London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  Her rights didn’t exist as long as her father—with the names of so many Russian assets in his head—was missing. He wouldn’t like it if the situation were reversed, but MI6 didn’t spare anyone who crossed their path.

  “You have the right to live. I’ll make sure of that.” He ignored her for a few moments as he made them each some toast to go with the overdone eggs.

  She sat and ate without a word while he cleaned off a spot of blood on his shirt with some water and a napkin. Cold water worked great on blood stains. One of those finer points of laundry that Lucy had taught him early on.

  His heart twisted, and he held himself back from slamming the dishes to the ground. Lucy, gone less than three days, haunted him. The pain burned from the inside out, a constant blade shredding his core.

  When Grace arrived, he stepped outside to call Derek, leaving Emma at the table.

  “Bored?” Derek asked with a yawn.

  “I’m beyond bored. Where’s Owen?” Maybe it was the grief of losing Lucy, but Macknight didn’t trust his ability to act with a professional detachment around Emma. Her physical presence shifted his focus away from his priorities to her. Without a clear head, he’d never find Ross and handle the potential leak. Owen could deal with the beauty.

  “He’ll be on the way after he stops off at the infirmary,” Derek said.

  “Good.”

  “Can’t handle a woman you don’t pay first?”

  “Screw off. She’s a bit tougher to manage than your stapler. Maybe we should switch assignments.”

  “Name the day, Macknight.” Derek’s threat was meaningless. Although he tended toward brilliance in handling the logistics of their operations—the planes, the cars, weapons, even forged identification—he’d never been in the field. Without the threat of his own blood being spilled, decisions became more like video games and less like the life-and-death situations they were. That attitude didn’t keep operatives safe. Derek wouldn’t last one day doing anything more difficult than filing papers and having lunch with his secretary.

  “Stop being a piece of shit and listen to me. You threw a police officer into exile without a solid explanation. She needs to understand the reason she’s being detained. If we keep her in the dark, she’s liable to escape and run to the American government, which would make any promotion you’ve been counting on highly unlikely.” Adding American Intelligence to the mix would muddy the entire situation for everyone involved.

  Derek stayed silent for a few minutes, then responded. “Go ahead. Tell her, but limit the specifics.”

  “I’ll get on it.” Staring at her wouldn’t be a hardship, but twisting her into something a bit more compliant was a harder trick. “Someone’s looking for her, if the Range Rover that followed us is any indication.”

  “Or they were following you. You’ve made more than a short list of enemies over the years.”

  “Not likely. I’ve been under the radar enough that if they wanted me dead, they’d have just shot me in the head as I drove. No. They wanted my passenger alive, which was why they didn’t drive aggressively enough to risk an accident that would kill her. I’d bet my flat on it.”

  “For the sake of national security, whether she needs protection or not, she’s to remain at Windfield. Ross could be an innocent victim, so try giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “All the innocent victims blew up. The lucky ones, or traitorous bastards, all walked.” Macknight hung up before Derek could prattle on about loyalty or some such shit. His instincts screamed that Ross was the traitor, and Emma was an innocent caught up in his web.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Grace was baking something that smelled sweet and amazing. She’d recruited Emma to help. Lots of stirring involved. No knives.

  “Mind if I join you?” Macknight asked. He didn’t want to interrupt Grace’s calming influence, but this was important.

  Fleming, resting at Emma’s feet, hopped up and greeted him. Grace smiled at his entry, as well. Emma ignored him, her focus on the ingredients in the bowl.

  She was strong, loyal to her family, and never once fell apart at the strain ripping her life and livelihood out from under her. The more time he spent with her, the more important her safety became to him, even more important than taking down her father. Overall, his tried and true philosophy for living had been scrambled beyond recognition, no doubt the result of Lucy’s death and his inability to protect those truly important to him.

  “Homemade muffins?” He poured himself more coffee and took a chair at the table.

  “Blackberries.” Grace held up a bowl with a mound of the purple berries.

  “My favorite.” He glanced over at Emma to see if she’d acknowledge him. Not even a side-eye in his direction. Whatever she was stirring was far more interesting.

  “Why don’t you help Emma? I have to bring some bread and jam over to the guard house.” Grace understood the game, working her magic to help him gain people’s trust.

  Emma’s relaxed posture stiffened when the door closed and they were left alone. She sipped her coffee, poured batter into pans, and checked on the muffins baking in the oven.

  Silence stretched over a few minutes. He wasn’t one to chatter mindlessly, so he started right in on his questions, trying to sound interested although he already knew the answers after going over her background before his head hit his pillow the night before. “Were you born in the United States or the U.K.?”

  She stared at him, the gears in her brain turning, most likely trying to understand why he needed to know. Always thinking. In fact, she was pretty adept at anticipating people’s moves and trying to exploit weaknesses.

  “Is this the interrogation part of my stay?” she asked.

  “Sort of.” He wanted to be honest. He took another sip of his coffee. The caffeine still hadn’t kicked in after two cups.

  She continued her observation of him. He stared back into some of the most interesting eyes he’d ever seen. Not really the color of them, although the yellow flecks woven through deep brown gave her a feline appearance. It was more the way her eyes narrowed into daggers when she was angry. The expression mesmerized him for a moment before he pulled himself back and concentrated on reading her response to his questions and the news about her father.

  “I was born in Greenwich. We moved to the United States right after my mother died,” she said, her answer whispered and her gaze off somewhere, lost in memories.

  “You sound American.”

  “Kids are mean. I was bullied and mocked so much, I adapted. Better to blend than be beaten down.” Her focus drifted back to the contents of the bowl on the counter.

  He nodded, trying to seem sympathetic. “How did your mother die?”

  “A car accident. We moved after she died.” Her thumb played with the gold ring on her finger.

  He’d call Derek for more information on her death. It had to be somewhere in Edward Ross’s file.

  “How old were you?” he asked.

  “Six.” Storm clouds formed inside those eyes now.

  “That must have been tough.”

  “We survived. The two of us together.” She made a tight fist with her hand, her thumb pressing into the ring. That wasn’t from a boyfriend—it had been her mother’s. He’d bet the bank on it.

  “Did your father ever talk about his work with you?”

  “All the time.”

  “What did he do?”

  She shrugged, as though this was a stupid line of questioning. “Business negotiations. He found new fields to drill, opened up new export markets, located areas willing to allow a pipeline to transport oil more economically.”

  “He never mentioned any additional work he might have outside of BP?”

  “No. He worked for the same company for almost thirty years.” Her voice went protective.

  “What makes you so defensive about it?”

  “Because I’ve been with him my whole life, and he’s never lied to me.”

 
; At the sound of a buzzer, she rushed to the oven, grabbed a mitt, and pulled out a steaming pan of muffins. She placed them on the counter and slid another pan into the oven.

  She could handle the truth. She might already know something was off with her father’s stories. Her reaction to her father’s lies would say everything. Feigned confusion. Actual shock.

  She was staring at him now, waiting for the punchline.

  He paused and drank more coffee.

  “You obviously know more than you’re telling me. What’s the reason for all the lies?” she asked. She stared at him with an intensity that only increased the longer he held his tongue.

  “Your father has a second job. He’s an operative for MI6, an important one.” And he may also be a murderer. One that murdered those who had trusted him more than they should have.

  Her eyes narrowed. “He’s a spy for MI6?”

  “He’s an operative. A spy is someone recruited from the inside of whatever you want spied upon.”

  “You understood what I meant. If he is an operative, what was his job?” Confusion mixed with anger spilled out from her.

  He leaned against the counter, his hip as high as the countertop. She was either clueless or an amazing actress. “It’s hard to believe you don’t know how much Edward Ross influenced foreign policy these past decades.”

  “In what way?”

  “He recruits spies.”

  “From where?”

  “Everywhere, but mostly Russia.”

  “Russia?” she asked—less question, more statement. She clutched her coffee mug. “Earlier you told me you’re a liar. What proof do you have?”

  “The information is classified, but trust me, he recruited government officials to spy on their home countries. That was his job.”

  Her posture remained strong, but the strength of her words faltered. “What happened to him?”

  “We think the GRU, the Russian foreign intelligence agency, nabbed him at our last meeting.” Or some son of a bitch named Ross disappeared with more intelligence than any one operative should be carrying and left his team to die. “You don’t sound shocked by the news.”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved the freshly baked muffins to a cooling rack, her lips pinched together and her movements stiff.

  “Did you know?” he asked when she stopped blustering around the kitchen.

  “It was a hunch after MI6 brought me here. He must be either in your pocket or someone else’s.”

  “I’ve worked with him several times. After he initially recruited potential assets, he often helped facilitate the final deal. He’d remain involved until they were safely on our payroll. “He has the name of every Russian asset he’s placed in Moscow in his head. Information that needs to be protected at all costs.” He swallowed the rest of the thought—that her father would be stopped with a bullet if it would protect their resources at the Kremlin. “There’s a lot at stake here. If he’s not found, we may need to keep you indefinitely for your protection.”

  Her eyes widened, and she gripped the countertop as though her legs were giving out. “What do I have to do with this? If they have him, they don’t need me.”

  He took a sip of coffee, watching her moment of weakness turn to outrage.

  “You can’t keep me here. I demand you take me to the U.S. embassy.”

  He shook his head. “Not happening. If the GRU already have him, they’re going to double their search for you. He didn’t exactly keep you a secret in his life. They might have pictures, health and dental records, every birthmark on your skin.”

  “He would never have placed me in danger. He would have warned me somehow.”

  “Maybe, or maybe he’s not only a British operative, but a Russian one, as well.”

  “You’re wrong about everything. He’s not a traitor. He’s the most loyal person I know.”

  “He is a British Intelligence officer. Of that, I’m certain. As for you, I only have what’s in your file.”

  “I have a file? I don’t know anything about Britain or foreign intelligence. If I did, I wouldn’t have been clueless when walking into Derek Barlow’s office. I have no information that would help anyone.”

  “You’re not a source of information. You’re a tool, a means to an end,” he said, trying to contain the bitterness he had toward her father.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The best way to break Ross down enough to extract information from him would be to torture his daughter until he can’t take it anymore. He’s tough as nails and would probably die before he handed over names—unless you’re in the picture. The GRU would think nothing of locking you in a room, denying you food and water until you’re delirious, and then when you’re at your weakest, they would rape and torture you in front of your father until he gave them what they want. After he spilled every bit of classified information, they would kill him, and you’d beg to die at his side.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. On weakened legs, she moved to the table and leaned into a chair. “That can’t be true,” she said, her voice shaky.

  Seeing the fight drop out of her sent his conviction crashing to the ground. “You’re in good hands. We’ll find your father and keep you safe.”

  She dropped her head, probably to avoid looking at him, but he crossed her personal boundary anyway, and placed a hand on her shoulder in some lame attempt at support, almost in the way he’d comforted Grace only hours before. But this physical contact wasn’t comforting. His mind raced through a storm of emotions, not one of them he wanted. She was not Grace and would never be Lucy. She was a person needing protection at Windfield. Period. If he failed, she’d not just lose her life, but they’d rip apart her spirit, her essence, her soul. Somewhere deep inside, his confidence faltered. Caring too much wouldn’t help anyone. In fact, too much attachment to her would screw with his objectives and alter well-laid plans. It would also get her killed. He released her and escaped to the counter across the room.

  She lifted her coffee, clutching it with two shaking hands. He’d never received training on how to eliminate the desolation in a woman’s eyes. There was honestly nothing he could do for her except work like hell to keep her alive. He pushed his feelings aside and focused on the best way to do that. He wasn’t anyone’s hero—he was an executioner.

  She needed someone who could show empathy, not someone assigned to murder her father.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her father’s betrayal punched at Emma, jab after jab. He’d placed her in danger. He’d lied to her. Yet she needed him more than ever. He’d been her rock when her mother had died. He’d been her mentor as she joined the police force. He was the only person she trusted. Without him, she had no idea whether to fight against her captors or follow their directions. She tried to hold herself upright, but the urge to curl into a ball and vomit was overwhelming. She was a trained police officer, for God’s sake. Weakness killed.

  She stood and carried several dishes to the sink, noticing Macknight’s retreat away from her. What did she expect from him? Empathy? The man had kidnapped her and killed the men in the car following them without showing the slightest remorse. She needed space—about three thousand miles from him might do.

  “Do you mind if I wash up and get ready for the day?” she asked. “I need to dress for whatever it is one does in a small British prison.”

  “It’s not a prison.”

  “Can I leave?”

  He shook his head, but his expression remained fairly dispassionate. “No.”

  “It’s a prison.”

  “Meet me back here in a half hour. I can show you around.” He remained at the counter.

  “The grand tour? Looking forward to it. Is there a spa?” She laced every word with contempt for the bastard who wouldn’t give her freedom to find her father.

  “There’s a few amenities you might like.” His permafrown turned into a killer grin and froze her movements for a moment. Magnetizing, alluring, dang
erous. He was playing with the mouse he’d caught, but she was not going to fall under his spell. She’d been seduced by liars before, and the hangover hurt like hell.

  She spent an entire hour in her room trying to think of a way out. Some way to escape this hell, both the physical hell and the emotional garbage she had to deal with. Not even a qualified therapist would believe her story of spies and operatives and Russian agents. They’d ship her off to a psych ward.

  When her head was in a better place, she returned to the kitchen. He was leaning against the counter with a black sweater now covering his torso. Thank God. It was hard enough to think clearly around him in general. With his chiseled abs on display and his long dark hair, she was barely able to keep a rational mind.

  He smiled when he saw her. Not a dimple-creating smile or even that grin he’d graced her with earlier, it was more an acknowledgment that she’d entered the room. She was a job that had to be completed.

  “Ready?” he asked, placing probably his fifth cup of coffee on the counter.

  She nodded. No use arguing. He’d probably pick her up over his shoulder and carry her out if she didn’t comply.

  They walked around the cottage. In the back was a glorious rose garden surrounded by a white fence that only went up to her knees. The smell was sweet like berries, and for a moment she almost didn’t mind being locked away here, but then a security guard walked into view with a large rifle in his hands. This wasn’t a vacation.

  Macknight called the man over to them. “Emma, I’d like to introduce you to Toby. He’s one of the best guards here.”

  Toby, a baby-faced ginger who looked no older than his early twenties, nodded to her. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. If you need anything, just ask.”

  “I’ll do that.” Hopefully, she’d be out of here before she needed anything.

  When Toby left, Macknight led her to a vegetable garden surrounded by marigolds. Another beautiful place. They spoke about stupid things like the weather. It rained here, a lot. No surprise.

  His strides slowed, and he turned to her. His brows lowered slightly. “What made you apply for the SWAT team?”