by Leslie Jones
She followed him into the kitchen. “She’s offered to let us stay here for a while.”
“That’s good of her. You still trust her after talking with her?” He looked around the kitchen, hands on his hips. “I’m speechless.”
She nodded emphatically. “Yes. I’ve trusted her in the past with sensitive information, and she’s never let me down.”
He picked up a box of cereal and looked at the back. “Good.”
She cleared her throat. “The refrigerator is empty. Are you hungry?”
He continued to pace, picking things up and setting them down again. “Not particularly, but you should eat.”
“I’m not hungry, either.” Truthfully, her stomach ached, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.
Trevor stopped and they looked at one another. The silence was awkward. Shelby solved the problem by walking into the living room and sitting in a rose-patterned plush chair, pushing aside a pair of rainbow throw pillows.
Trevor followed her and claimed another seat, stretching his long legs in front of him and lacing his hands behind his head. “Well, I owe her one.”
“She’ll collect, believe me. So what happens now?”
Trevor rolled his head toward her. “Now I call in to my superiors. In a minute.”
He clearly had something he wanted to say. She gestured for him to keep going.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this. You need to clear your name. You need to go to the police. Explain what happened. They’ll put you into protective custody.”
Shelby narrowed a glare at him. “And how am I supposed to explain my disappearance from the museum? No matter what, I’m now a suspect.”
“You can say I took you against your will.”
“Which will make it look even worse. How would I have escaped?”
“I let you go?”
Shelby shook her head. “They’ll have questions I can’t answer. And if I go into protective custody, I have no chance of getting those answers. Until we find the brains behind the brawn, you and I are joined at the hip, buster.”
“Buster?” He quirked a small smile.
“Yeah. I can help, Trevor.”
He gave a slow nod. “All right. Joined at the hip.”
For now. She read it in his face.
Someone knocked at the door. Trevor transformed before her eyes in a single instant from relaxed man to SAS warrior. He drew the Beretta and stalked to the door, placing himself to one side of it and peering out the hole. He looked back at her with raised eyebrows, unlocked the door and opened it wide. Lark walked in.
“You can’t be anyone other than Hadley Larkspur,” he said. The Beretta vanished.
She looked him over, admiration in her eyes. “And you’re Hunky Guy. Nice to meet you.”
Trevor stuck out his hand, and they shook.
“But call me Hadley again, and we’re going to have a problem.”
Trevor grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lark groaned. “Jesus. That’s even worse.” She came over to Shelby, bent down, and gave her a hug. “You find the place okay?”
“Yeah, no problem. Thank you again for—”
“Shut up, or I’ll dope-slap you.” Lark set her laptop case on the coffee table, making room by shoving some books out of the way. A magazine slid to the floor. “You know I’m only doing this for the exclusive.”
That wasn’t true, but she let it slide. Lark marched to her own drummer and obeyed her own logic, but if there was one thing Shelby had learned, it was that she was fiercely loyal to her friends.
“And you’ll get it,” Trevor said. “Thank you for your help. And for your discretion.”
Lark laughed, a musical flowery sound that had Trevor smiling at her. Shelby felt a clench in her gut. “Discretion is my middle name. Actually, it’s Nia, but if you call me that, we’re going to have a problem.”
Trevor inclined his head solemnly. “Lark it is, then.”
She took her computer to the kitchen table. Shelby followed her. “Are you sure we’re not going to cramp your style?”
Lark booted up the laptop. “Nah. I’m between boyfriends. Hunky Guy, want to see the Facebook post that nailed you?”
Trevor came to peer over her shoulder. “Actually, if you could just call me Trevor . . . ?”
“Trevor it is, then.” She grinned as she mimicked his own words. Bringing up a web browser, she typed in a few commands. Trevor’s picture popped up. He read the caption and winced.
“Lovely.”
Lark’s eyes twinkled. “Not flattered, huh? I don’t know. She’s kind of pretty.”
“She’s jailbait.” His brows wrinkled as he examined Chastity69’s photo. “I’m a Muppet if she’s even sixteen.”
“A . . . Muppet?”
“Gullible. A simpleton.”
“That’s a new one. I like it.”
Shelby stomach rumbled, loud enough for the others to hear. “Sorry.”
Lark slapped her forehead. “Duh. It’s almost seven. Who’s up for Chinese?”
“Definitely.”
“Brilliant.”
While Lark phoned in their order, Shelby sidled closer to Trevor. “You want to tell me what really happened out there this afternoon? You seem to have acquired several more guns. Did you take them from the police officers?”
“No. I merely disabled them temporarily. But”—he paused.—“The two Bedlamites who held you in the hotel room had an observer outside.”
“What does that mean? A lookout?”
“A sniper.”
Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, dumbfounded. “A sniper shot at you?”
He shrugged. “Strictly an amateur. But it did give us another semiautomatic.”
How could he sound so calm about this? When the two Bedlamites had forced their way into her hotel room, she’d been so scared her knees literally knocked together. She’d never been happier to hear Trevor’s voice. A second later, she’d been face-to-face with a bloody corpse, his eyes open and staring at nothing.
“So this is just another Sunday for you?” She tried to modulate her tone, but knew it came out strident.
Trevor put his hands on her shoulders. “Shelby, look at me. I’m a highly trained special operator. I’ve served in the SAS for twelve years. I know what I’m doing.”
“Shh!” She flapped both hands downward. “She’ll hear you!”
He sighed, running a hand across the back of his neck. “I need to check in. They’ll be wondering why I haven’t.”
“Check in with who?” Lark appeared beside them, her bright bird-eyes curious.
Trevor peered down at her. “What happened to your clothes?”
Shelby did a double take. When she’d met Lark at the coffee shop, she’d been wearing a tank top layered with a purple plaid flannel shirt and cropped leather jacket over skinny jeans and ankle boots. Paired with a long necklace and bangles, Lark had looked like the poster child for hipster dress. Now, however, she wore low-riding frayed denim short shorts and a cropped top that showed off her midriff. Her feet were bare.
“Those were my work clothes. These are my home clothes. You don’t like them?” she asked, with an impish grin.
“They look . . . comfortable.”
“Comfortable, eh?” Lark laughed. “So what exactly is your story, Hunky Guy?”
“Just a man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Lark paused to consider him. “Not ready to trust me. Okay, I get it. So I’ll tell you about me. Fair’s fair.”
Shelby’s brows shot into her hairline. The Lark she knew was unbelievably closemouthed about her background. Shelby had gleaned what she knew over months of interaction with her. She waited, breath held, to see what the other woman would say.
“I’m
twenty-three. Born and raised in Massachusetts, the most liberal state in the Union, to two unbelievably narrow-minded parents.” She shrugged. “Whatevs. When I finish this semester here in London, I go back to Duke for my last semester of grad school. I can make computers sing and dance. I can program in eight languages. But the most fun I’ve had in years is digging up dirt . . . I mean, doing background research on the exposés Cerberus does.”
Trevor settled his hips back against the kitchen counter. “You want to be a reporter?”
“For a while, sure. Maybe. I just want to do it to say I’ve done it, you know? I guess once I’ve done something, I don’t want to keep on doing it. What’s the point?”
“What about your studies? What do you see yourself doing after university?”
Lark lifted her shoulders and turned her palms up. “Still figuring that part out.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“That was fast,” Trevor said.
“They’re literally right next to this building,” Lark said. “I order from them all the time.”
Trevor went to the front door and looked through the peephole. “Delivery man. Shelby and I will wait in the kitchen.” He drew his wallet and extended several bills to her.
Lark didn’t protest, taking the money with a grin. “Felons pay all incidentals.”
In moments, she returned with several large bags, which she took into the living room and set on the coffee table. “Dinner is served.”
They loaded their plates. Lark took the seat next to Trevor on the sofa. They watched a news segment on the aftermath of the museum standoff. Several of the former hostages gave interviews. All sent their prayers that Shelby Gibson would also be released unharmed.
“I’m glad they let the hostages go,” Shelby said.
Trevor agreed. “I know you think I made the wrong choice, saving you above the other hostages. But I know Eric, and believed he wouldn’t take unneeded baggage any farther than he had to. It’s bad enough now that they’ll be able to do a police sketch of him. He wouldn’t want anyone privy to his plans.”
“Your superiors clearly know who they are, since they sent you in because you knew their leader. Why can’t they just go arrest them?” Shelby knew better than to name the MI-5/SAS task force with Lark in earshot.
“First they have to find them. I gave them the hideout’s location, but when they got there, the PoB had gone.”
“Well, I sure don’t want to ever see them again.”
He smiled. “You handled yourself very well in the museum. I got the impression you were more annoyed than frightened.”
“I guess so. I should have been scared, but you were there. I knew you would find a way to diffuse the situation. I’m sorry you blew your cover, though.”
“Not entirely sure I have. I can always say I was carried away by lust. That’s what you wanted them to think, right? When you tore your dress?”
Lark looked up from her lo mein. “You did what?”
“I felt there needed to be a reason Trevor took me into the office. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Shelby’s face reddened. “I guess it was stupid.”
“Not at all,” Trevor corrected. “Better me than that lunatic Crawley.”
Lark speared some chicken into her mouth, talking around the edges. “That took guts. So did trusting me. So thanks for that.”
Trevor looked at her. “Thank you for not turning us in.”
“And miss all this excitement? No fucking way.”
Chapter Fourteen
SHELBY AND LARK picked up the plates and food containers and went into the kitchen to wash up. Trevor waited until he heard the sink running, then switched on the telly to mask his conversation. He fished the burner phone out of his pocket and dialed.
His contact answered on the second ring. “Danby.”
“It’s Carswell.”
“ ’Bout damned time you checked it. Have you seen the news?”
“I have. There’s been a wrinkle.”
Danby laughed. “I’ve gathered that, my good man. Where are you?”
“Someplace safe.” He didn’t want anyone knowing about Lark. “With a friend.”
“So what do you intend to do next, old boy? The mission’s gone to bust.”
Trevor grimaced. “I had to separate from the Bedlamites. It was unavoidable.”
“Take me through it. What happened?”
In his overriding need to keep Shelby safe, he’d blown the mission. That would go over like a lead balloon. “Scotland Yard jumped the pull. I had no choice but to allow Eric Koller to barricade us inside. Fourteen patrons inside became hostages.”
“And?”
“I didn’t feel they were in imminent danger. Eric Koller, the cell leader, is highly idealistic and will fight in a war, declared or undeclared. But he’s never participated in executions, to my knowledge. As time passed and tensions heightened, he started losing control over two cell members. Fay Star—what she calls herself, anyway—blames the establishment for every wrong she’s ever suffered, and has the ability to kill in cold blood, but I stand by my assessment that she wouldn’t pull the trigger without Eric’s okay. The other, Calvin Crawley, is simply a psychopath. He stabbed one of the hostages for no reason whatever.”
“Mr. Panderson. So you erred in your judgment.”
Trevor pressed his lips together. “Yes.”
“Why did you separate from the cell?”
“I believed that when Eric found a way out of the museum, he would leave the baggage—the hostages—behind.” Trevor hesitated. “One hostage was in imminent danger, though. I felt I had no choice but to remove the threat to her.”
“A woman, eh?” Danby sounded less than pleased. “I hope she’s worth it. We’ve lost our chance at them.”
“Not entirely. When I first went undercover, I met the man directing the Bedlamites from the shadows. The puppeteer. He calls himself Mr. Smith. My objective now is to find out who this man is. The Bedlamites aren’t just trying to cause havoc. They seem to be searching for something. Once I discover what it is, we can take them all in one fell swoop.”
Danby was quiet.
“It would help if I wasn’t being hunted.”
Danby laughed. “My good man, you’re too hot to touch right now. I can’t get you off the hook with Scotland Yard. I can’t even take the heat off you with the Metropolitan Police. The most I can do is quash any rumors about SAS involvement.”
“And intercept the warrant to track Shelby Gibson’s mobile, I assume?”
“Quite. Although, if Ms. Gibson is not a Bedlamite, she should turn herself in to clear her name.”
He tightened his fist around the phone. “Not until I’m sure Mr. Smith wouldn’t be able to get to her.”
“Here are the options as I see them,” Danby said. “You hunt down the Bedlamites and we eliminate that threat. You continue to search for Mr. Smith. Or, you come in from the cold and we declare this mission a bust.”
“It would help if I had MI-5’s resources.”
“I’ll relay any information you need.”
The slight emphasis on information told Trevor he could expect no ground support or equipment. He closed his eyes, keeping his breathing deep and steady. “You’re hanging me out to dry, my good man.” He didn’t try to disguise his sarcasm.
“Aren’t you SAS boys masters of pulling results out of your arseholes? This should be right up your alley.”
Trevor indulged himself for several moments, imagining slamming his fist into Danby’s smug MI-5 face. More than once.
“Right, then. How do you want to proceed?”
“I’ll get back to you, Danby.” Trevor jabbed the button to end the call with more force than necessary. He felt more than heard a movement behind him, and turned to see Shelby and Lark
in the doorway, obviously eavesdropping. He gripped the phone hard before pocketing it. “It looks like I’m on my own.”
He turned away from the hurt in Shelby’s eyes.
“What about us?” she asked.
“As long as Lark’s willing, I think you should stay here where it’s safe. If Lark digs up anything, I’ll use it or bring it to my contact. Otherwise, I’m going after them myself.”
“Yourself.”
“Yes.”
Shelby seemed to shrink in on herself. “Yeah, I guess we’re just liabilities.”
“That’s not what I meant. But I’m trained. You’re not.”
Lark threw up her hands, causing her multiple bracelets to jangle. “Then I’d better get started, before you start a one-man war.”
“Were you able to find out anything about the Bedlamites this afternoon?” Shelby asked.
“Fluff and stuff. It’s going to take some time to get to the real meat. The open source stuff says the Philosophy of Bedlam are zealots. I can’t tell from their website if they want an unrecognized government or no government. Hey, did you know that Bedlam was the name of a hospital for the insane in the mid-thirteenth century? It didn’t help people. It was just a place to shove the nut-jobs so they were out of the public eye. Either way, these crazies seem to feel that the absolute freedom of the individual can only come about through lawlessness. Stupid fucks.”
While Lark tapped away on her keyboard, Trevor and Shelby sat side by side on the couch, not speaking as they waited for an update on the Bedlamites. He felt her frustration and disappointment. But he knew these men. They were dangerous, and he wanted her safe.
When the news segment finally came on, he was disappointed to find nothing new. Eric and the others had made good their escape.
Shelby picked up the remote to turn the television off as the news shifted to a segment on American presidential candidates. Just as she went to press the button, Trevor leapt to his feet.
“Holy hell!”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Shelby looked around, eyes wide.
“That’s him!” Trevor practically roared. “The puppeteer. Mr. Smith.” He pointed toward the screen. “We need to find out who that man is ASAP.”