London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  Every muscle in her body fought to hold herself upright against the g-forces created in their escape.

  “Who the hell are they?” she demanded.

  “I’m not sure, but I think they’re Russians. Know them?”

  “Why would I know them?”

  He grumbled something she didn’t understand.

  He swerved into a driveway, slammed on his brakes and then punched forward onto the road, this time doubling his speed. Her stomach reeled at the jerking movements.

  “You’re a lunatic.” She turned around. The SUV was catching up.

  “Maybe.” He reached in front of her and opened the glove compartment, pulling out two handguns, both PPKs. “Can you use these?”

  “Sure.”

  Her kidnapper handed over two deadly weapons and pointed to the magazines inside the compartment. As she’d done hundreds of times since going to the firing range with her father at twelve years old, she looked over the gun and inserted the magazines into each grip until they locked in place.

  Once loaded, she left them on her lap and blinked a few times, trying to wake up enough to understand what was going on around her. Should she take out her kidnapper or the people chasing them?

  “They might want me,” he said. “But more likely, they want you.”

  The thought lodged in her throat, temporarily keeping her silent. She’d never had an enemy in her life.

  The SUV, which turned out to be a Range Rover, picked up speed and slammed into the back of their car. The force would have propelled Emma through the front window, except she was wearing a seat belt. A moment later, her head slammed into the headrest.

  “Can you slow them down now, or are you letting them play bumper cars until we’re pushed into the stones lining the road?” he yelled over the roar of the two engines.

  She opened the window and aimed at the front tire of the Range Rover. Macknight’s sharp turn to the right caused her to miss. The SUV sped up and slammed the back of their car again.

  “Damn it. Go for the windshield. It’s a bigger target.”

  She couldn’t kill someone when she didn’t know their intentions, so she lifted her aim to the center of the windshield and shattered it. The SUV slowed down while someone kicked out the glass. Within seconds they were back in pursuit.

  “Are you stopping them or playing a bloody game?” Macknight veered too fast down a side lane, almost taking out a small tree in the process.

  “You try shooting them from a moving car.” Acting a bit clueless would benefit her in the long run and allow her to gather facts before picking sides.

  He reached into her lap for the other PPK and rolled his window down. The Range Rover was gaining again. He slammed on the brakes of the car, making a sharp right turn while twisting in his seat. Before Emma’s head returned to the center of her shoulders, he’d shot several rounds into the engine of the oncoming vehicle, and a few into the driver and passenger. Flames erupted from under the hood. The Range Rover swerved right into a stone wall, and a curtain of fire rose up around it.

  He sped up again, leaving a literal bonfire behind them. It was as though she’d fallen into the middle of an action movie. He handed her the now empty gun and refocused on his driving. His calm was almost frightening. Not once did he hesitate to take the deadly shot.

  Her heartbeat continued to pound as they fled the area. She remained silent, staring at the gun in her hand. She’d shot twice but didn’t aim to kill. She wouldn’t take that risk. Macknight, on the other hand, killed two men as easily as if he were swatting flies at a picnic.

  They drove for another half hour, turning onto one country lane after another. His driving was one shift slower than out of control. He wound up and down a few small hills before arriving at a gated entryway, like a military base with an iron gate that made a sad attempt to seem more domestic. The barbed wire and cameras told a different story.

  A small wooden guardhouse stood empty at the entrance. A single light pointed into the car through the windshield. Someone asked for a name over the intercom.

  Macknight opened his window. “I have a delivery for Grace.”

  The gate opened without any reply, and he drove through. From the entrance, Emma expected a prison, or at least a large warehouse where he’d leave her to rot. Instead, the road ended at a picture-perfect cottage complete with a rose garden and a fluffy white dog.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Your temporary home.”

  Chapter Seven

  Macknight leaned back in his seat and caught his breath before leaving the car. He hadn’t been in a high-speed chase in years. His instincts were still good, save a few scratches. The damage to the car didn’t matter. They were alive and at their destination in one piece.

  He glanced at his passenger. She’d been useless. He should have handled the guns himself, but something about her had seemed capable in the moment. Which proved he was going insane. Three days ago, he never would have handed a stranger a weapon. Hell only knew if she’d have used it on him. It was as though Lucy’s death took a bit of his brain.

  In his defense, he’d assumed she had a base level of competency, as a police officer. Yes, she understood how to use a weapon, but her accuracy sucked. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the drug, or maybe she was professionally incompetent. From his perspective, it seemed like she’d avoided the driver on purpose.

  Then there was the question of who was in the Range Rover.

  Whoever had followed them wanted Emma alive. They hadn’t fired a single shot near her.

  The woman was a problem—maybe a Russian agent, maybe a clueless relation. Macknight wasn’t up for the challenge of figuring her out. At least her time in captivity wouldn’t be too much of a hardship. The safe house, aka Windfield Cottage, had been in service for about twenty years and was like a five-star hotel. MI6 had successfully hidden many fugitives here.

  He was greeted by Timothy Dawson, the head of security for the compound. A former SAS officer, he’d decided to take up his last years in service protecting individuals in the English countryside. He managed about six guards on the property at all times. With the cameras, the electric fence, and other safeguards, it would take a special forces unit to penetrate the compound.

  “Macknight, it’s been a long time. Who have you brought me?” His weathered eyes surveyed Emma with the objective but cautious gaze of a soldier.

  “Ms. Ross. This is Major Dawson. He’s here to protect you.”

  He shook hands with her. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  She stumbled. Dawson’s arm reached around her waist to steady her. Macknight should have taken hold of her, but her attitude toward him had turned frosty.

  When she glanced back at him, her expression soured. She pushed herself to a fully upright position, shoulders pulled back. The bravado lasted less than two seconds. After a few steps, she slumped back into Dawson’s arms. The combined effects of the drug and jet lag would knock her out for a few more hours.

  “Easy now,” Dawson said. “Let me take you inside.”

  She grimaced in Dawson’s direction, her demeanor almost drunk. “I’m being held against my will. And someone was chasing us.”

  “Is that so?” Dawson clasped her by the arm to keep her upright and shot Macknight an inquisitive glance.

  “Everything is taken care of. Derek is sending someone to clean up the roadkill. Ms. Ross is under our protection, and until we receive authorization from HQ, she’ll be our guest here. Go ahead and get her into the house.”

  Dawson and Emma took a few steps. She lost her balance again. Macknight almost stepped forward to assist, but Dawson steadied her. She struggled to walk on her own. She had an attitude like one of those cops who only relied on herself. The thought of someone helping her was probably a huge blow to her ego.

  “Are you okay?” Dawson asked.

  “I’m just tired, and I need food.”

  “What would you like?” Dawson had go
ne through this drill over and over again. Treat the guests with kindness, keep them relatively comfortable during their stay, set them free when the danger subsided.

  “Anything, really. Bread, cereal, pancakes.” She spoke with a weary breathiness. Her cravings sent pangs of hunger through him, as well. He hadn’t eaten for hours.

  “We’ll see what’s in the kitchen.” Dawson’s soothing voice had her following his lead, to Macknight’s annoyance. Not that he cared about winning her over, except to extract information.

  His focus remained glued to Emma as she and Dawson disappeared into the cottage. Looks must be part of her weaponry. More deadly than her use of a firearm. If she brushed her hair, had a few hours of sleep, and maybe lost the look of desperation toward life and hatred toward him, her appearance would obliterate the thoughts of any red-blooded man in her vicinity. Not that Macknight cared what she looked like. She was an assignment. A headache. Potentially a ticking time bomb.

  He should have followed them but was too tired. His entire outlook on the assignment dripped with his best friend’s blood. A better attitude might come with six hours of sleep, some food, and a cup of coffee or two.

  Toby, one of the younger guards, strode over to his side. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She’s off-limits.” He acted like a chaperone, but this post didn’t see many females.

  “Easy for you to say. You travel all the time. All I meet are middle-aged wankers with puffed up stomachs and even larger egos.”

  “I’ve told you to take your time off in France or Spain. There are a million women waiting for a soldier boy.”

  “Ma would be gutted if I didn’t see her on my breaks. This summer I’m taking off to Majorca with a buddy when Mum goes on holiday with my aunt. It’ll be brilliant.” Toby had been at this post for two years—two months on and one week off.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Macknight slapped him on the shoulder. “See you later.”

  He grabbed his suitcase and headed to a guest room on the far side of the cottage. After the past twenty-four hours, all he wanted was a hot shower and some chicken soup.

  Sleep would have been nice, too, but he had a few things to handle before he could shut his eyes. He dragged himself into the shower, letting the hot water soothe his back. After a few minutes, the screams of those caught in the Minsk bombing reverberated in his thoughts. He slammed his fist into the marble. The pain took away some of his misery.

  Turning his face toward the stream of water, he waited for it to drown him. It didn’t. The aching in his heart and the emptiness coursing through him wouldn’t let go. Lucy had always pushed him to be a better man, even when she’d given up on saving his soul.

  The heat eased the agony to tolerable levels, and the powerful jet spray relaxed his muscles.

  He turned the temperature to ice. The shock to his system sent his nerves firing and pushed his body out of its listlessness. He had a job to do and moping about would strip away his edge. He threw on jeans and an old fisherman’s sweater and went in search of food.

  The kitchen of Windfield Cottage contained the heart of the entire operation. A huge, working brick fireplace kept the place warm, while the pale green cabinets added a restful color to welcome the weary travelers who ended up at the bright red kitchen table. The stove had to be fifty years old and contained enough burners for six pots and pans. Grace Finney, head chef and unofficial base commander, could be found in front of the stove most days. She and her food made Windfield into a home away from home, her pies, custards, and beef dishes so savory that a quality wine only diminished the flavor.

  At eighty-one, Grace was hearty as an ox and as stubborn, too. Yet Macknight had never seen her in a temper. She was goodness to the core, exactly as he remembered his mother. She made him feel worthy. Even now he was fretting the loss of Grace to old age. That would be another step into hell for him.

  He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and stood next to her, his mood not lifting as much as he’d hoped. Grace slid a Yorkshire pudding in front of him, filled with beef, from the smell of it. As always, she anticipated his every need. He inhaled the delicious aroma and took a bite.

  “I’ve been talking to the girl,” she said. “She seems intelligent and nice, a good combination for a companion.”

  “My assignment is to escort her here and make sure she stays safe. Nothing more.” If everything worked out, he’d be chasing down her father’s location in the next few hours, rather than sitting on his ass watching over the princess.

  “No interest?”

  “Stop setting me up with every female in my vicinity.”

  “I still think you and Lucy…” Grace’s constant pushing for them to become more than friends had always been laughed off in the past. He and Lucy had been best friends, but never destined for anything more intimate.

  The dismembered image cut into him, widening the wound that wouldn’t heal. Her death sat raw and exposed in his chest. If he could cleave out his heart, he’d feel a hell of a lot better, but the damn thing kept beating.

  “Lucy’s dead.” His sudden, sullen announcement burst out from him like a bullet.

  Grace’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out. She inhaled sharply and moaned as though she’d lost her own daughter.

  He was an ass. He pulled Grace into his arms and hugged her, needing to bend over to encircle her tiny frame. “I’m sorry. She died on the last mission, only two days ago. Her death is ripping my mental state to bits.”

  As he comforted Grace, a tiny part of the wound healed. She hadn’t deserved his callousness.

  She squeezed his hand and gave him another hug. “I know how much you cared about her. I loved her, too.”

  “She loved you, as well.” He kissed the top of her head. “So do I. You’re my comfort in this world.” He meant it. Grace had been a second mother to him.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes again and sat down at the table. He sat with her and rubbed her back until the tension lowered and she breathed easier.

  “How is Owen?” she asked with too much hesitation for a generally confident older woman.

  “Good. He’ll be here in a day or so.” She didn’t need to know about his injuries. Not right now.

  She nodded between tears and sniffles. “I should bake something chocolate for him. He pilfers most of the cake and cookies I make whenever he’s around.”

  “Who could resist?” He shouldn’t care for someone the way he did for Grace, but he’d had a place to fill in his heart after losing his family, and she fit perfectly. The only people who had ever held similar positions were Owen and Lucy. He drank down some beer and placed the bottle on the table, letting the alcohol anesthetize his pain.

  “Where have you been? I’ve missed your company.” She squeezed his arm before stepping back to the pot of whatever she was cooking.

  “Budapest, Moscow. Too many places and not one as wonderful as right here,” he said between mouthfuls of the pudding. He pushed Belarus from his mind. That place was radioactive to him. Even the smallest memory of the meeting in the plaza torpedoed his thoughts. The blood and the bits of everything on the ground. Lucy.

  “How long do you think you’ll be staying?” She returned to the stove and stirred something in a saucepan that smelled of rosemary and thyme. Her posture seemed a bit more wilted than it had a few moments before. Before he’d told her about Lucy.

  “Depending on our guest, I could be here a few days or a few weeks.” He took another swig of beer and stood.

  “I hope you’re here long enough to heal your heart.”

  He nodded, although his heart would never fully recover. And if Ross had helped to kill Lucy, Macknight had a murder to commit before he’d feel at peace.

  He went in search of Dawson and Emma. The major sat on the couch in the living room. Although guards were usually not permitted in the cottage, Dawson often acted more like a guest than a servant. His large arse covered half the sofa and wouldn’t move until his shif
t ended.

  Macknight couldn’t blame him. Everything about the place had been set up to create a comfort zone for the person visiting. The living room was no different. Large windows overlooked the rolling hills, and the only pictures on the walls were landscapes of the English countryside. Nothing personal like a portrait, so the target wouldn’t miss home. A fire in the fireplace took the chill off the air.

  Fleming, Macknight’s favorite occupant of Windfield outside of Grace, lifted her head from her spot at the end of the couch when he walked in the room. Her tail smacked into the table leg. He smiled at the dog and scratched her soft, white belly.

  “Where’s our guest?” he asked Dawson.

  “She went into her bedroom and never returned. Couldn’t say a kind thing about you. Must be tough being on paid escort duty when the beauty you’re escorting hates you.” Dawson snorted, the only one laughing at his joke.

  Grace strode into the room with a tray of barley- and rice-stuffed mushrooms. She offered one to Macknight.

  “You’ve already fed me too much.” He placed his hand up to prevent Grace from handing him one.

  “Nonsense. You could stand to eat more. Besides, I don’t want you to be raiding my kitchen at midnight.” Grace shoved the tray in front of him, ignoring his refusal.

  He took a mushroom and bit into it. “Mmmm,” he murmured. “Amazing as always.”

  “There’s chicken soup on the stove as well.”

  “You’re an angel. Thanks.” He popped the rest of the mushroom into his mouth. Grace was a culinary superstar.

  Macknight left the living room and headed to Emma’s bedroom. The door was closed, but not locked. They’d removed the locks after one of their guests had tried to hang himself in a bedroom closet. They had to protect their guests from every type of harm, even from themselves.

  Fleming pattered up behind him.

  “Would you do me a favor, Fleming girl?”

  She rubbed her head against his leg, more cat than dog.