A Risk Worth Taking

by Brynn Kelly

  A car engine. Shit.

  “Let’s get to the water,” she said, grabbing the boat. The hull was dented but intact. She could row him better than she could drag him, and if they could get far enough out, fog and darkness would screen them.

  He crawled a few feet and collapsed. She half carried, half dragged the boat to the water and ran back. The engine grew louder. As she reached Jamie, he flailed for her like he was blind.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I’ll help you up.”

  She lifted his arm across her shoulders. He arched, crying out. His bad arm. She changed sides and managed to haul him, staggering, to his feet. They limped and swayed to the water’s edge and she tipped him in the boat. Hazy headlight beams tracked around the loch. A few minutes away. She hesitated for a moment, then ran for the backpack. It was dusty but intact. Jamie wouldn’t survive long without clothes. She was sweating from exertion but the cold slapped her cheeks.

  She shoved the boat out until the water caught it, clambered over Jamie, freed the oars from their clips and bumped down onto the seat, facing the middle of the loch.

  No, that wasn’t right. Rowing was a thing you did backward. She rearranged herself, angled the oars into the water and pulled. An oar missed its mark, flailing in air. The dinghy spun toward one side. She adjusted and heaved. The hull scraped on stones, and then the boat shuddered clear, tippy but afloat. At the cottage, the burning tree flared like a giant torch. The chimney wobbled and toppled into the front yard with a booming thud. She pulled, finding a rhythm, every frigid inhalation stinging her lungs.

  The last time she’d rowed was in Britain, too, when her mother had rented a boat on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. This was a little different.

  Jamie heaved himself up, rocking the boat.

  “Keep still,” she hissed.

  He managed to sprawl across the rear plank seat, facedown. A finger of mist curled between the boat and the cottage. The headlights struck the smoking ruins, bumping as the car reached the rutted path. The engine strained. She hauled harder, the oars smacking into the water. Once the car pulled up she’d have to watch the noise but the goons’ attention would first be focused on the cottage. Had they heard her yelling to Jamie, over the audio feed? With luck, it’d take a while to figure out whether the two of them were buried under the rubble.

  Luck. Like they’d had a lot of that. Not a single thing had gone the way she’d planned. And the man who’d so far got her through all this craziness was currently semiconscious—and snoring. She pushed the toe of her boot into his thigh to shush him.

  Beside the cottage, a white blur coasted into view. The engine cut out. Doors opened and closed and four shadowy figures emerged and faded into the fog and smoke. Voices carried on the slight breeze but the words were indistinct. She smoothed her movements, wincing at every plop of the oars. After another minute the misty cloak descended, enclosing her and Jamie in a bubble of fog, the only landmark a diffuse amber glow from the tree. She chanced a glance over her shoulder. Even that wobbled the boat. A yellow fuzz marked the other side of the loch—the country house? They had to have heard the explosion. Could she beg for help?

  No. The house would be the first place the goons checked. Not to mention that anyone she asked for help would want to call the authorities—if they hadn’t already. Could she steal another car? How would she find the key?

  God, how had her life screwed up so badly that car theft seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea?

  A clattering noise rose, then a hiss. She caught her breath, checking the sides of the boat. A leak? A sea snake—loch snake? Was there such a thing?

  No, it was coming from Jamie—his teeth were chattering. How long did hypothermia take? She rowed another few minutes, secured the oars and yanked his clothes from the backpack.

  He’d roused enough to at least raise his arms as she pulled layers down over his top half, and help her tug jeans over his hips, once she’d channeled his feet in. His legs felt like refrigerated legs of ham. The boat swung and settled.

  “The fuck happened?” he said, too groggy to speak loudly, thank God.

  She laid a hand over his mouth, letting go only after he nodded his understanding. He managed to navigate the overcoat. As she dealt with his socks and forced on his shoes, she updated him, so quietly she little more than mouthed the words. Between that and his mental state she had no idea how much he comprehended—until he clutched her hands in his cold ones and whispered, “I’m sorry, Samira. This is what I do. I fuck things up. Can’t be trusted with the stuff. Thought I could resist but... I saw it there and... I fucked up.”

  She frowned. Couldn’t be trusted with what?

  Oh God, with drugs? Was that his big secret? A few hours earlier, his roughening appearance had been sexy—the stubble, the smile lines, the mussed hair—but now he was a disheveled wreck. Drugs. It made complete sense. The talk about addiction. His refusal to take painkillers. His regrets.

  Voices drifted from shore—the country house. The lights had brightened. She felt their pull like a lure. Warmth. Civilization. A manager who would take charge, fix this.

  But no one could fix it.

  “Let me row,” Jamie said.

  “I don’t even know where we’re going. Not the country house. They might be there. The police might be there.”

  Still, she swapped places, momentarily comforted by the touch of his hands on her hips, guiding her. How illogical was that? He wasn’t the capable, solid man she’d thought. Stupid thing was, he’d told her he wasn’t that man but she hadn’t believed it because she’d so desperately wanted a hero. She’d unlocked a level, all right, and found herself in a whole other dimension.

  He went to grab the oars, then planted his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

  “Jamie?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “I don’t think we have a minute.” Anger boiled in her belly, rose up her throat. She bit down on it, waited until it settled.

  “There’s a path over the hills to another loch,” he murmured. “I know somebody there who...might help us.”

  She noted the pause. “Might?”

  “There are no certainties in life.”

  “There certainly are not. Is this another good friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  “Someone who owes you a favor?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “But they’ll help.”

  “Probably.”

  “Jamie...”

  “Definitely. It’s definitely probable.” He scooped a hand into the water and splashed his face. “Fuck. Maybe we should beach and you go on ahead so I don’t slow you down.”

  “I don’t know the way. It’s dark.”

  “It’s just over...around the...through the... Fuck, you’re right. I’ll be okay. I’ll come right in a few hours.”

  “It’ll be dawn by then. You know their resources. We’ve just seen their resources—well, I did. How long until they get a helicopter up here?”

  “You’re right. You’re right.” He lurched up, grabbed the oars, took a stroke and hissed.

  “Oh God, your arm.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Don’t lie to me anymore. Don’t hide things from me. You keep saying you respect me but if that were true you wouldn’t shield me. I told you, it’s the surprises that make me freak out and panic, not the truth.”

  “You didn’t panic, Samira, just then. Well, no more than the average person would.”

  “How would you know? You weren’t there—well, you were there, but...”

  He exhaled heavily. “Okay, you’re right. So my shoulder hurts like fuck. Feels like my arm’s going to burn right off.”

  “That’s more like it but we should stop speaking. Move aside.” She clambered over and sat heavily next to him. “I’ll take one oar
.”

  “I’m sorry, Samira. I really am.”

  “Eshi.”

  “Aye, like my arm’s eshi.”

  They settled into silence, finding a rhythm, Samira pulling her oar with both arms, and taking Jamie’s lead on the navigation. He angled them to a spot on the shoreline midway between the country house and the cottage—or where she assumed the cottage was, as the burning tree was no longer visible.

  They beached the dinghy and Jamie held it steady while Samira stepped out. Icy water seeped into her boots. They stashed the boat among prickly bushes. Jamie opened a hatch and pulled out a plastic bag. “Emergency kit,” he said, throwing it to her. “Flares and stuff. Might be useful. Can you put it in the rucksack?”

  At least his brain seemed to have been jolted back to normal operating speed. While she packed, he covered the dinghy with ferns and a springy plant.

  “This way,” he whispered, tightening the straps on the backpack and setting out along the pebbly shore in the direction of the country house.

  “How do you know?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Instinct.”

  Huh. Her instinct had implored her to trust him. Luckily she hadn’t left their security completely to him. If she hadn’t set that camera trap... She caught up to him, wincing at the crunch under her boots.

  “How the hell did Hyland get away with launching a drone in Scotland?” Jamie said. “Isn’t that an act of war?”

  “He’s supposedly supervising a training exercise while he’s up here—the US military and the British Army. Maybe something to do with that?”

  “Maybe... So this two-factor authentication. Will they change the password now we’ve been sprung?”

  “Possibly, but they can’t be aware I’m in their files—they would have locked me out hours ago. They only know I accessed his email, which is separate.”

  “What about the websites and stuff we’ve been to—can they track all that now? My comms with Angelito...?”

  “Highly unlikely. I used secure software. Nothing’s infallible but...”

  “So all we’re needing is this gadget.”

  “You make it sound so simple. We can’t get it—he carries it with him. On him.”

  “That’s about as simple as it gets. Is there any other way we’ll end this thing?”

  “I’m going to blame the drugs because that’s crazy. We can’t walk up and steal it from him, right under the eyes of the diplomatic service. We’ll get arrested. Or worse. Probably worse.”

  “You prefer to spend the rest of your short life like this? Waiting for his goons to catch up?”

  “No, but—”

  “While Tess rots in jail? With Charlotte in danger?”

  “What the hell can I do about any of this?”

  “We.”

  “What?”

  “What can we do. We’re still in this together. Despite...” He stopped walking, holding out his arm to stop her, too. “We go up here.” He pushed past a weeping willow, then turned. “And Angelito and Holly will be in London by now. They can help. We’ll tell them to get to Edinburgh on the first train.”

  “Great. So instead of two of us against America’s finest diplomatic service agents and Hyland’s goons, it’ll be four.”

  “You see?” He resumed walking. “Doubling our chances. And Texas shouldn’t be far behind. Tripling our chances.”

  “An extra three people does not triple our chances.”

  “Texas is worth two regular people, at least.”

  She threw up her hands. “Jamie, stop joking. We’re talking dozens of people—armed, trained, constantly on alert. Plus the Edinburgh police and possibly Scotland Yard and the British Army and US military. Your friends will take us from zero chance to zero chance.”

  “There you go, overthinking it again.”

  “Really.”

  “Besides, you don’t know Angelito like I do. And Holly—she has a secret weapon. She is a secret weapon.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” It was an effort to keep her voice to a whisper. “Can she make herself invisible? Because that’s the only thing that might help.”

  “No, but she is kind of a shape-shifter.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, she can take on other forms. Well, just one other that I’m aware of. But it’s the form we’re needing.”

  “You’re making no sense.” The drugs. Shit, how long had he been under the influence—the whole time they’d been together? Had he taken more than just the sedative? Did that explain his bravado? She wanted to rewind their whole relationship, replay every conversation and every interaction with this new filter. How much of what she’d seen was him and how much some chemical imbalance? Had she fallen for Jamie or for some medically altered version of him?

  “I can feel you thinking, Samira.”

  “There has to be a better way.” An easier way. A more passive way. A safer way. The solution was supposed to be so neat and tidy. Online. From a distance.

  “Well, you work on that. In the meantime...” He turned, caught her waist and murmured in her ear. “Silence now. I’ll fill you in on the details after we lose these goons.”

  She looked behind, her heart jackhammering. “What goons?”

  “Up on the path.” He jerked his head as if he expected her to know where it was, took off the backpack and laid it on the ground. “Wait here.”

  She clutched his elbow. “What are you going to do? You’re injured. You have no weapons.”

  “Ah, but I’ve had very extensive training. And I have the home advantage.” He encircled her waist, yanked her into him and kissed her, hard. She smothered a squeak. “And now I have a wee dram of extra courage. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Courage. Like she had any to spare. She sank to the ground, touching her lips, as he pulled something from the backpack and crept noiselessly away. How could he bounce back to flirty and charming so quickly?

  Okay, so his betrayal hadn’t chipped at her insane attraction for him. Which was why she was putting her mind back in charge.

  He couldn’t be serious about going after Hyland. She’d been surrounded by diplomatic security her whole childhood, cushioned by it, flanked by it, driven around by it, tailed by it during her parents’ more volatile postings, secure in the knowledge that it was always there. And that was the Ethiopian diplomatic service, which wasn’t nearly as comprehensive as its US counterpart. There was never any mistaking when American diplomats were in town.

  A rustling, in the trees above. A thud. She scooted behind a large tree trunk. The thud of a body hitting dirt? She sank to the ground, drew her legs up and hugged them, conscious of her rasping breath. Her eyes had adjusted enough to see strands of mist threading around the trees, like cobwebs from a car-sized spider.

  In the distance, multiple car engines strained. Why no sirens? A cottage had just exploded.

  Voices, close. A man and a woman. Tooth by tooth, she unzipped the backpack, her throat tightening. There had to be something she could use to defend herself, if she needed to. She would no longer leave everything up to Jamie. A few hours ago she’d thought him a god. A god who was hiding something but who’d seemed as infallible as the security guards that’d protected her as a child.

  It was childish indeed to think anyone was infallible. But how could he take a sedative at a time like this? Unforgivable. And yet, that skip in her chest when he kissed her just now...

  “Samira Desta.” She swiveled, with a gasp. A man stepped out from a stand of trees a few meters away, a handgun pointed at her chest. The blond guy. “It’s been quite a trip,” he said. “Italy, London, here. But to be honest with you, I don’t much like traveling, so if you don’t mind, we’ll call this your final destination.”

  She flattened her back against the bag, her arms behind her. “You’re Irish.
” She didn’t know what she’d expected—but that wasn’t it.

  “I always had you figured for a smart woman. You’ve eluded us awhile—must say I’m impressed. I thought you’d be a far easier target than yer man, Latif. But someone like you can’t run from someone like me forever, just like he couldn’t.” He strolled closer, chatting like they’d known each other for years. “D’you think people will believe it if we put the word about that you were killed in a drone test gone wrong or is that too much of a coincidence? Maybe a gas canister explosion from a barbecue set by squatters. But, hey, these days, the public believe what they want to believe. What their leaders want them to believe. They think they’re so well-informed but really they’re more gullible than ever. No truth or lies anymore, just differing versions of the same story. But then, no one knows for sure where you are, which makes it very easy for you to disappear. Perhaps we don’t need to invent a story at all. Plenty of room in this forest for a double grave. Or that lake looks deep. Two well-weighted bodies could disappear forever.”

  An echoing crack rang out above them. A gunshot. Oh God. Jamie’s gun was...back at the cottage.

  He tilted his head. “There’s half the problem solved already.”

  No.

  He pulled a phone from a pocket of his dark coat—a satellite phone, which meant a secure line. “You might have to keep me company a little longer, though. The boss’d like a quick word before you...go. He’s very curious about you.” He pressed a button and held it to his ear. “Oh, and he has a surprise for you.”

  Her eyes stung. She blinked away the moisture. Jamie couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t accept that. He was too...alive. That gunshot...there had to be another explanation.

  Denial. The first stage of grief.

  No.

  “I have her,” the guy said, into the phone. He listened a second, then pulled it away from his ear, pretending to be covering the mic. “It’s for you!” he said, in a stage whisper.

  He threw it to her feet, keeping the gun aimed. The longer she stayed alive, the better, right? She edged a hand out and picked it up, keeping her movements slow.