His Prisoner

by Jesse Jordan

  Larissa gets herself set up and Leftenant Giles takes me outside again, adjusting her beret on her head when we reach the steps. “So where are you from Mr. MacGregor?”

  “Spokane,” I reply, thinking quickly of the alias Stephen MacGregor. “What about you, Leftenant?”

  “Please, Brenda. Americans never do get the rank name correct, I spent three weeks last year in El Paso being called Lieutenant,” Giles says with a chuckle. “But I'm Scottish, actually. Dumfries, which is why I don't sound very Scottish.”

  “You've got a charming accent to my ears,” I flirt back, feeling myself separate as I set aside the real me and instead focus on drawing out what I can from this young woman. Still, Brenda blushes slightly before shaking her head.

  “You Americans, you can't tell London from Manchester from Edinburgh,” she replies, but she's more relaxed as we walk down the steps. “I don't suppose you even know what I said earlier.”

  “What, Royal Is My Race?” I return, catching her off guard. “Not all Americans are ignorant of their roots, Brenda. What clan are you?”

  “My family isn't Highland, but Lowland. We're a mix of Northern England and Scottish,” Brenda replies, shrugging. “So no fancy clan tartan for me. Still, it is a hobby of mine, history. Ah, here we are, the cadets just getting ready to do some drill.”

  I watch from the sidelines as about two hundred cadets go through their parade practice, and while it's impressive, my mind drifts. With everything that I've learned in the time that I've been with Larissa about how the world works and how things really operate, what are these cadets doing? Are they really putting themselves through this year of what looks like a lot of hell to make their country safer? Are they doing it to make the world a better place?

  Or are they doing it all for a lie? Are they doing it so that certain power players, people maybe they know the names of but maybe don't, are they doing it all so that the power players can keep themselves in power?

  “Brenda?” I ask, watching as the cadets work with their rifles. “Why'd you go through this place?”

  “Me?” Brenda asks, pleased that I'm asking about her and not the cadets. “I wanted to do something useful with my life, I suppose. My family's always been that sort of working class that doesn't make a difference, nothing wrong with that mind you, but I wanted to try for something more. What about you, where did you go to uni?”

  “Notre Dame,” I lie, watching the cadets. “My father was a legacy, and I wanted to get away from the West Coast. The Midwest was just about far enough.”

  Brenda shakes her head, laughing softly. “Spokane to the Midwest, hard to believe. Then again, you've got states bigger than all of the UK, so I guess that plays a role. For me, getting away meant going a hundred kilometers.”

  “Sometimes it's not a matter of space but a matter of mind,” I reply honestly, thinking how much I've changed in the weeks I've been with Larissa. “Sometimes getting away could be as close as next door, or a continent away.”

  “You're a poet, Mr. MacGregor,” Brenda flirts. “Don't tell me you can sing and dance too?”

  “No, just sing,” I tease. “I do my dancing off the floor.”

  “Is that an invitation?” Brenda asks. “If it is, I know a lovely little restaurant nearby. Or would Agent Wordsworth be upset that I'm asking you to dinner?”

  I chuckle, thinking that this woman wouldn't want to see Larissa upset. “She might be. Careful, you don't want her to get violent.”

  “Ah, I'm a trained soldier, remember. I'm sure I could handle myself,” Brenda jokes. “But then again, I wouldn't want you to get hurt in the meantime.”

  “Don't worry there, I hand out the spankings, I don't take them.”

  Brenda bites her lip, shaking her head. “You Americans. Well, if you're going to be in England a while, here's my mobile number.”

  Larissa notices the slip of paper when I take it out of my jacket pocket and crumples it up. “That didn't take long.”

  “You asked me to keep her distracted. I did. Doesn't mean I'm going to call her though.”

  Larissa harumphs and keeps driving. “You know, you could have. Given her a call.”

  “And what? Meet her up for some fish and chips, go back to her flat for a little old fashioned shagging?” I half mock. “Larissa, if I passed up a beautiful, well trained girl like Claudia or Lihua, what would some fling with some random girl from lower Scotland have for me?”

  “Well, she does have a cleaner background than me,” Larissa says. “And probably a lot better career prospects.”

  I turn to look at Larissa, whose face looks a little haunted, and I see what her life's been. What she's searched for her entire life, and maybe what she's started to think doesn't exist out there for her any longer. Deep Cover MI6 isn't exactly the sort of life that leads to finding that special someone, especially when your cover story is Larissa's.

  “I'm not interested in the Leftenant. Now, what did you learn about Reginald Finch?”

  Larissa's face clears a little, and she passes over a data stick. “Here. He went first to Rugby, one of the elite boarding schools, and later Sandhurst where he went to classes with over two dozen different members of the Peerage.”

  “The what?” I ask.

  “The high ranking noble families. They eventually become Dukes, Earls, Marquis, and the hereditary Barons,” Larissa says. “Basically, the elite of the elite of British nobility. They're the families that stock the House of Lords, and despite the fact that they supposedly are archaic and all that other shit, you don't get within sniffing distance of their arses unless you're one of the club. They own the major industry in the UK in some form or another, they run things, they are the power players.”

  “So he knows the movers and shakers,” I finish. “And he's willing to cater to their needs.”

  “I think it's more than that, honestly,” Larissa says. “I've met some of these ivory tower types, a lot of them are assholes, but generally decent people. Finch though, I think he's a corrupter, on a scale that makes what I do for The Network look small. But... I think we have a lead.”

  “Oh?” I ask, and Larissa nods.

  “On there, I found a picture of him, from an archived copy of The Wish, Sandhurst's Academy journal. In it, he's mentioned as having an estate in Cambridgeshire, which explains something else to me.”

  “What's that?” I ask, and Larissa increases speed on her car.

  “Cambridge has an airport with a sixty five hundred foot long runway, big enough for a lot of planes. The airport's mostly private planes and flying schools, though. I've landed there once or twice, even. It's an easy way for a man who wants to move things in or out of the country to avoid scrutiny.”

  I nod, tightening my grip on the balled up piece of paper in my hand. “Then I guess we're going to Cambridge.”

  Larissa

  “Nikolai, I know that, but I'm standing in the middle of this fucker's estate in Cambridge and I'm looking at jack and shit,” I complain. “I had a lead, I followed it up. What else could you want me to do?”

  It's a risk to reach out to The Network right now, not with as much as I've done publicly under my real identity recently. Too many hits in too short a time, and The Network might start wondering where I'm getting my information. But after reaching Reginald Finch's Cambridge estate only to find nothing but two day old leftovers in his icebox and a pot of cold coffee on his counter, I'm pissed.

  He's close. Nobody leaves leftovers out like this in their kitchen unless they plan on coming back relatively soon. He's got to be somewhere within England, but if he knows that someone's on his trail, he's not going to worry about spoiled roast pork.

  “I understand your enthusiasm, but what you are asking, it incurs serious risk,” Nikolai says. “It could lead to exposure of Russian intelligence in the UK.”

  “And if you can get me this information, we can gain a lot more than that,” I counter. “Nikolai, this man, what I've uncovered... I'm not exagger
ating when I say that he could bring down the entire British nobility if this shit gets out. While we like a little bit of corruption, you have to admit that a UK that's going through a civil war is not what we want at all.”

  “Every country needs a little revolution from time to time. Look at Russia, we had two in a century. It helps clear the cobwebs from the corners, reinvigorates the blood.”

  “Nikolai, all joking aside,” I blow off, not wanting to get into a debate with him on that particular form of corruption, “this is personal for me too. You know why as well, so let's cut the bullshit. I'm willing to risk it all on nailing this motherfucker.”

  Nikolai's silent on the other side of the call, and I can almost imagine his mind ticking away like a computer. “We'll discuss your risk if I can get information. I'll be in touch.”

  Nikolai ends the call and I take my phone away from my ear, trying to control my nerves. We were so close!

  Stephen comes into the room, his own phone in his hand. “The CIA isn't telling me shit, I don't know why. I put in what I could though, and made a few private calls. But I don't have the personal network that a lot of people do, you know. What did The Network say?”

  “Rodrigo's going to do what he can, and Nikolai's on the fence,” I reply, closing my eyes and trying to control my anger. “I'm going to try contact MI6 next, but... fuck, Stephen! We nearly had him!”

  Stephen comes over and puts his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes. “We did. Now, get a hold of yourself, we're going to catch him. Who knows, maybe we've spooked him, he's got to know someone's on his ass right now.”

  “That's what worries me more!” I yell, pushing Stephen in the chest. “We spook him and he poofs off leaving us with nothing to track and....”

  Stephen pulls me in tight, kissing me and cutting off my words, his tongue silencing me and taking away my fears at least for the moment. I moan lightly and pull him to me, feeling his body warm and right here. His tongue twists around mine slowly, and another little part of me that I've been afraid to listen to starts talking again that maybe, just maybe, having a full time partner would be a good thing.

  “Better?” Stephen asks when he pulls back, smiling when I nod. “Good. I've wanted an excuse to kiss you since seeing the way you reacted at Sandhurst yesterday when that girl flirted with me.”

  “I wasn't jealous,” I lie, and Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe a little.”

  He cups my face, and I feel something shift inside me as he looks in my eyes and strokes my cheek with his thumb. “That's what I thought. Larissa, that girl never had a chance with me. You joked about it when you started training me, but it's true. I've had the best now. I'm not settling for the rest any longer.”

  “I wish...” I start, but my phone rings, and I see that it's Rodrigo. Reluctantly, I step away from Stephen and answer the call. “Rodrigo, you're calling back quickly. What's going on?”

  “You must have a little bit of luck in your corner,” Rodrigo says, “because you're not going to believe who just requested a flight plan for a Gulfstream 280 from Cambridge International Airport to Stewart International Airport, an hour north of me.”

  “You're shitting me,” I reply, shocked at the fortunate turn of events. “You mean it?”

  “I'm serious. Plane owned and operated by an R. Finch of Cambridgeshire, England. Listed as a nonstop flight, arrival time of eight hours, twenty eight minutes from now,” Rodrigo says. “While I was checking the info, Jessica did the math. You've got about an hour to catch him on the ground on your end. That is, if you want him and don't want me to pick him up.”

  “Fuck that, we prepare on both ends,” I growl, giving Stephen a thumbs up. “Can you get men to get him?”

  “Who do you think controls the unions at Stewart?” Rodrigo asks, giving me both an answer and a hint into how he got the information so quickly. “I'll have men ready. Give me a call if they need to be ready.”

  “Will do. And Rodrigo... thanks.”

  Rodrigo chuckles warmly in my ear. “Go get 'im, my friend. You can pay me back by taking your spring vacation in Sicily, I was planning on bringing Jessica and the baby there once they're ready to fly again.”

  “A promise. Sicily is great in winter.”

  I hang up, and Stephen's grinning. “We got a lead?”

  “We've got a lead and not a lot of time to move our asses,” I reply, heading out of Finch's estate. “He's taking off in an hour and a little bit of change for New York.”

  “Then let's move,” Stephen says, heading out the door. “Glad we brought the heavy artillery.”

  He's right, I opened up my weapons vault totally for today. In the back of my car is my own personal favorite rifle, a SA80 just like the British Army uses. Meanwhile, in a touch of justice, Stephen has the G2 rifle that was used to shoot Nick Hardy.

  “You sure about that thing?” I ask as he slaps a twenty round magazine in the rifle and chambers it. “I mean, you've never fired it.”

  “I know my sight settings on any American weapon cold,” Stephen says. “Besides, it'll provide us with some heavy caliber weaponry, just in case.”

  We approach the gate of the airport, the guard blanching when he sees my rifle, but he relents when I flash my MI5 ID. “Give me your control tower, I want to know where Reginald Finch's plane is hangered. And that plane isn't allowed to take off.”

  The guard acknowledges me and gets on his radio, getting his information quickly. “Westernmost terminal. Airport security is being dispatched.”

  “No!” Stephen interjects. “Not with him, he's armed and considered very dangerous. Call your tower, everything's shut down!”

  We jump back in my Bentley before the guard can reply and I hit the switch on my convertible top, glad for the space now. “I know you didn't plan to use this thing this way when you bought this fucker,” Stephen says as he looks. “Hey, what type of plane did you say he's got?”

  “A G280, it's got upturned wingtips and a T-top tail.... there!”

  I spot the plane, waiting near a hangar for it's passengers and lay on the gas, pushing my car up to over a hundred. Someone sees us coming though and I see Reginald Finch running towards a Range Rover, a security man with him. The guard raises a pistol, but Stephen's faster, standing up in his seat and firing his rifle. The sound of the G2 on full automatic is thunderous even over the roar of my engine, the hot brass pinging off my boot behind us.

  I don't know if he's lucky, or if he's just that good, I suspect the latter as Finch's bodyguard is hit at least twice before he drops, unable to even fire a shot. Still, it gives Finch a chance to get into his Range Rover and pull away, the engine on the Rover screaming as he floors the accelerator.

  Still, he's in a Range Rover Sport, and I'm in a customized Bentley Continental GT, and I'm already at speed. We cut into his lead quickly, and he cuts across the grass towards the runway, going off-road while I have to take the taxiway that's a little ahead.

  “Shit!” Stephen grunts, trying to aim but we're going too fast. “Why didn't you follow him?”

  “Five inches ground clearance!” I yell back. “Hold on!”

  I power slide into a U-turn, keeping my eyes on Finch's Range Rover as he tries to make it to the other end of the runway before we can close the gap, but Stephen's not giving him the opportunity, already up and firing a full magazine at him before doing a hot reload and firing again. The back window crazes as he hits the glass, and I can see holes punch in the back paneling, but the SUV never slows. “Fucking thing is reinforced!”

  “Get me next to it, I've got one mag left. If not, I'll need your gun.”

  “You got it,” I grunt, handing him my rifle while pushing the gas harder. We approach on the driver side, taking the risk of Finch being able to shoot back in order to give Stephen the better shot. If I'd known we'd be doing this, I'd have bought a four door.

  Finch must have a supercharged engine in his vehicle, there's no way a standard Range Rover should be able
to keep its distance from me this way, but I close the gap as best I can, pushing my Bentley up closer and closer to it's top speed for the distance we have, getting worried as we approach the end. “Whatever you're going to do, do it quick, we're going to have to turn soon!”

  Stephen steadies his rifle and fires, not in automatic bursts but in more controlled semi-automatic shots, the brass flying around my legs and burning my forearm where it hits, but he takes out the rear wheel of the Range Rover first, then with four more shots hits the front wheel. I hit the brakes hard, jerking back as Finch's vehicle slews across our path. Finch pushes the gas but only increases his loss of control. The rim of his front wheel hits one of the warning lights that mark the end of the runway and he flips, rolling twice before coming to a stop miraculously on it's wheels.

  “Cover me!” Stephen says as soon as we come to a stop, and I grab my rifle, socking it to my shoulder as we approach. Stephen's rifle is still raised, but he can't have much more than three or four rounds left. “Reginald Finch! Surrender!”

  There's no movement from the truck, and Stephen swings a bit wider, my breath coming in short spurts as I watch him stop, then wave me around the other side of the vehicle.

  It's clear as soon as I approach that Reginald Finch isn't going anywhere. He's still strapped in his driver's seat, but blood trickles from his nose and from the corner of his mouth, and he's cut in at least a dozen other places.

  “You two,” he groans, swallowing. “When I... when they told me someone was poking around....”

  “Who told you?” Stephen asks. “Who else is working with you, Finch?”

  Finch coughs, a fine spray of blood covering the deployed air bag in front of him, and I realize he's trying to laugh. “You won't... Dover won't let you get close enough. They won't let you live long enough to find out anyway.”

  “Who's Dover?” Stephen asks. “Die with some peace, Finch.”