Hard Choices (Blood Brothers #6)

by Manda Mellett

  Blood Brothers #6

  Manda Mellett

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Other Works by Manda Mellett

  Teaser: Rock Bottom

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Published 2018 by Trish Haill Associates

  Copyright © 2018 by Manda Mellett

  Edited by Brian Tedesco

  Book and Cover Design by Lia Rees at Free Your Words

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.mandamellett.com

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Warning

  This book is dark in places and contains content of a sexual, abusive and violent nature. It is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.

  ISBN: 978-1-912288-10-6

  Chapter 1

  Aiza

  Gritting my teeth as I eye the stairs, I already regret the promise I’d made to myself, that I’d start to exercise by walking up the four flights of stairs rather than be lazy and use the lift. As though to taunt me, the sound of the doors temptingly sliding open almost make me change my mind. Knowing that would do nothing to help me keep fit, I hoist my bag firmly over my shoulder and take the first step, and then the next, and continue methodically upwards, pleased that I’m only just breathing a little heavier than normal by the time I reach the fourth floor. Checking my pulse rate on my iWatch, I see it’s hardly risen at all. I’m not as out of shape as I thought.

  Wearily, I pause with my fingers gripping the handrail on the last step knowing the hard bit’s behind me and smile. I survived. I glance along the corridor, where my flat is the third one along. Then freeze. My door is open and not locked shut as it had been when I left it this morning.

  My heart beat speeds up, my brain taking only a split second to conclude that it would be madness to proceed further and investigate by myself. Is there a burglar inside? Someone waiting for me? I look sideways, seeing the indicators on the lift showing it’s currently on the twelfth floor, far away from my level. Deciding discretion is the better option at this point, I turn and quietly start descending back down the stairwell, my pace increasing the lower I get. My eyes are open wide, scanning for any danger as I make my way to the ground floor, my panic only subsiding when I reach the lobby and exit, almost at a run, onto the busy street.

  Knowing I may not yet be safe, I spy the coffee shop opposite my building. Quickly dodging the London traffic, I cross the road and slip inside, taking an empty table at the back and out of view of anyone who might be passing by on the pavement.

  My phone is immediately in my hand, and while part of me is screaming that I don’t want to place this call, I know I have no other choice, even though dialling just one number will end the months of anonymity I’ve been enjoying. I’ll lose my freedom. With danger literally at my door, I’d be crazy if I didn’t summon help. Some things can’t be handled alone.

  I’m not an ordinary citizen. Even if I did call the police like anyone else would to report a break-in if, hopefully, that’s all it turns out to be, it would call up the same shitstorm, even if it was by a more circuitous route. Whatever I do will alert the authorities to my presence in the UK. I’d do better to take the bull by the horns, pull up my big girl pants, cut out the middle man, and place myself directly in the line of fire. Damn. I thought I’d been clever.

  A waitress approaches. To avert any suspicion, I quickly plump for their special offer that’s advertised in huge letters over the counter—a cup of coffee and a toasted teacake. While she disappears to get my order, I take a deep breath to prepare myself, summon up contacts, and dial. The phone rings twice before it’s answered.

  “Ben Carter.”

  “Aiza Kassis.” I introduce myself quickly.

  “That’s why I answered so fast, Princess,” an amused voice tells me. “I do have number recognition, you know.”

  “I need your help,” I break in. This is no time for a general chit chat, as my quickened breathing and sweating palms remind me. “My flat’s been broken into. Someone might still be there, Ben.”

  “Why not ring a local contact?” I hear the curiosity in his voice.

  The time of reckoning approaching me with the speed of a runaway train, I inhale deeply again before admitting, “Because I’m in London.”

  Stunned silence. Then, “What the fuck, Aiza?” Ben’s voice takes on a deeper, angry tone. But fast getting to business, he ignores, for now at least, that as far as everyone is concerned, I’m supposed to be safely ensconced in Switzerland living in a secure compound. “What’s your location? Are you somewhere safe?”

  I confirm, relatively speaking, I am. My education guided me to a crowded place and a position out of the direct line of sight. I offer up the name of the coffee shop and the address where I’ve been living. After I hear his muffled conversation, which sounds like he’s got his hand over the mouthpiece, and I’ve got his attention again, I explain, “I got off work early. I saw my front door was open and decided to get out of there fast.”

  “Thank bloody goodness for small mercies,” Ben snarls, then sounds like he is trying to control his temper as his voice is calmer when he resumes. “Stay right where you are. I’ll have someone there as quickly as I can.” His clipped tones sound exasperated, so I do the only thing I can and meekly agree. I might have enjoyed my independence, however, now trouble’s quite literally come to my door, I’m not stupid enough to investigate or even show myself on the street.

  My coffee arrives, and despite that I feel keyed up and my hands are still shaking, the hot toasted teacake looks surprisingly inviting. Checking around, reassured no one’s taking any particular interest in me, believing I’m as safe as I can be, my stomach growls, suggesting it wouldn’t be averse to some food. I’d worked through lunch, so I’m hungry. While hoping the meal for one I thought I’d be shoving into the microwave is still going to be in my not so distant future once my flat has been made secure, I slather both halves of the bun with butter—well, I’ll work it off on the stairs later—and take a bite. It’s as good as it looks and
disappears fast. While I look in surprise at the few crumbs left on my plate, there’s a squeal of brakes outside and blue flashing lights have a kaleidoscope effect as they shine through the coffee shop’s windows. Peering around the other customers, I’m able to see a car door being flung open and a man in uniform stepping out.

  The police officer wastes no time entering the café, phone in hand, studying something on the screen and looks from it to the faces of the bemused customers wearing expressions ranging from simply curious to almost guilty. He scans the shop until his eyes alight on me seated in the back. Pushing through the inquisitive, and now relieved throng, he makes an obvious beeline to me. The release of tension around me is almost palpable and the suspicious glares now being thrown my way make me want to slide under the table.

  “Prin…”

  “Aiza Kassis,” I correct him before he can get my title out of his mouth. “Call me Aiza, please. I presume Ben Carter sent you?”

  Belatedly realising how much interest he’s drawing, he indicates the empty seat opposite. “May I?”

  I shrug. “Be my guest.”

  He pulls out the chair and squeezes his large frame into it, his eyes wide. Well, I suppose it’s not every day he comes face to face with royalty in a backstreet coffee shop in not the best part of town. Patiently I wait for him to begin to speak, which he does, leaning forwards conspiratorially and keeping his voice low.

  “Grade A Security called us in to keep you safe until they can get here.”

  I can’t help sniping. “I was hiding out of sight and hoping not to draw attention to myself.”

  His eyes widen further, and his brow creases. “Ah.”

  Ah, indeed. By approaching me so carelessly he might as well have painted a flashing arrow above my head. I sigh. Since arriving in England I’ve been successful in keeping under the radar. Now I have to accept I won’t be able to hide any longer. It’s not his fault, Ben Carter was only looking out for my safety. Grade A Security is based on the other side of the city, and it will take time for their operatives to get through the start of the rush hour traffic. By calling in the local boys in blue, Ben had made sure I had someone with me as soon as possible. Anyway, I reason, my game’s already up. I’ve already given myself, and my location, away when I placed that call to Ben.

  The waitress appears again, and the police officer declines any refreshment. While the coffee and cake were pleasant enough, I want nothing else, so simply ask for the bill. I pay in cash, adding in a decent enough tip. Having scooped up the money, she hovers, her face going from the policeman to me and then back again, then eventually realising we’re not going to drop any juicy details in her hearing, steps away to deal with her other tables.

  “Constable…?”

  “Crowther,” he supplies.

  And that’s the end of our conversation.

  We sit in awkward silence until a motorbike draws up outside, parking illegally on yellow lines right in front of the police car. Although it won’t get ticketed. Not today. I peer over the heads of the seated customers between me and the door, and watch with mixed feelings as the Grade A operative I have no problem recognising enters.

  He comes straight over, nodding dismissively at the police officer, and addresses me directly without resorting to formality. “You alright?”

  “I’m fine, Hunter. I turned tail and ran as soon as I saw something suspicious.”

  A sharp nod, then, “I can take it from here, Officer.”

  Constable Crowther stands. “You’re expecting back up?”

  Once again Hunter’s head dips and rises. “Yeah. I came on the bike to get here quicker. My colleagues aren’t far behind.”

  “We’ll be going in first.”

  Hunter’s face twists, he can’t argue a crime has been committed, and while Grade A might be security specialists, they have no authority over the police. He gives in gracefully, but shows they’re not going to be left out. “We’ll be right behind.”

  The tall, tousle-haired man waits until we’re alone, and then takes the seat Crowther had vacated. Unconsciously mimicking the action of the police officer moments earlier, he leans forwards over the table. There any similarity ends, as instead of being respectful and polite, he hisses, “What the fuck are you doing, Aiza?”

  Immediately bristling, not feeling any necessity to explain myself to him, I shake my head and give him all he needs to know. “I’ve been working in the UK for the past few months. I took a flat in the building opposite. I finished up quicker than expected today, came home earlier than usual, and found my door wide open. I didn’t wait to find out why.”

  “Working? What the fuck do you mean you’re working?” Hunter glares at me. I answer him with a shrug. I know what he, and everyone who doesn’t really know me, thinks of me. To them I’m just a spoiled princess, my life nothing more than living a pampered lifestyle, spending money from a huge allowance earned simply by being the younger sister of the emir of Amahad, a small but rich Arab state.

  As I stare into the eyes of the undeniably attractive man sitting opposite me, I don’t attempt to disavow him of his belief in the worthlessness of my existence. Refusing to justify myself, deigning not to explain how I spent all my hours not out partying as he probably expects, but instead studying, earning myself a degree in social sciences, and henceforth putting my energies into working for a charity that tries to bring much needed medical aid to children who need it to survive. Using my contacts and wealth not to entertain myself, but to link world-renowned surgeons with deserving cases who would die without their skills. A heart surgery here, a lung transplant there. My large allowance paying for air ambulances and, in many cases, hefty bribes—loosely called donations—to get around visa restrictions to get the child out of the country where they reside, then to the location where their treatment would take place.

  As the fourth child of the late emir, and being a girl at that, I was of no immediate use to my country. Coupled with my sex, the fact that my birth caused the of death of my mother meant I’d been shipped off abroad to boarding school at the earliest age possible. Out of sight and mind. After an education in England, I was sent not to university, but to a prestigious finishing school in Switzerland. There, to learn how to be a lady and to become perfect wife material to eventually make a marriage which would, at last, prove my worth to Amahad. It hadn’t been difficult to hide my rebellion over the years, as no one really cared what happened in that interim period before I would receive that expected call back home to do my duty. To become a bride purely to foster some diplomatic alliance. A future I’m determined to avoid.

  My relationship with my older brothers is cordial, though awkward, with a lack of understanding on all our parts, a result of spending hardly any time in each other’s company. The one positive being all three have ended up marrying English wives who’ve helped bring them into the twenty-first century. I’ve hopes I can enlist the Englishwomen onto my side when the question of my future marriage does eventually arise.

  Hunter stares at me, and I steadily meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. Our mutual contemplation allows me take in his all-American-boy appearance. Though he’s lived in England since his teenage years, he still retains that clean-cut look. Sharp blue-green eyes in a rounded face, reddish-brown hair which keeps adorably flopping over his forehead, and impressive muscles in his arms flexing as he raises a hand to push it back; in all, he’s wrapped in a good-looking package, making me wish we were meeting under different circumstances.

  He’s itching to question me further, the vibes I’m giving off informing him I’m not willing to talk. Before the silence becomes awkward, another vehicle draws up behind the police car and two men step out. Men I remember seeing around the palace when I’ve made my rare visits home to attend my brothers’ marriages. As they enter the coffee shop, Hunter rises to his feet to greet them.

  “Aiza, this is Ryan and Seth.” Then without pause asks, “Which apartment is yours?”

 
I give a small smile. Even though Hunter’s spent half his life in England, his American origins shine through in the accent he hasn’t quite lost, and the American terms he hangs onto. “I live in Flat 403.” I impart the information to Ryan, another tall, striking, muscular man. Not for the first time, I wonder if Grade A uses looks as part of their operatives’ selection procedure. Seth, standing slightly behind, wouldn’t score badly on an attraction register either.

  As I go to stand, Hunter waves me back down. “Let the boys go over there first. We need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “Um, excuse me, we’re closing up now,” the waitress manages to stammer out, even though her jaw has almost dropped to the floor. I don’t blame her for her reaction. Hunter, Ryan, and Seth make quite a striking trio.

  Hunter flashes her a grin filled with boyish charm. “Another five minutes, please, ma’am?”

  Her face flushing, she looks like she needs to fan herself as she answers with a jerk of her head and slowly backs away and disappears out the back. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone to find a fresh pair of underwear.

  It’s actually ten minutes before Seth and Ryan reappear and the police car takes off. Hunter pushes away from the counter where he’s been leaning and raises an eyebrow. I stand. This is my business, and I want to know anything and everything they’ve found.

  “Door was shut. Locked. Nothing inside looked disturbed,” Ryan updates, his brow furrowed.

  Quickly I fill in the blanks. If the door was no longer open, someone had to have closed it, and that means… “He was there when I went up.”

  “He, she, they. Yeah, Aiza. If you weren’t mistaken about the door, that would be the conclusion I’d have to come to as well.” Ryan’s mouth turns down. I interpret his expression as sympathy.

  “I wasn’t mistaken,” I confirm. “The door was definitely open when I got home.” The knowledge my home’s been invaded is chilling. I’m just relieved I had followed my instinct and not gone to investigate myself. Someone would still have been there. Then something else Ryan had said filters through, and my eyes narrow, remembering that having expected the door to be open, I hadn’t handed over my keys. “How did you get in? Did you break the lock?” That would be one more thing for me to deal with.