Sonin, in record time. His appearance better not be too similar to the criminal he’d been a few weeks ago. If someone recognized him, he’d be shot before any questions were asked. He walked to the lobby and waited for his ride.

  Chapter Forty

  Inside the prison director’s office, Emma had waited for a simple seduction. The director would want payment in the form of sexual favors for her ability to leave. Cold shivers shot through her as she waited for the sexual assault to begin.

  He introduced himself as Sergei Yurivich. She remained as quiet as possible, feeling out his needs. She didn’t have too much time. Her father and Owen’s escape depended on her leaving the facility in under an hour.

  If she couldn’t get herself out of here, the whole operation would unravel.

  “How long have you been married?” He stood behind her shoulder, one step out of her view, but close enough for his breathing pattern to affect her own. Heavy intake of air, slow release. In and out.

  “About a year,” she answered with a gravelly voice, her throat suddenly dry as sandpaper.

  “Where have you been staying since he was imprisoned?” His fingers rested on her shoulder. She took in a deep breath to avoid flinching.

  “With friends.” Her fake history included living in Serov, a small mining community in the Ural Mountains. She’d heard the accent once when her father was helping her to learn Russian. Adding the guttural sounds more familiar in that area would help her appear more authentic. Not that it mattered at this point. She was already locked in the bastard’s office. There would be no escape that wasn’t approved by her captor.

  “Do you have a job?” Both hands now pressed into her shoulders.

  “I pick up money here and there.” Which meant she prostituted herself.

  “Was he your dealer?”

  She leaned her head back into him. If she fought, this encounter would turn to rape before she had a chance to think her way out here. �
��He controlled everything for me. I’m a little lost now.”

  She received a shoulder massage for her honesty. Her stomach reacted to the unwanted touch, roiling and churning.

  “Who was his supplier?”

  She hesitated. Macknight had warned her about this. If she was asked any questions about Owen’s past, she had to be specific in her answers.

  “Mogilevich.” She said the name of the most famous drug cartel leader in Russia. He roamed freely while law enforcement ignored him, an untouchable, which hinted at his ties to the Kremlin. Yurivich couldn’t go after him. Not if he wanted to keep his powerful position.

  If Mogilevich learned he’d been pointed out by one of his dealers, forces more powerful than the Russian government would kill the rat.

  Yurivich bent toward her. His lips brushed over her neck. His fingers moved closer together and held her in place, almost in a choking position.

  She’d never trained for this at the police academy. Did operatives learn tactics to deal with such situations, or did they arrive with a natural ability to seduce the most vile men in the world? On the other hand, the police academy did give her the ability to grab his shirt, flip him over the chair, and punch him in the throat. That action would ensure her permanent incarceration or immediate death. There would be no walking out of the prison. Not with several locked doors, a fifteen-foot cement wall, and a barbed wire perimeter. Not to mention nine hundred officers for the seven hundred prisoners and her.

  For a few minutes, she allowed him to paw his way down her shirt, then her college persona took over. She’d handled drunk idiots before in a crowded frat house. She couldn’t exactly call her father back then—he’d have killed them all, asked questions later.