Love Another Day

by Gina Robinson

  Mal slipped and caught herself with a hand against the rough grain of the wall. She wielded her key-chain flashlight and negotiated the steps more carefully. She’d watched Tate sail out of the room with a giggling Sophia on his arm and then scrubbed the room of anything that would give them away to RIOT before leaving. She’d latched the door to the secret passage carefully and locked it behind her. Her thoughts were as dark as the passageway as she made her way toward the exit and Mason, looking over her shoulder from time to time as if she expected RIOT to be on her tail already.

  When she reached the exit, the door lock was stuck. Remind Mason to get some graphite on this lock. She swore to herself until she finally got the key to turn. Why do little things always go wrong when I’m in a hurry?

  She had just minutes to get out of the building, meet Mason, and get in position to cover Tate when he and Sophia left the hotel. The plan was that she and Mason would tail them, keeping watch for any enemy tails and taking any out.

  Mal turned the handle and the door stuck. Damn, damn, damn! Bloody door! How easy it was to slip into Brit-speak.

  She took a deep breath and sighed. This must be another RIOT plot to foil us.

  She didn’t remember Mason having this trouble when he showed them the secret route the day they arrived.

  There was nothing for it. She was going to have to use her brute strength, meager as it was, and either knock the door loose or break it down. She hoped that door wasn’t as dirty as the rest of the passage or it was curtains for her pretty white sweater.

  She aimed her shoulder at it and gave it a good ram. Ouch! That stung.

  The door remained unsympathetic to her pain and stubbornly closed. She rubbed her newly aching shoulder. Great, it can join my bruised foot. A matching set.

  She eyed the door, ran her flashlight over it looking for weak spots, drew a bead on the most likely spot with her shoulder and threw herself at the door again, wishing for the first time in her life that she’d been born stocky like her brother. The door shuddered, groaned, and gave way. She tumbled out, right into Mason’s open arms, ending up bracing herself against his hard chest.

  “Now that’s the kind of enthusiastic greeting I like—women simply falling into my arms from out of nowhere.” His eyes danced and he was smiling.

  “And here I thought you were expecting me.” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “There must be a trick to that beast. Did I have to say ‘open sesame’ or something?”

  “Now that you mention it, it is a bit of a beast. Oh, you soiled your sweater.” He gave her shoulder a gentle brush. “Nothing but a bit of dust.” He swatted at her shoulder again while she tried not to wince. He studied his work and smiled. “There you go! All gone and back to rights and snowy white.” His gaze bounced to the door again. “She can be cranky. You have to know how to coax the old girl.”

  “You might have mentioned it.”

  “And missed out on having you in my arms?”

  She pulled out of his embrace and dusted herself off, resisting the urge to look pointedly around for RIOT creeps. “Do we have company?”

  “Not yet.” Mason shut and locked the door. “But we mustn’t linger near doorways. You never can tell with RIOT agents. They show up uninvited at the most inconvenient times.” Mason offered her his arm and led her through a beautiful, fragrant, traditional English garden full of pink roses, lavender, hostas, and lilies as if they were merely out for a stroll and in no rush at all to get into position to play bodyguard to Tate and his charge.

  “Shouldn’t we hurry?” she asked him when her subtle efforts to move faster failed.

  “We have plenty of time. Tate knows the route. If we miss him, we’ll catch up to him well before he reaches the car.”

  “What if someone else doesn’t miss him?” she asked.

  Mason grinned. “Don’t worry about Tate.”

  There wasn’t anything more beautiful than a dewy English garden on a sunny June morning. Gunfire and blood would absolutely ruin its ambience.

  At the edge of the garden, near a lush patch of magenta daylilies, Mason hesitated. “Into the hedgerow with you.” He gave her a gentle shove and followed her into the bushes.

  There was a locked gate buried within. Mason unlocked it and pushed it open, extending his arm. “After you.”

  “How gentlemanly. First out of the hedgerow will take the first bullet.”

  He laughed. “And I’ll be forever sorry, wondering what could have been.” He sounded almost serious.

  But he was a playboy from the same mold as Tate. A woman couldn’t trust what he said.

  “I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

  He smiled, held her back, and took a look around. “The alley is clear.”

  She stepped out with Mason following her. He took the lead and led them to a carpark just up the street. Another of those tiny British cars waited for them. It looked suitably unimpressive.

  “I hope that thing’s turbocharged,” she said.

  “Better—it has wings.”

  She stared at him, wanting to believe him. He was so very much like Bond come to life that it seemed almost possible. She laughed. “Shut up!”

  “Almost had you.” He beeped the car.

  There was a second where they both held their breath, almost expecting it to explode and burst into flame. The moment passed. He pulled out a mirror and wanded the car, looking for bombs in the undercarriage.

  “You’d think I’d be less gullible than the average girl on the street.” Mal watched the proceedings. “In my defense, I’ve seen some pretty fantastical stuff.”

  “Really?” He tucked his folding mirror on a stick away. “Like what?”

  “You said that with such a straight face. Do you really expect me to easily spill top secret intel?” She laughed.

  “A spy can try.” He walked to the passenger side of the car and opened the door.

  She shook her head and held out her hand for the keys. “No way I’m riding shotgun again. I’m much better at driving than playing sniper.”

  He hesitated.

  She tilted her head, gave him a serious look, and waved at him with her palm up, urging him to toss the keys to her. “Come on. I work for the Agency, and better yet, I was married to Tate. I’ve taken more than my share of driving classes. I had to keep up somehow.”

  He made a point of sighing, and followed it with a laugh. “You win.” He threw the keys to her. “I’ll give you directions.”

  “Fine by me. As long as you aren’t a backseat driver.”

  “I have no intention of being in the backseat.”

  She smiled at him and slid into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

  “I know a cozy little spot where we can watch the hotel entrance.”

  * * *

  Danger and threat had always given Tate a rush. But now as he walked down the steps toward the lobby with Sophia clutching his arm and giggling and gushing about sightseeing, he sensed the gravity of what his job required. And the consequences of failure and mistakes.

  He mentally cursed Emmett again for sending Mal on this mission, but not in the same spirit he’d had at the outset. Now he was genuinely worried about her. Everything hinged on Sophia keeping her cool and doing at least a passable imitation of Mallie.

  Tate was not an exfiltration expert, but he’d heard stories from his colleagues who were and asked for tips before he left on this mission. Fellow spies were much easier to exfiltrate than everyday citizens. They knew tradecraft and how to keep their cool under pressure and danger of being found out. They knew how to maintain a cover. Everyday people got too nervous and easily slipped up. Even an innocent comment that was off cover could blow things.

  The experts had coached him that it was best to give your target a cover that was as close to their real lives as possible and get them to memorize every detail of their cover life. Looking like Mal and being a mathematics grad student was a brilliant cover for Sophia. Tate gave Mal and the Agen
cy credit for that.

  Working for RIOT, Sophia fell in between spy and average citizen. There had been no time to have her memorize the details of her cover story. Fortunately, they were exfiltrating her from an ally country who would help. But RIOT would be looking for her under every moss-covered English rock. And unless Tate missed his guess, RIOT had double agents working in every aspect of British society. One small slipup once they noticed Sophia was missing and the whole thing could go down the tank. He and Sophia could both end up dead. And Mal and Mason, too.

  The thought of Mal being shot bothered him most. And of Kayla being left orphaned to be fought over by both of their mothers. He’d never admit this to Mal, but in a custody battle between their two mothers, he hoped hers won. His mom, Lenora, was a force to be reckoned with. She had more money and more influence and power. She’d been good for Tate and forged him into the man he was. But she was cold. Tate’s little girl deserved open love and affection. His former mother-in-law overflowed with love for Kayla.

  Sophia just had to keep up the act until they were out of Cheltenham. Then it should be smooth sailing until they reached Heathrow. There would be a lot of pressure to hold her head there. Once they cleared security and were on the plane and out of British airspace, everything would be fine. Mission accomplished.

  He patted Sophia’s hand where it clutched his arm. She flashed him an adoring smile full of hero worship and faith.

  How much information did RIOT have on him? What caused this girl to fall in love with him simply from his files and photos?

  They turned the final corner of the steps into the lobby.

  “You’re doing fantastic,” he whispered to her. “I think you have Mallie’s walk down perfectly.”

  Even smiling she looked frightened and who could blame her? If RIOT had caught on to what was going on, they could end her life with a sniper bullet as they came around the corner and took the last half flight of stairs into the lobby. He had to encourage her and keep her confidence up. “You’re doing great. Keep it up through the lobby. Once we’re out on the street, it should be smooth sailing.”

  Mercifully, the lobby was empty. The front desk clerk looked up and smiled at them. “Dr. Stevens. Miss Green. Off to see the sights and enjoy the festival?”

  “That we are,” Tate answered.

  Sophia smiled shyly, a little too shyly, and nodded.

  “First day is always exciting,” the clerk said. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  “We will. Thank you.” Tate led Sophia to the door. “See? That wasn’t so bad. You fooled him.”

  But it was false praise just to bolster her. The desk clerk should have been just about the easiest person on the planet to fool, right above a complete stranger. From even a slight distance, Sophia’s general similarity to Mal, Mal’s clothes, and her expert makeup job should have fooled her own mother. For a second, at least.

  Once they were out of the hotel, their chances of meeting anyone familiar dramatically decreased. Tate’s heart raced as he strolled, propelling Sophia along, toward the door. He hoped like hell RIOT didn’t come charging down the stairs with guns blazing and that Mason and Mal had disabled any potential threats outside the hotel.

  They crossed the lobby without a problem. Tate held the door open for Sophia. And they were out in the fresh English air with the sun shining down on them. Tate took a deep breath, ready to heave a sigh of relief just as Vail Belanger turned up the walk and waved to him.

  Damn. Of all the bad luck and timing.

  Tate whispered to Sophia out of the side of his mouth, “That fat man is a fake. A French spy who’s already suspicious about why I’m here. He knows Mal well enough to recognize her. And he knows she’s my ex. Let me do the talking. Especially if he mistakes you for her. Pretend you’ve lost your voice if you have to.”

  * * *

  Mal cruised past Dashwood House with Mason playing lookout.

  “No one idly lounging around. No known terrorists. No one depositing backpacks,” Mason said. “Pull over there.”

  He directed Mal to a secluded spot with a clear view of the hotel entrance.

  “How convenient this prime spot is open,” Mal said, casually as she parked the car, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Yes, very.”

  “You couldn’t have parked here in the first place? It was hardly worth burning the petrol from starting the car to go such a short distance and I would have enjoyed the walk.”

  “Two problems with that—I prefer having a little armor between me and people who might like to kill me and, more importantly, this spot wasn’t open when I arrived.” He smiled devilishly, letting Mal know a tow truck had probably done his dirty work for him.

  “The power of MI5,” she said.

  “Now for the boring part of surveillance. We watch and wait.”

  “Tate has impeccable timing. He’ll be out any minute.” She hoped.

  Mason had gone silent and was staring at something. “Fucker,” he whispered beneath his breath.

  Mal followed his line of sight. A white man—average height, average build, light brown hair—was walking down the street. He wore a gray hoodie and jeans like a tourist and looked about as nonthreatening as a person could—

  She squinted, studying him, trying to see what Mason did. And then it hit her. “Asymmetrical gait. Right-side stride is shorter.” The hair stood up on the back of her neck.

  Another pedestrian passed him and the guy did an upper-body shift, protecting his right side. The pedestrian turned and disappeared into a small café. Fortunately, it was early and the street was deserted except for Mr. Average.

  “Upper-body shift.” Mason reached for the door, gaze glued on Mr. Average, body poised for flight.

  The guy stepped up on the curb and made a quick circular movement with his hand, a clear indicator he had a gun. A gun carries its weight in the grip, rather than the barrel. As a consequence, it’s unbalanced and shifts easily in a pocket when the shooter goes up stairs or steps up on a curb. Tate had taught her that. Handguns were illegal in Britain, which meant—

  “Strike three!” Mason slid out of the car and walked casually, trailing Average, gun drawn in his jacket pocket.

  Mal reached for her purse and pulled out her pink pistol, which intentionally looked almost like a toy. She silently cursed as she grabbed her keys, wondering what to do next.

  She shook her head. In all probability, Average was Sophia’s handler, Edvid Bagge, badass RIOT assassin. Mal looked up Bagge’s profile on her cell phone and made a visual ID. Yes, definitely Bagge. Damn.

  Average walked casually toward a gap between buildings, acting as if he had no idea he was being followed. Mal saw it all playing before her eyes as if in slow motion. Bagge was leading Mason into a trap. It was the old box-canyon trick.

  Mal slid out of the car and took off after them, praying no one else came along. The last thing they needed was a witness to blow their cover and the mission.

  Bagge ducked into the shade in the gap and waited. It all happened so quickly, there was no time to yell a warning. As Mason came even with the gap, gun drawn, Bagge took aim at Mason’s chest. Mal removed the safety and took aim with her handgun, initiating the laser sight.

  Just as Bagge was about to squeeze the trigger, he looked down and saw the red laser bead aimed at his heart. The bastard grinned. Mal had no choice. She squeezed the trigger.

  Bagge clutched his chest. His knees buckled, and with a crazy grin still on his face, he fell to the ground.

  The pink pistol had a silencer and very little kick. Mal couldn’t believe she’d actually shot.

  Mason ran to Bagge. By the time Mal reached them, Bagge was foaming at the mouth.

  “Suicide pill,” Mason said with disgust, his gun aimed at Bagge’s temple. “He won’t tell us anything.” He glanced at Mal. “Nice shot. One threat down. Next time go for the head.”

  She was shaking. “I’m not an assassin. I aim for what I think I can hit—the largest target.” S
he stared at Bagge, shaken even though he was a piece of scum who’d killed more than his share of friendly agents.

  Mason put his arm around her. “Don’t take it so hard. He killed himself.”

  She nodded, trying to believe Mason was right. “What do we do with him now?” she said, trying to sound dispassionate and professional.

  “You, in your pristine white jeans, need to step aside while I pull him out of sight and call Witham to get rid of him before someone finds him.”

  Being exposed and leaving Tate uncovered was making Mal jumpy, especially given how real the threat was. RIOT killers traveled in packs. She glanced over her shoulder at the street just in time to see the French spy Vail Belanger, dressed in a fat suit, appear around the corner headed toward Dashwood House.

  “Tate’s in more trouble.” She pointed to Belanger. “That fake fat man could blow our whole mission. Let’s hope Sophia really can act.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Dr. Stevens, I presume?” Vail Belanger cocked a brow as if asking a question and laughed, shaking his fat-suit belly and running his gaze over every curvaceous inch of Sophia with a lusty, curious twinkle in his eyes. The way he studied Sophia, it was obvious he recognized her, and yet he didn’t. He sensed something was off.

  Damn him, Tate thought, enjoying Vail’s confusion while cursing the Frenchman for playing spy games with him and slowing his escape.

  “We meet again,” Vail prompted in his very British accent.