by N. J. Croft
Tomorrow he had his weekly scheduled call with Michaela. He’d forwarded her the information on the suspected German attack. Even with his warning to Peter, they’d been too late to prevent it from happening. And it had been bad, with a death toll in the thousands and long-term repercussions that could last for years. By poisoning the water, the victims were totally random—men, women, children, old and young. All religions. No group had claimed responsibility. Tomorrow, he would let her know his theories on why it had happened. Germany, fearing more attacks, had immediately committed to attending the terrorism summit. Noah suspected that had been the goal.
The summit either needed to be canceled or the security increased.
He’d removed the children from school a week early. Jenny had taken them to their grandparents to stay, together with their bodyguards. He’d had to talk to Eve’s mother about that—she hadn’t been happy. She’d had a lot of questions, none of which he had answers to. It wasn’t ideal, and he hoped he was overreacting, but he would function better if he knew they were safe.
Harper also wasn’t happy. She hadn’t spoken a word to him when he’d seen them off that morning. And Lucy had cried and asked him if he was going to Heaven like Mommy. He’d said he doubted it, but he didn’t think the words had put her mind at rest. At least they would be on familiar ground with people they knew. And hopefully safe from any threat, real or imagined.
He was running through the empty city streets. Until he’d gotten to the bottom of whatever was going on, he would be safer driving, but part of him wanted whomever it was to come after him. To draw them out. To discover what was really going on.
As he turned a corner, it looked like he’d gotten his wish. His heart rate kicked up while his mind went crystal clear. The black SUV from the previous morning was parked at the edge of the road, the lights off and the engine dead. Noah looked around. He was in a quiet industrial street, the shops and businesses closed at this hour. No one was in sight.
Not changing his pace, he reached behind him, wrapped his fingers around the pistol in the back of his running shorts, and drew it slowly, letting it hang down at his side.
He waited for the engine to start up. Nothing. Up ahead, an alley led off the main road, and he headed down there and turned, pressed up against the wall, hidden in the shadows.
His gaze searched for any sign of movement, his stomach tingling, his muscles tightening. There was nothing from the vehicle, and the streets remained quiet.
After a couple of long minutes, he stepped out of the alley. He approached the SUV cautiously, his fingers tight around the pistol, expecting the doors to open at any moment. Nothing happened. He stopped just to the side and listened. There was no sound from inside the SUV. Had it been abandoned?
He reached for the door. It wasn’t locked, and he opened it slowly, then faster as something pushed it from the inside.
Noah stepped back, raised the pistol, aimed it—
As the door widened, someone fell from the driver’s seat to the pavement and lay face up, eyes open but seeing nothing. Noah waited a moment, and when nothing moved, he shifted closer and leaned down to peer into the vehicle. A second body slumped in the passenger seat, forehead resting on the console in front of him. The sharp metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils. Noah reached out a hand and checked the man’s pulse. There was none, but his skin was warm to the touch. He hadn’t been dead for long.
He turned his attention to the body at his feet.
The male was dressed in black, which didn’t show the blood that must have drained from the bullet wound in the center of his forehead. There was zero point in checking for a pulse. While Noah didn’t recognize the man, he had a feeling he’d seen him some place before. Hunkering down, he checked the pockets for ID, but there was nothing. Big surprise.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit 9-1-1, then realized he wasn’t in the States, cleared the call, and pressed 9-9-9.
“This is the 9-9-9 operator. Which service do you require: ambulance, fire, police, or coast guard?”
“Police.”
He waited, searching the area for any sign of movement. Everything was still. A light went on in an upstairs window then went out again a few seconds later.
“Metropolitan Police. Can you tell me the nature of your emergency?”
“I’m at a murder scene. Two dead bodies. Close to the junction of Haverstock Hill and Eton Road.”
“Are you in any immediate danger, sir?”
How the hell was he supposed to know that? Probably. “There’s no sign of anyone.”
“Don’t leave the scene of the crime, but if there is somewhere out of sight you can wait, then do so. We’ll be with you in ten minutes. Stay on the line, sir.”
“Okay. The bodies are with a black SUV, license number SE72 WKL, parked close to a church—” He glanced at the sign in front of the building. The place was floodlit. “Hampstead Seventh-Day Adventist.”
“I know it.”
“I’m going to wait in the alley on the opposite side of the road.”
“You’ll hear the sirens.”
He could already hear them in the distance. Lights were going on up and down the road.
“Can you tell me a little about the murder? Do you know the names of the victims?”
“I’ve never seen them before in my life,” he said. “I was running and came across the vehicle.” He decided not to mention seeing the same vehicle yesterday morning.
“Running…as in jogging?”
“Yes.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes. I was on my way home.”
He looked around; the sirens were getting closer. Time to move to his bolt hole. As he stepped away from the vehicle, something shifted on the edge of his vision. Instinctively, he lunged to the side as gunfire shattered the relative silence of the street. A bullet caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around, and he slammed into the vehicle, his phone dropping from his hand and crashing to the ground. He could hear the man on the other end. “Sir? Sir?”
Gritting his teeth, he peered at his shoulder. It was a bloody mess. He couldn’t feel anything yet. That would come. And if he didn’t get out of here soon, he’d likely go under from blood loss. It was streaming down his arm.
The shot had come from the other side of the road, an alley opposite where he’d taken cover earlier. His phone lay on the road. He’d have to leave the cover of the vehicle to pick it up, and right now that didn’t seem like a good idea.
The sirens sounded so close now. Unfortunately, not close enough, and he was virtually out in the open for anyone to pick off. Another bullet hammered into the side of the vehicle. He had to get out of there.
At least he’d lost his phone and not his gun.
The pain was coming now, sharp and immediate, but he could deal with pain, zone it out. He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and planned his route. Over the small wall and into the church grounds. He studied the area for a moment, searching for the source of the floodlight. Then back at the alley, as a tall figure stepped out of the shadows. He wore dark clothing and some sort of mask over his face. Both arms were extended, a pistol in each hand.
Noah’s gut clenched. Time to go.
He raised the Glock and shot toward the figure. Three shots. He just had the one magazine, so every bullet had to count. The figure ducked back into the alley, and Noah moved, spinning around, raising the pistol, and shooting out the floodlight. In the dim light, he dived for the wall and over. Fire streaked down his shoulder as he hit the ground, and he swallowed the scream. Then he was on his feet, the pistol still gripped in his hand, blood streaming down his arm. He ran, keeping close to the wall of the building until it ended and he was into the graveyard at the rear. He raced for the cover of a tall white angel with outstretched wings. Leaning back against the stone, he caught his breat
h then peered around. Bullets sent chips of marble flying through the air. The shooter was already in the graveyard. Or was there more than one? Noah sent out a couple of shots and then he was running again. He dived for the cover of a tomb and crouched, breathing hard. Lights danced in front of his eyes. He was losing too much blood, but he appeared to have lost his pursuer. He was heading in the opposite direction. Noah just needed to make his way back to the road where the police were no doubt already at the scene of the murder. Except the majority of police in London were not armed. Would his hunter balk at killing the police?
It was a risk he’d have to take. He wasn’t going to last much longer; blackness edged his vision. He waited until the shooter was out of sight and then crept slowly back toward the church. The lights of the police cars flashed, so close. Then a figure stepped out of the shadow of the building, definitely not a police officer, their face lit up in the flashing blue light. Or rather the mask that covered the face. No way past.
Noah turned and headed back, staying low to the ground.
As he came out of the cover of a gravestone, something slammed into him from the side, hurling him against the hard stone, then lashing out, knocking his legs from under him so he crashed to the ground, his face buried in the grass. He rolled, kicking out, and his attacker grunted.
And then he was staring down the barrel of a pistol. This was it. He had a moment of regret—Harper was going to be so pissed at him. He raised his own pistol but knew he was out of time. And the Glock felt so heavy in his hands. The darkness was closing in. His assassin would be wasting his bullet.
Something smashed into the man from the side, and he went down under the blow. Noah rolled to the side, tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn’t hold him. He collapsed back, staring up at the sky.
Someone knelt beside him. He blinked, peered up. A woman with golden eyes. A tattoo of a star on the side of her neck. His mind focused on that one thing. A star. It should mean something, but his brain was slowing. Darkness was closing in on him, until his vision was reduced to a small pinprick.
Fingers touched his throat then withdrew.
He fought to stay conscious but was losing…everything moved away from him, the woman faded in and out of his vision, his eyes drifted closed.
Then water splashed on his face, and he blinked and gasped. A hand slapped his cheek.
“Stay awake,” she grumbled. “We have to walk out of here—no way can I carry you.”
“What…who…?”
“It doesn’t matter. Shit, you’re losing too much blood. Sit up. I need to get a bandage on you.”
He gritted his teeth then pushed himself up onto his good elbow, pain shooting from his shoulder. He groaned, and her gaze shot to his face. She raised an eyebrow.
“Just do it,” he ground out.
His heart raced, and he slowed his breathing, holding himself still as she pressed some sort of pad to his shoulder then wound a bandage tightly around, holding it in place. At least she seemed to know what she was doing.
She tied it off and sat back on her heels, tugging at her long silver earring while studying him. Maybe trying to decide whether he was worth the effort.
Who was she? How had she turned up at just the right moment?
It didn’t matter. He had no choice. He listened but could hear nothing. That wouldn’t last. They had to get out of there. He nodded to the bottle of water by her side, and she unscrewed the top, slid a hand behind his head, and held the bottle to his lips. He swallowed convulsively then choked.
“Enough.” He forced himself to sit upright. “We need to get out of here.”
She got to her feet, stuffed her things back in her rucksack, and slung it over her shoulder.
She stared down at him, hands on her hips. “Then let’s go. Before your new friends come back and finish you off.”
His eyes narrowed, but he glanced around then reached out and grabbed the nearest gravestone with his good hand and heaved himself to his feet. He swayed then locked his legs in place. He paused as his gaze drifted over her face then lower, focusing on the tattoo on her neck. “Star?”
She nodded.
He swayed again, and she hurried toward him, wrapping her arm around his waist. She was a good six inches shorter and probably a hundred pounds lighter, and no way could she hold him up. Somehow, he steadied himself, and then they were moving. He concentrated on one step at a time, resting at each gravestone on the way.
It seemed to take an age, and he expected to hear booted feet behind them, but all was silent.
By the time they reached the wrought iron gate at the back of the cemetery, his head was swimming, and he knew she was close to collapsing. The gate creaked as she kicked it open. Once out on the road, she paused, glancing around them, her breathing ragged. Noah was hanging from her arm, and the bandage she’d put on his shoulder was dark with blood. He took a deep breath and forced the strength into his legs. They were nearly there. A white van was parked only a few feet away.
“Come on, just a few more steps.”
He focused on the van. One foot in front of the other, and finally, he collapsed against the side, arm cradled against his chest. She pulled herself free and opened the back door. He was just about unconscious as she tipped him into the back, and he curled his legs up so she could close the door.
The darkness was encroaching.
“Hope you’re worth it,” she muttered just before she slammed the door on him.
So did he.
Christ, he’d made a mess of things.
As the van rumbled into life, he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.
Would he ever wake up?
Hell, yes. He wasn’t dying without finding out what the fuck was going on.
Chapter Ten
Noah was lying in a bed.
Through his closed lids, he could tell that it was daylight, but his eyelids felt glued together, and he didn’t have the energy to open them and face the day just yet.
Maybe it had all been a bad dream. Except his shoulder hurt like hell. And he didn’t want to move because he knew, from experience, that it would hurt even more once he did. Instead, he lay there, on his back, eyes closed, and took stock of the situation.
There was a very good chance Eve had been murdered.
He was under surveillance and had been from shortly after he had started work at Clayton. At least, that was when he had first picked up the tail.
Then someone had murdered whoever was watching him. Had the killer or killers been following him as well? Fuck. There were a hell of a lot of people tailing him.
And then someone—either the same someone or a different someone—had tried to murder him.
If only he knew why.
His head hurt. At least that meant he was alive to feel the pain. Always better than the alternative.
The truth was he had come as close to dying last night, in the middle of London, as he ever had in any war zone. They—whoever they were—would have succeeded if the woman hadn’t turned up at exactly the right moment. Coincidence?
Who was she? He’d seen her once before, at his ex-wife’s funeral. She had a tattoo of a star on her neck. It looked like he’d found the space archaeologist Eve had been working with. Or rather she had found him.
A door opened and then closed, and soft footsteps approached the bed.
He forced his lids to open then shut them again—the light was too bright. He waited a minute and then squinted through his lashes. The same woman from last night. She was fiddling with something behind him, and he twisted his head to watch as she unhooked some sort of IV from a pole, which looked a lot like a lamp stand that had been adapted. Then she turned and bent over him. He felt a sting in his arm, and his eyes shot open. “Shit.”
“Good morning, major.”
He tried to decide what t
o say next, but his brain wasn’t working properly. He had too many questions and couldn’t decide which he wanted to ask first. Maybe he should start with something else. “Thank you for saving my life.”
She straightened. “I’d like to say it was my pleasure, but I think I might have sprained something lugging your heavy ass across that cemetery.”
“I appreciate it. I would have been dead last night if you hadn’t turned up when you did.”
“Actually, the night before last—you’ve lost a day.”
He frowned. “I’ve been unconscious for twenty-four hours?”
“More like thirty. You lost a lot of blood.”
He’d lost a whole day. What the hell had happened in that time? Someone must be looking for him. “Where am I?”
“Still in London. I didn’t want to move you until you were more stable. As I said, you lost a lot of blood. You nearly died.”
“While I’m grateful for what you did, I’d love to know why you did it.”
“Later. You need to eat something first—get your strength up so we can get out of here. Can you sit up?”
He bit back the questions. Mainly because his stomach rumbled and food sounded like a good idea. He suspected he wasn’t in any imminent danger, and maybe his brain would function better with some fuel inside him. He dragged himself up, wincing as a flash of fire shot through his left shoulder and down his arm. Once he was upright, leaning against the wall, he twisted his head and peered at his shoulder. There was nothing to see, the wound covered with a clean white bandage. He prodded it with his other hand and winced again. It was tender.
“The bullet went right through. There’s nothing important damaged. You’ll be fine.” She placed a tray on his knee and stepped back. “You need any help?”
Was she going to spoon feed him? “I’m good.” He picked up the fork and looked at the food. Scrambled eggs and toast and coffee. His mouth watered. He concentrated on the food, then once his plate was empty, he picked up the coffee and relaxed back with a sigh. He was going to survive. Hopefully long enough to get some answers.