Blood and Bone (Royal Blood #6)

by Amity Cross

  I nodded and rose to my feet, beginning to feel the weight on my shoulders. Leaving them be, I went back down the hall to the main bedroom. Amanda sat on the edge of the bed, wringing her hands in her lap.

  I remembered the day I first saw her. She was a barmaid at the local pub, and every man in the place wanted a piece of her—she was that beautiful. I never thought I’d have a chance with a woman like that, but when I went up to the bar to order a pint, she’d asked why I didn’t have a crack like all the others. Because a woman like you deserves far more than a cheap line thrown over a sticky bar. I’d said the right thing for once in my life, and the rest was history.

  She glanced up when I stepped into the room, and I took a deep breath, steeling myself for another barrage of abuse. I deserved it, but she’d see what lengths I’d go to ensure their safety. She’d see how much I truly loved her. I never lied about that.

  “I’m going with them to get the man who did this to you,” I said.

  “What?” Amanda asked, rising to her feet. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m going to make sure he can’t hurt you or the boys again,” I replied. “I’m going to prove my love to you.”

  She shook her head, her eyes misting with another round of tears. “You stupid man.”

  I sighed. Had I said the wrong thing again? “Amanda…”

  When she threw herself into my arms, I held onto her tightly, burying my nose into her hair.

  “I’m so angry with you,” she murmured. “So bloody angry I want to string you up, Marcus Jackson, but I can’t lose you. I almost lost you twice today already.”

  “I love you so much,” I said, crushing her against my chest.

  “Come back in one piece,” she whispered. “And come back with that asshole in a body bag.”

  Chapter 7

  X

  Berlin was warm for the first week of May.

  It was the beginning of the summer months here, even though it was still technically autumn, but the passage of time from snow to sun had passed so quickly, it felt like another world.

  I leaned against the facade of a little bakery and studied the towering Brandenburg Gate. It was a large Ancient Greek-esque structure with columns and a statue of a quadriga—a chariot with several stallions in full flight—positioned at the top. All in all, it was an impressive sight.

  The massive monument once marked the divide between East and West Berlin at the height of the Cold War between the United States and Russia—or the USSR. Back then, I imagined the structure must’ve been a lot less welcoming sight with guard towers, spotlights, barbed wire, and armed soldiers. Now the square before it on the Eastern side was set up with a vibrant summer market.

  All kinds of stalls were set up, selling everything from traditional German food and drink to jewelry and crafts. Tourists and Berliners alike had swarmed en masse to spend the day in the sunshine, which made it the best place for a meeting between business partners.

  Why high-class terrorists wanted to meet in places like these was beyond me, but I supposed it had to do with the few thousand human shields milling around the markets.

  A bell jingled as the door of the bakery opened beside me, and Mercy appeared with a giant pretzel in her hand, a bite already taken out of it. She was wearing a little singlet top that dipped low, showing off her cleavage, and short shorts with boots that showed off her long legs and perfect little ass. I wish she’d chosen a more suitable outfit, but she’d convinced me it was what people wore around here in the summer. In contrast, my outfit consisted of a black tight fit T-shirt, beat-up gray jeans, and boots.

  “This pretzel is amazing,” she said through an appreciative moan. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  Sliding my aviator sunglasses on, I shook my head. “We’ve got to get moving.”

  Mercy threaded her arm through mine as we wandered through the stalls, pretending to look through all the wares for sale. Stopping by a jewelry stand, she pawed at some rings.

  “There’s a lot of interference,” I complained, scanning the crowded square.

  “When you pinpoint their location, I can get rid of some of that background noise,” Jackson said over the coms.

  Mercy raised her eyebrow in appreciation. “Now this was what I was talking about when I said I wanted to be a spy,” she murmured in my ear.

  “I’ve got movement on the north side.” Jackson’s voice filtered over the coms.

  He was back at the safe house, watching over us through an assortment of CCTV and traffic cameras…and the encrypted transmitter that was rigged to capture the conversation between Gruber and his associate. We had to get within thirty feet of the target for the sound to come out clear enough to capture the entirety of the exchange.

  “Grubby Gruber?” Mercy asked, running her fingers along a display of handmade soaps.

  “That would be him,” he replied. “Matches the photo Folsom gave us.”

  “Watch his movements,” I said. “We’ll narrow down the meeting point.”

  Threading my fingers through Mercy’s, I tugged her forward, and we wandered aimlessly in a northerly direction.

  “You know,” she said. “We’ve never spent time together like this before.”

  “Like what?” I asked with a frown.

  She knocked her shoulder against mine. “Walking hand-in-hand like a normal couple at a German summer market.”

  “Sounds boring to me,” I muttered.

  She laughed. “Then people avoid eye contact with you because you look like a big, scary biker…”

  “I was a big, scary biker,” I retorted. “Once upon a time…”

  “It does make moving through a crowd a little easier,” she said, sounding amused. “You part the sea like Moses.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Gruber’s stopped,” Jackson said, interrupting our exchange. “Coffee cart at the center of the market. He’s at a table with a checkered tablecloth. He seems to be alone. I couldn’t make any tails on him.”

  I nodded at Mercy, and we made our way toward the café, the sights and smells of the market washing over us. Food, spices, and perfumed soaps assailed my senses as we made our way through the rows of stalls, and then the scent of roasted coffee mingled with that of a neighboring bratwurst stand as we emerged into a clear space set aside for seating.

  Instantly, I identified Gruber at one of the tables, clearly recognizable from the surveillance photo we’d been shown back at MI6 in London.

  “That’s the fucker,” Mercy whispered. “What now?”

  “We wait for his friend to show,” I murmured back.

  Abruptly, Mercy grabbed my hand and pulled me backward to yet another stand covered in jewelry. It was made with silver and gold and adorned with an assortment of raw and polished crystals in all kinds of colors.

  “Oh my god!” Mercy exclaimed. “Honey, everything is so beautiful.”

  Rolling my eyes at her over-the-top portrayal of a British tourist, I lingered by her side as Gruber waited for his associate to arrive.

  “Actually,” she went on, “I really like this stuff.”

  “Hold your position,” Jackson said in my ear. “You should be in range. Filtering out some of that background noise now…”

  While Mercy pawed every single item of jewelry, I scanned the crowd and glanced at my watch—the ever annoyed boyfriend waiting for his overenthusiastic girl to finish ogling pretty jewels.

  We didn’t have to wait long for pay dirt. When Gruber’s associate arrived, it was exactly the type of guy I’d been expecting—shaved head with a mean yet rich look about him…

  The associate wore a light gray suit with a black shirt, no tie, the top three buttons undone. His black loafers were polished to an obnoxiously high shine, his sunglasses expensive. This man obviously had a lot of money and didn’t mind flashing it around, which wasn’t rare for bad guy assholes like these.

  On first glance, it appeared he had come alone to meet Gruber, but I wasn’t a fool
to assume there were armed men in the crowd disguised just like Mercy and I.

  The man approached our mark, and Gruber stood to greet him.

  “Bateman,” Gruber said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m surprised you of all people took on our client’s interests.”

  The man smiled and took seat across from him at the table. “Why is that?” His accent was British. Posh. Stank of money, and I assumed most of it was dirty.

  Gruber shrugged. “It has a lot to do with his unpredictability, no? Where his true intentions lie.”

  “It is not for us to wonder,” Bateman said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “All that matters is the bottom line.” He smiled, and the men began to laugh like they were sharing the punch line of a private joke.

  Gruber raised his espresso cup. “And what a line it is.”

  “Are we on schedule?”

  “The item is complete,” Gruber replied. “Testing has proved fruitful, so I’m sure it will be worth every Euro.”

  “Excellent. My employer will be pleased.” Bateman took his phone out of his jacket pocket and tapped on the screen. “Fifty percent as agreed. The remaining will be transferred to you upon delivery.”

  Gruber checked his phone, no doubt making sure his money had arrived to the place he’d intended it to. “And when is that?”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  Bateman rose to his feet and scanned the square, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. His gaze fell over the place where Mercy and I stood, and I turned away slowly, my expression bored like I was just some guy waiting for his girlfriend to finish fawning over jewelry.

  I held her hand as I waited, scanning the crowd to try to pinpoint Bateman’s men. If I was going to follow him back to Moltke, then I’d have to be smart about it. Who knew how many eyes were on the marketplace…

  Bateman was acting as a go-between for Moltke and Gruber, so the man we tracked didn’t have to show his face. He was a hunted man after all. Practically every agency in the world would be joining forces to apprehend the terrorist who murdered two hundred government employees. Wherever he surfaced, he’d be cornered like the rat he was.

  Humanity could be the lowest of the low when it wanted to be, but unite them in the wake of terrorism, and you had a powerful force at your beck and call.

  Moltke had to be a ghost in order to play his hand… Whatever it might be.

  Mercy had made a snap decision while I watched the crowd for Bateman’s men to reveal themselves.

  “I’ll go after Gruber and the device.”

  “No,” I hissed, tugging her against me. “Not on your own.”

  “Stop holding my hand, X,” she spat back at me. “I’m capable. You know I am. We can have both leads, and you know it.”

  I narrowed my eyes. I had to make a decision now or not at all.

  “Fine,” I said. “You take Gruber, and pump him for information on the bomb. I’ll tail Bateman and see if he can lead us to Moltke.” Before she could stalk off, I grabbed her wrist. “I’m going radio silent…”

  “Then you be safe,” she said, placing a kiss on my lips. “I’ll have Jackson watching over me.”

  I let her hand fall away from mine as she weaved through the crowd toward the coffee cart where Gruber still sat, waiting for Bateman to make himself scarce. I didn’t like it, not being there with her, but she was right. Mercy was more than capable. Section Seven wouldn’t have recruited, trained, and approved her for field duties if she weren’t.

  Leaving her to handle Gruber, I wandered through the crowd, tailing Bateman, conscious of the fact he still had his own men scattered about the market.

  Good thing for me, I was the best ghost out there.

  Chapter 8

  Mercy

  “Guten tag,” I said sweetly as I slid into the chair opposite Gruber.

  His eyes widened as he took me in, and his beady little eyes lingered far too long on my tits. He smiled then, obviously thinking it was his lucky day. How wrong he was.

  Loosening my gun underneath the table, I shoved the barrel against his dick and smiled as his body stiffened.

  “Who are you?” he asked, giving me the once-over.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” I replied. “What I want does.”

  “That could be anything.”

  “You’re building a bomb,” I declared. “I want it.”

  He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I can build you another, pretty girl. For the right price, of course.”

  “I want the one you have now,” I snapped. “And you’ll take me to it, or say goodbye to your left nut.”

  He didn’t drop his gaze from mine. “I’m fairly certain at this range, it’s my entire penis.”

  I smiled widely, imagining blowing off his cock in an entirely new kind of way. “Even better.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Am I?” I asked, tilting my head to the side. “Care to test me on that?”

  His jaw stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare shoot me in a public place.”

  “Let’s run through the scenario,” I said, twisting the gun against his filthy dick. “You try to run, and I shoot your cock off. The gunshot makes people scream and run in all directions. I slip away in the confusion while you sit here and bleed all over this nice patio chair. I disappear without breaking a sweat because I don’t even exist…and I’ll eventually get what I want by other means while you sit in a hospital someplace, crying into your milk because you’ll never have a filthy little worm to stick into an unwilling vagina again. Nothing will ever make you happy because all the money in the world will never replace the satisfaction of a good, old-fashioned orgasm. I’m pretty sure that’s your best-case scenario. At this range, I’m certain I’ll blow out your asshole as well, so there’s shitting into a bag for the rest of your life to look forward to on top of that. Sounds like a real meaningful existence, huh? Or…” I said, my lips curling into a smile. “You could just give me the fucking bomb.”

  Gruber stared at me open mouthed, and I felt completely satisfied that I had a biological terrorist lost for words in under one minute flat.

  “Shall we?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.

  The facility where Gruber had the bomb stored was a plain, boring concrete warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin.

  Like a lot of the buildings in the capital, it was Russian-made during the Cold War. That meant it was made entirely from concrete slabs because it was cheap and easy to construct.

  It didn’t look like anyone was at home, but that was kinda the point. Assholes like Gruber hid in plain sight, covering their tracks with legitimate business projects. They could bury the paper trail of their bomb-making scheme in among lawful chemical testing. One of the more tasty tidbits I’d learned while training with Section Seven.

  The car came to an abrupt halt, gravel sliding underneath the wheels.

  “Steady,” I said, shoving my gun harder against Gruber’s ribs. “You don’t want my finger to slip.”

  “That would be a shame,” he drawled.

  “Get out of the car, Gruber,” I snapped.

  Sliding out, I never once lowered my gun, ready to shoot the fucker if he tried to run. He led me inside without complaint, and I was extra vigilant for anything out of the ordinary. This was way too easy, and the air was ripe for a double-cross.

  “Tell me about the facility,” I ordered as we moved through the building.

  Gruber eyed me but didn’t try any funny business. “It’s a first-class chemical testing and development facility,” he said. “State-of-the-art clean rooms, biohazard containment, and laboratories.”

  “What else is stored here?”

  When we reached a locked door, he slid his keycard through a reader and opened the mechanism with his thumbprint. “Viruses, pesticides, pathogens, industrial solvents… All kinds of chemicals for all kinds of applications.” All kinds of applications, including chemical bombs designed for maximum carnage.

  The door opened
with a click that echoed through the empty hallway.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked, nudging him forward with the muzzle of my gun.

  “It’s Sunday,” Gruber retorted. “Even I don’t make my staff work on God’s day.”

  I snorted at the irony that a man like him would even think about going to church.

  He led me through the dark corridors until we reached a high-security clearance checkpoint. He let us through with his thumbprints and then again through a set of fortified double doors. Stepping inside the room behind Gruber, I realized we were in a laboratory. At one end was a containment chamber that was separated from the rest of the space with floor to ceiling glass and a metal door that most likely sealed airtight once engaged. Within the space was a clear table and on top was a strange looking device.

  “There,” Gruber said, nodding at the device on the other side of the glass. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “That’s the bomb?” I glanced over it again, and it didn’t look anything like I’d been expecting. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure what a chemical bomb was meant to look like.

  It was the shape of a football with a flat bottom, a clear container filled with what looked like a clear gel or liquid. The top section was metallic silver in color, a computerized screen set into the side, a few exposed wires traveling from the screen into the device itself.

  “What does Moltke want with it?” I asked.

  “How should I know?” Gruber shot back. “I make them. I get paid. I don’t ask questions. Once the weapon is out of my hands, it’s none of my business.”

  “You don’t care something you make kills innocent people?”

  He narrowed his eyes, his lip curling into a sly smirk. “Like I said, pretty girl. It’s none of my business.”

  I’d dealt with a lot of cold bastards in the short amount of time I’d been with X, Sykes was one I especially remembered, but it never failed to disgust me how little they cared for human life.

  I shook my head, and it was the tiny break in my concentration that he’d been waiting for.