Joe grimaced with pain as he took another deep breath. “I’ll keep still. Don’t worry. And besides…” he swallowed, “someone might come. If someone…heard the gun.”
No silent alarms out here. No panic buttons. But then, there shouldn’t have been any further risk.
I’ll have fucking strong words to say to Patrick when we’re back in London.
“He’s taken the phones and your tablet. I don’t think anybody’s coming.” Alejandro reached into the cup and began spattering blood from his fingertips onto Joe’s neck and throat. Then his gaze darted to the door and he threw the cup into the mess that had fallen from the coffee table. “Play dead, he’s stopped talking.”
Alejandro settled himself gently atop Joe’s chest so as not to hurt him further, sobbing and shuddering with despair. He was a hell of an actor, Joe realised. His parents would be proud.
The key scraped in the lock and Zak came back into the room. Through half-open, unfocused eyes, Joe saw Zak point to his phone.
“That was Leviticus. You’re going to meet him at last, Al. And he can’t wait to meet you. Can’t wait!”
“Have you been working with him from the start?” Alejandro sobbed, lifting his head to look at Zak. “You and Leviticus together? Who is it, Zak?”
Joe kept still even as Zak grew nearer and grasped Alejandro by his hair.
“No, I never met him until tonight. Clever fucker, he is.”
“Good luck, Zak,” Alejandro whispered. “Whoever Leviticus is, he talked you into murder. And you’re probably going to be next.”
The sound of a car engine split the silence outside, bright headlamps passing momentarily across the room before they were extinguished.
Leviticus. Baqil was always a fix-up. Leviticus has been one step ahead of us from the start, one step ahead of everyone.
What had Alejandro said?
‘Straight, white and British?’
Outside, a car door closed, then feet crunched on the snow and the front door opened.
We’re at war.
How the hell did Zak know we were here? No one knew.
Except Commander Holloway.
“What a night to be out and about!” Patrick’s voice called over the sound of the front door closing. “This is a night for home and hearth, not wandering about the Kent coast!”
Joe tried not flinch. The betrayal hurt him more than the bullet.
The fucking bastard. The fucking mad racist bigoted old bastard!
“Yeah, should stay in, really. We’ll chuck the dead copper off a cliff tomorrow, right?” Zak grinned.
Patrick didn’t answer at first. Instead he crossed the room and nudged Joe with his walking stick, peering down at him.
Play dead, Joe reminded himself. Don’t move.
“I bitterly regret the sad passing of Sergeant Wenlock,” Patrick told them in that gentle, friendly voice of his, as though he were reading Joe’s funeral oration. “I personally mentored him. I’d hoped he might eventually succeed me as commander of the division. He gave his life for Queen and country and I only wish that I’d pulled the trigger myself. You did well, Mr Su, you should be proud.”
“I am.” Zak took the gun out of his pocket and passed it to Patrick with a coke addict’s sniff. “Only ever done clay pigeons before. I liked shooting a cooper.”
Joe focused on his barely perceptible shallow breaths. He was sorely tempted to wring Zak’s neck.
And now Patrick has a fucking gun.
Which Joe now knew Patrick had given to Zak in the first place.
“And when the authorities get here, they’ll find a murdered copper, a murdered queer and the body of the junkie who killed them before taking his own life.” In one smooth movement Patrick put the gun to Zak’s temple and pulled the trigger. The shot rang round the room and Zak went down like a broken doll. “It’s a tragic world we live in.”
Joe fought against every instinct in him to put his arms around Alejandro and protect him.
I’ve just seen Patrick commit murder. And he did it so easily too.
It wasn’t the first time. Did he kill Baqil as well?
“Queers and immigrants and actresses polluting our royal blood.” Patrick stooped and carefully set the gun down beside Zak. “The same sort of rodents who broke my back and still men like Joe here made excuses for them and their filthy, parasitic siblings! And queers like you poisoning good men like him.” He lifted his foot and kicked Alejandro in the chest, sending him sprawling back against the hearth and away from Joe. “I miked up your house, Osito, I know exactly what you two have been up to. I was the man who broke into Joe’s house. I was the man on CCTV in Baqil’s car, and I was the man who carried Baqil’s body into the studio and set the place on fire. You didn’t turn up, or there would’ve been three bodies to find. That was a mistake. I won’t make another.”
“Leviticus,” Alejandro murmured.
“Leviticus,” Patrick repeated. “Hello, Alejo.”
I trusted you, Commander. I trusted you with my life.
Out of Patrick’s sight, Joe closed his hand around the fire poker. He saw Alejandro register the movement. Peering up at Patrick, Alejandro said, “I’m disappointed. I thought Leviticus would be less…generic.”
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, Joe crawled across the floor until he was behind Patrick, then jumped to his feet and braced the poker across Patrick’s throat. He held it firm. Any movement from Patrick and he’d choke.
“Sorry, Commander. You made another mistake.” Joe pulled the poker more tightly, but not so tightly that he’d kill the man. “Alejandro, find a phone. Dial 999. I’ve restrained Leviticus.”
“And look how fucking generic he is!” Alejandro shouted, jumping to his feet. “Look at him, the stupid, racist shit! Nobody knew it was you because nobody ever noticed you, because you’re just…this!” He gestured with his hand then knelt beside Zak, turning his gaze from the bleeding wound in his temple even as he took a mobile from his pocket.
“You were a better CPO than I thought,” Patrick told Joe as Alejandro pressed Zak’s lifeless finger to the phone screen, unlocking it. “I needed a man past his best, someone who’d let me get at Mr Fuente. You’re an outstanding officer, Joe, I trained you well. But you’ve learned something from this. One can never spot an extremist just by looking at him. Remember that when you’re the boss.”
Past my best?
The pain in Joe’s chest was getting worse, exacerbated by Patrick’s words. Joe finally allowed himself a roar of agony, and loosened the poker against Patrick’s throat.
“I don’t want to be the boss,” Joe spat. “Not if it means turning into an arsehole like you! I hope you enjoyed it, by the way. Overhearing Alejo and I. Together. Happy. In love. You’ll never find love now. You’ll die behind bars. And you know what a shit time bent coppers have in prison, don’t you?”
“What did I always tell you, Joe? Expect the unexpected.” Patrick’s hand moved, just enough to slip into the pocket of his greatcoat. The gun he withdrew, small and shining, caught a glimmer of firelight before he pressed the barrel beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.
A warm spray of blood and brain matter hit Joe’s face. The poker clanged to the floor and the lifeless body of Commander Holloway was, for a moment, in Joe’s arms.
Joe laid his boss, Leviticus, on the floor and closed his staring eyes.
“Alejo? Are the police on the way?”
Alejandro, the phone still held to his ear, nodded mutely. Then he came to Joe and held out his arms, taking him into a wordless embrace.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When the flight attendant offered Joe a top-up of his champagne, he nodded. “Yes, please.”
And he wasn’t even drinking on the job. Because, at the moment, he didn’t technically have one.
“Alejo, are you having a top-up as well?”
“Not so much a top-up as another glass full!” He held out his empty glass, smiling as t
he attendant filled it. “How’re you feeling, Osito? All mended?”
“Oh yes, with my Alejo to fix me.” Joe put his arm around Alejandro. His rib twinged, but it didn’t hurt anymore. Not after painkillers and rest. Alejandro snuggled down against Joe’s shoulder and stretched out his legs, merrily wiggling his bare toes.
“I’ll always take care of my man,” Alejandro whispered, kissing his cheek. “But it’ll be much more fun taking care of you on a tropical island than in miserable, grey London. Those palm trees await, Osito.” He fluttered his lashes, adopting that gentle lisp. “And so does your Paloma.”
Want to see more from this author? Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!
Captivating Captains:
The Captain and the Prime Minister
Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead
Excerpt
Tom lay sprawled on the beanbag between the two small beds—one shaped like a car, the other shaped like a boat. He’d almost sent himself to sleep with the twins’ bedtime story, but it finally seemed, from the sound of their gentle breathing, that they’d dropped off. He sat in the quiet, dimly lit room, the elephant nightlight casting its gentle glow. And in that glow, he re-read the text from Stuart.
Hey good lookin’, ya miss me? Through with Barca and heading home—you shud SEE my tan lines babe. Get ready Laaahndaaaan! x
Stuart wasn’t high on the list of people who Tom wanted to talk to. Their break-up had been acrimonious, Stuart furious at one too many dates being canceled at the last minute because Tom had to look after the twins. ‘You love that family more than you love me!’ And off Stuart had gone to Barcelona.
Except, apparently, Stuart was back.
And that list of Tom’s was rather brief.
It’d be rude not to reply, wouldn’t it?
Tom lifted his head and glanced at the children. They were both sound asleep, so Tom carefully got up from the beanbag and tapped his reply.
Hey Stuart yeah I’m still in London. Maybe I’ll see you sometime? T.
They’d been through a lot—both ex-army, both gay, although Tom’s career had taken an unusual turn when he’d decided to become a nanny. Or manny, as the press had christened him. But it worked. Captain Southwell had transformed into Tom, but he still dealt with crises before breakfast, and marshaling small children was just as challenging as directing a company in a warzone.
The reply took seconds.
Believe it manny Tom. I’ll be knocking on door of no 10 and sayin’ where’s my man ;) xx
Tom worked on the principle that being hostile to exes wasn’t the mark of a gentleman, but, equally, dealing with someone who thought Tom was his man after all this time wasn’t a task that filled him with joy.
I thought your man’s in Barcelona? T.
And his phone rang, vibrating silently in his hand as Tom heard the flat’s front door opening and closing softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping children. The prime minister was home.
Tom stuffed the phone into his pocket. He wasn’t going to answer it—he had a family to look after.
Before Alex had reached the kitchen doorway, Tom had poured him a glass of wine. It sat there on the worktop when Alex appeared in the doorway, his hand already loosening the knot of his tie.
“All the way from the House I was thinking about diving into a huge glass of red wine.” Alex chuckled, widening his eyes at the sight of it. “And there it is!”
“You look like you could do with one!” Tom said.
“The thought of cuddling Al and Mad and a little sniff of red is what’s kept me going through the last two hours of paperwork,” Alex told him, slapping a matey hand to Tom’s shoulder and letting it linger there. “As soon as I hit the bottom of the despatch box, I made for home. I don’t suppose there happens to be any supper left over, or am I raiding the fridge again?”
Tom passed him the glass across the marble worktop. “There’s a shepherd’s pie waiting for you if you’d like it?”
“If anyone finds out about this, they’ll be tempting you away with a pay rise,” Alex teased. “I already have to tell them you’re like the anti-Mary Poppins to throw them off the scent.”
Tom checked the pie in the oven then turned it on to warm.
“I don’t have a magic carpet bag, and I’m not into chimney sweepers,” he said. “I have no intention of leaving, tempt me all they like!”
“If any chimney sweeps do come along, I want to know about it,” Alex told him. Then he raised his glass to his lips and took a grateful drink. “I can’t lose my shepherd’s pie whisperer.”
“Do you want to eat in here, or in the lounge?” Tom hoped he’d say the lounge, because if Alex put the television on in the kitchen and discovered that the last channel Tom had watched was BBC Parliament, it might be rather awkward.
It’s because the children wanted to see you when they came home from preschool. Honest.
“Lounge, sofa, general couch potato of a night?” He nodded, apparently satisfied with his own suggestion. “Did you eat with the kids?”
“Well, I tried! We had sit-down dinnertime together but Madeleine wanted to draw at the same time, so I had my hands full.” Tom dragged his hand back through his hair. “I think I got all the sweetcorn out of my hair, but I’m not sure!”
“I’m going to nip in and see them before I eat,” Alex decided. “I hate that I missed them tonight and I know they’re asleep, but it’s really for me, not them. But you know that.”
“I know.” Tom patted his arm. “They’ll know you’re there. You’ll suddenly pop up in their dreams.”
“Oh, God help them! Then you have to be off the clock, Tom, you know that. Much as I love coming home to you and your shepherd’s pie, you must be cursing my name?” He assumed a grumbling mutter to say, “Bloody Alex keeping me bloody working all bloody hours.”
“It’s not really work, though,” Tom assured him as he got a tray ready for Alex. “We’re like housemates!”
“I couldn’t ask for a better fellow to share with.” Alex laughed and brushed Tom’s shoulder as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back, Captain!”
Tom leaned against the kitchen cupboard, flicking through a recipe book. He heard Alex’s footsteps through the baby monitor and saw the night-vision version of the prime minister on the screen. Tom should have gone back to his book to give Alex his privacy, but he couldn’t resist a glance at Alex crouched beside his child’s bed. He was such a kind father and it brought a lump to Tom’s throat. Thank God Stuart hadn’t rung again and shattered their peace. He didn’t need it tonight, and Alex certainly didn’t.
Tom heard Alex’s voice, as gentle now as it had been commanding in the Chamber earlier, wishing his sleeping children sweet dreams. Then, as he always did on the rare nights that he didn’t make it home in time for supper and bedtime with the twins he adored, Alex remained in the room for a while. He settled onto the beanbag where Tom had sat just a few minutes earlier and became part of the peaceful scene, soaking up the calm in that sometimes rather busy room that his son and daughter shared. And though the two children slept on, surely they sensed that protective presence watching over them until, with a whisper of, “I love you,” Alex rose to his feet and made his careful way toward the door.
Alex was such a lonely figure sometimes, and during those moments Alex shared with his children, Tom wondered if he was thinking of his late wife.
He shouldn’t ever be lonely. Gill wouldn’t have wanted it, and Tom certainly didn’t. Alex deserved to be loved.
“I see the permanent marker has almost washed off of Alastair’s cheek,” Alex observed cheerfully as he padded back into the kitchen. He returned to the serious business of unknotting his tie and added, “You must have magical skills that I lack!”
The sound of the silk rasping against Alex’s hand very nearly sent a tremor through Tom, but he pushed it down.
You can’t think those things about your straight boss.
“We had a game at
bathtime—I made them beards and mustaches out of bubbles, then rubbed them off. Al didn’t notice a thing—he was too busy laughing.”
“See, I learned the hard way that saying don’t scribble on your face is the guaranteed way to get a little monster like my son to scribble on his face.” Alex threw his tie onto the worktop. Then he unfastened his silver cufflinks and tossed them with only a little more care atop his discarded tie. Tom knew what was coming next even before Alex rolled first one immaculate sleeve to his elbow then the other, because he knew Alex’s routine as well as his own. And his arms are to die for. “He’s joining a long line of Hart boys who never did as they were told!”
Tom chuckled. “Were you naughty, then?”
You wish he still was naughty, Tom.
“I was a terror.” Alex leaned forward to peer through the glass door of the oven, his hands braced against his knees. “But I went one better—I drew on my sister’s face while she was asleep. Gave her a mustache to be proud of!”
“And having met your sister—!” Tom tried not to notice how the fabric of Alex’s suit trousers strained pleasingly across his bottom as he leaned down. He was a fine figure of a man—Tom would be an idiot not to notice. “Bet she was pleased!”
“Oh, she loved it, you can imagine how thrilled she was!” Alex stood straight again and turned to face Tom. “You don’t have to hang around if you don’t want to, you know. Honestly, I can’t imagine this is how you want to spend your off time.”
“If I worked in an office all day, I’d be chilling at home just like I’m doing now, so… It’s fine, honest.” Tom slipped the recipe book back on the shelf. He liked being part of a family, too. In some ways it made up for the lack of his own. “I should apologize for these jogging bottoms, though. I don’t think I’ve even jogged in them. But then…you wouldn’t want to see me in my pajamas, would you?”
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