London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  Two small cars parked on the road behind the buildings blocked half the area. A few bystanders and two firefighters stared up at the smoke coming from the window. The back escape was also blocked by fire.

  “Over there, by the window,” one of the bystanders yelled out in Spanish.

  “Looks like a female about her size,” Trinity responded. “I don’t see how she can make it out. Even the firefighters are backing off the entrances.”

  Macknight mumbled under his breath. She was alive. His task was to keep her that way. He spoke into his earpiece. “Owen, are you close by?”

  “Out front. Jack’s set up a block away. What do you need?”

  “I need a ladder in the back of the building. The one on the firetruck should do.”

  “As good as done.”

  A fire ladder should reach up high enough to allow her to drop into the basket. She’d be fine if they could get it there before the fire pushed her from the building.

  The window opened, and smoke billowed out into the night air. Emma, tied up in some sort of cloth rope, worked her way onto the ledge, holding a gun in her hand. The smoke must be strangling her. She coughed, and then her focus latched on to something across the street behind them.

  When she saw him, her expression wasn’t one of relief. She pointed past several parked cars and yelled out, “Get down.”

  Both he and Trinity hit the ground as a bullet roared past them from opposite the building. The sound pulled him from his concern for Emma and thrust him straight into fight mode. She’d found Maslov. Before he could stand, Trinity was already racing toward the source of the shot. Macknight remained closer to Emma, who was still on the ledge and shooting several rounds toward the area where Trinity had gone. Another bullet roared past his ear, pulverizing the white stucco into a powdery cloud. Before he could react away from the sound, Emma was falling. Her body slammed into the side of the building. An array of jackets tied together kept her from hitting the pavement. She hung down from her handmade rope about fifteen feet from the ground. Yet, she wasn’t fighting as she had been before. Her body swung through the night air like a dead weight. The sight of her wrested his judgment and almost sent his knees buckling to the ground. He fought to gain his balance.

  He whirled around to find the source of the gunshot. Trinity was already across the street and beyond his sight.

  A firetruck drove past him, angling into the narrow street but unable to reach directly under Emma. Fire climbed over the windowsill and ignited the twisted clothes holding Emma above the street below. Macknight raced over to her. All he could do was stare up at her lifeless body and pray for a miracle.

  Two firefighters maneuvered the ladder toward her. Owen was with them, no uniform, no official designation, but ordering them around in Spanish as if he were the fire captain.

  “Get the bucket under her in case the rope breaks,” Macknight said in Spanish as well.

  “We’ll try, but it may not be long enough. They’ve radioed in for assistance.”

  Owen, wearing no protective gear except for a full-face respirator attached to a small tank on a vest, climbed up the ladder with one of the firefighters. The bucket moved toward Emma but was unable to stretch the final ten feet to her position.

  Macknight stood under her as heat fanned across his skin. Emma had to be feeling the intensity. Her head drooped to the left, and the rope dug in under her arms as her legs dangled under her.

  He shifted back and forth, trying to anticipate her fall. The rope snapped apart. As her body plunged to Earth, her arms flailed, and she let out a shriek. The sound was a symphony to Macknight’s ears. She was alive. Very much alive.

  He leaned back, with one leg behind him to brace for impact. She dropped fast. Her body struck him hard in the chest before his arms snaked around and clasped her as tight as he could before they both collapsed to the ground.

  The back of his head hit first.

  Then everything went black.

  …

  He woke on a stretcher inside an ambulance. “Where’s Emma?”

  A hand touched his. She was behind him on another stretcher.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Better than you.” Her head was bandaged, and his hurt like hell.

  “I thought you were shot?”

  “I slipped off the ledge and hit the back of my head on the building. Not exactly circus material.” She smiled, and the most beautiful expression crossed her face. One that told him she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. “How are you doing?”

  “You’re heavier than I thought.” He squeezed her hand.

  “I’m glad I didn’t take my suitcase with me. You’d have been a goner.”

  Trinity appeared at the door of the ambulance. Her hair was disheveled, and her shirt was ripped. Jack followed her in pleated white pants and a bright blue golf shirt like he’d arrived by yacht and was looking for a bite to eat, a perfect contrast to her gritty appearance.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Macknight asked Trinity.

  “She kicked some GRU ass,” Owen said. “Took out one of the operatives and chased another right into the arms of the local police. HQ is sending someone to take him in.”

  “What about Maslov?”

  Trinity sat at the edge of her stretcher. “Emma handled him. I’m not sure how she hit him directly in the head while standing on a ledge surrounded by smoke, but damn. She can be my wingman any day.”

  Emma let out a deep breath and closed her eyes a moment. “He’s dead?”

  “Hard to survive the loss of your frontal cortex.”

  “Thanks for taking the rest of them out of commission.” Emma glanced between the team members. “How did you find me?”

  Jack’s expression revealed more mischief than remorse. “I put a tracking device in your suitcase.”

  “And you all came to my defense, even after I ran away. Even after I stole Owen’s rifle.”

  Owen pointed his finger right in her face, his mug full of feigned anger. “You ever touch my weapons without my permission, you will regret it.”

  Macknight tried to sit up. “Did you just threaten her?”

  Owen pushed him back onto the stretcher. “She was using one of your PPKs as well. How do you think she hit Maslov?”

  Emma shrugged. “It was under the bed, and I know you have another somewhere. I would have sent everything back once I’d finished using them. Although the rifle is probably melted at this point.”

  She glanced over to the smoldering fire.

  Owen frowned. “I’ll miss her. She was weighted perfectly. You owe me, Yankee.”

  Macknight squeezed Emma’s hand. “If Owen continues to be an ass, I might have an open sniper position available in the near future.”

  The police arrived, and everyone told the same story about meeting here on vacation. HQ could handle the rest. Macknight had what he’d come for.

  Emma.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Back at the London flat, Emma and Macknight locked themselves in Macknight’s bedroom and played doctor. Literally. Her head still hurt from smacking it on the wall, but Macknight cleaned the wound and provided enough pain medicine to keep her pain-free but not sleepy. His head required stitches, and he treated it as a mosquito bite. As exhaustion knocked them both out, Emma curled up, spooned inside his arms. The position was the most comfortable for him, since the back of his head couldn’t touch the pillow.

  He stroked his hand down her waist and over her hip, landing at that highly sensitive spot at her tail bone. His arms held on to her as though he’d never let her go. After the past few days, his strength gave her a sense of peace she couldn’t find on her own. She kissed his shoulder and sighed. The future was so unknown that all she could do for once was focus on the present. A present that involved lying next to the person she loved.

  He kissed above her ear, away from her injury. “Don’t ever get out of this bed. I may tie you up if I ever have to leave again.”<
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  “I’m not going anywhere. I have no place to go.”

  “I’m not sure if I have any place to go, either.”

  “They can’t fire you. You saved me.”

  “You weren’t my assignment, love.”

  “Then we’ll be unemployed together.”

  She twisted around and kissed him, sending rose petals and butterflies swirling through her insides. She allowed herself to fully absorb this hot Scottish man’s heat.

  A knock on their door woke her from her dream state.

  “Go away,” Macknight called out.

  “Derek wants us at HQ in an hour.” It was Jack. “We’re to be interrogated for our part in the Roses Inferno.”

  “Bloody hell. Tell him to come here. I’m injured.”

  The door opened, and Trinity walked in. So much for privacy. “Get up, Romeo. This is important. I don’t have my car paid off yet and need a few more checks.”

  “I’m injured,” he said again.

  Trinity didn’t respond. Instead, she threw an apple at Emma’s head. Emma reached out to grab it, but Macknight caught it before it posed a threat. He took a bite out of it and groaned.

  “You’re not that injured,” Trinity said. “Come on.”

  Emma laughed and sat up. A tank top covered her from the waist up. She wasn’t losing the blanket, though. “Go. I promise I’ll be here when you return.”

  He sat up next to her and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as though no one stood in the doorway. They continued until the footsteps faded, and they could enjoy a few moments together.

  When the team was gone, Emma threw on flannel pants and curled up on the living room couch to read. She hated being unemployed, and she didn’t want that fate for the team. They deserved their jobs and even more for sacrificing everything for her.

  At about eleven that night, someone knocked. Fleming barked and strode over to the door. Emma followed. She looked through the peephole. A tall, older man in a black suit stood waiting as though he were being inconvenienced. His intensity matched the perfection of the cut of his suit. Nothing on him was common.

  She paused. She wouldn’t let in a stranger, not into the team’s flat.

  When she glanced at the stranger a second time, his nose was crinkled, and he was holding his forehead, as though he had a headache. He appeared stubborn. He’d probably remain there all night if she didn’t answer.

  “Can I help you?” she called out.

  “Miss Ross, might you let me in?” he asked with a formal British accent.

  “Not until you tell me who you are.”

  “Lord Hanson. Lord Jeffrey Hanson.”

  The mysterious Lord Hanson? The head of their unit?

  Her breathing halted, and she choked for a moment until the anticipation of what he had to say jump-started her lungs. “You don’t have to open the door, but what I’d like to say to you should probably be a bit more secure.”

  She opened the door, unsure of how she should greet him.

  “Miss Ross. A pleasure to meet you in person.” He put out his hand, and she shook it. Something about him seemed honest, but not kind—as bureaucratic as a man could become without turning to stone.

  He was posh and put together, and she was an array of colors and fabrics based upon comfort alone.

  “Would you like tea or something?” She had no idea how to treat a lord, especially one who looked like he was lowering himself merely by standing in her presence.

  “No, thank you.” He pointed to a chair at the dining room table, and she sat as he took the chair across from her. His posture seemed straight from a finishing school. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  He nodded, his lips pinched together. “I heard about your efforts in Russia to save not only your father, but also a member of my team. And you took on Maslov singlehandedly.”

  “My chasing Maslov caused a block to burn in a small town in Spain.”

  “It all worked out. Without Maslov, we’re all safer. Thank you.”

  “Macknight and his team did the heavy lifting. They aren’t in trouble, are they? If it weren’t for them, the whole operation would have ended pretty badly.”

  “After the Black Crow, they consider you part of their team. Although I’m not in favor of abandoning assignments in favor of pet projects, I understand their reasoning. Not that they won’t be written up and placed on probation, but they’ll survive to recruit new assets in the future.”

  His statement took some of the overwhelming guilt off her shoulders. If they lost their jobs, she would never have been able to forgive herself. “Thank you.”

  He tapped his hands together, watching her for an uncomfortable moment. “Seeing your father die must have been a devastating shock. Not many people can carry on after such a trauma. You, however, seem to thrive in tragedy.”

  “I would have done anything for my father.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry for his loss.”

  She shrugged, trying to keep that dark cloud from smothering her. Her father’s death was a serrated blade through her heart, but no amount of sympathy or pity would bring him back.

  Hanson’s eyes seemed to track every movement of her face. After decades as an intelligence officer, and then running a group of them, he could probably detect her thoughts without her saying a word. She tried to hide the torment inside of her, thinking about a day at the park, only to be thrust back into her memory of Maslov aiming a gun at Macknight near the U.S. embassy. Blood would always stain her memories.

  “Do you know when I first met you?” he asked.

  She stared into his eyes. There was nothing about him she recognized. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “We have. You were three years old. I was visiting your parents.”

  “You knew my mother?”

  As Hanson nodded, his heavy features softened a bit. “She was one of my best operatives.”

  “She worked for MI6?”

  “In Moscow. For years as Elena Mikhailov. When her cover was blown, they wouldn’t let her out of the country. At the time, there were a lot of restrictions on Brits going across the border, so we recruited a young foolish student who had landed in a Russian prison on drug charges. We negotiated his release and earned his allegiance. Your father. He risked his life to bring your mother out of the country through Finland. It was the stuff of legend. They fell in love, married, and had a daughter.”

  Emma rubbed her naked ring finger, missing the one connection she’d had to her mother. There was so much she didn’t know. “How did she die?”

  “Your father hadn’t been honest with us. He’d already been approached by Russian Intelligence when we contacted him. They wouldn’t allow his release unless he offered to work for them. He accepted, then became a double agent who eventually turned on them and helped the U.K. In retaliation, they murdered your mother. You had to have been a very young child.”

  “I was six. Maslov told me he’d been the one to kill her.” The idea of Maslov stealing her mother from her cut deeply. No wonder her father ran away. He was protecting her. “Thank you for telling me about her. It explains a lot about my childhood.”

  “The Service owes your family a good deal.”

  “I don’t need anything, except to go back to work.” She stood and went to the refrigerator to give herself a moment away from him. “I’m getting some orange juice. Would you like anything?”

  “A glass of orange juice would be fine. Thank you.”

  She poured them each a glass and returned to the table.

  “We’d like you to work in British Intelligence,” he said as she sat down.

  She choked on her juice. “As an operative?”

  “We need more recruits like you. Desperately.”

  He wanted to recruit her. They had a ton of recruits.

  “Why me?”

  “You’re fluent in Spanish and Russian. Your firearms skills are outstanding. You have the rig
ht temperament, which allows you to sacrifice yourself for a bigger cause. That’s an impossible trait to learn. You either have it, or you don’t. Your training isn’t polished, but you’re far more capable than you give yourself credit for.” He motioned to her outfit. “You’re also American. You can move in and out of that world. We have projects everywhere that require different personas. You could blend into many environments.”

  At present, she had few other options. This could be amazing, or it could be a prison sentence. Would she be with Macknight, or would they place her two continents away from him? “I’d need to see the deal on paper. What am I being offered in salary, benefits, and training? I can’t make a decision based on a conversation.”

  For the first time, a true smile emerged on his otherwise serious face. “I’ll send over the documents in the morning.”

  It wasn’t like she was signing up for anything right now. She could look at what he offered before making a decision. “Okay. I’ll consider it.”

  Hanson stood up. His smile changed, hinting that he was amused by a private joke she wasn’t in on. “Perfect. It’s settled.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Six months later

  The flight took too long and the traffic into London crawled, but Emma finally arrived at the flat. She’d completed her training as a British Intelligence officer. She smiled, remembering the annoyance of others in her class that an American beat them out for the top spot.

  Her one free week between training for MI6 and starting her new position had been spent trying to sell her old home and packing up her past. Most of her father’s things she’d donated to charity. Before leaving her house for the last time, she rushed into the bathroom and vomited out the rest of her sorrow.

  She was now a woman without a home, without a family. Her past was lost in lies, her present wasn’t in her hands, and her future contained only questions. The only thing she knew was that she’d been sent back to the unit her father had worked with. Not that she had much choice in her assignment. Hanson had selected her, and the only way to turn down the assignment was to quit the SIS.