London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  So they had some up-to-date information about her. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her professional life with Macknight. She tried to walk off, but he placed a hand on her arm. Nothing aggressive, just a touch to stop her exit. Her breathing stalled at the heat of his fingers on her skin, and she cursed herself for the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat.

  “I wanted a challenge. From what my chief told me, I’d outgrown the department. SWAT seemed the next move.”

  “That’s a big jump from town officer.”

  His analysis of her career had no bearing on anything. “I’ll never know if you don’t let me return to my job.”

  “Sometimes you can choose your future, sometimes you can’t.” His words shot into her as though he’d fired his own gun straight into her gut, freeing her from whatever his touch had done to her insides only seconds ago.

  “What will it take to convince you that I’ll be fine on my own?”

  “You aren’t equipped to handle the GRU. Leave it to us, and maybe someday you can put this whole chapter of your life to rest.” He continued walking.

  He had no idea what she was capable of handling.

  They walked in silence through the scent of wildflowers and the bucolic surroundings to a wooded area. Part of her wanted to return to the cottage and avoid him, but in order to escape, she needed to take in as much of the property as possible. The place was enormous. Finding a way out would take lots of planning and a lot of luck. The tightness in her stomach only increased as they traveled what felt like miles within the fencing. Her future closed in on her with each step until a firing range came into view. The sight of it threw her out of her self-pity. The range was set up for a number of distances, with wooden dividers and a table at each spot to place extra ammunition and a second weapon.

  A guard sat in a small observation tower overlooking the area, but otherwise, the place was deserted.

  “I’ve been told to make your stay as comfortable as possible. This is comforting to some people. Go ahead. Grab a gun.” He watched her, observing her reactions, which caused her to question every movement for fear something would be misinterpreted.

  “You’re letting me shoot? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “I already handed you my PPKs. If you didn’t kill me with them then, I figure you won’t try anything here. I’m also curious to see what Edward Ross’s daughter can do with a gun when not in a moving vehicle. He’s an expert marksman.” His voice was playful again, but she was on to his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personalities.

  She wouldn’t fall all over herself because he shot a killer grin in her direction, but maybe she could use some of that fake interest he showed in her to her advantage, as long as she ignored her own attraction to him.

  Besides, she had no reason to turn down target practice. Her father had taught her how to handle an array of weapons, always beating her, always pushing her to practice more.

  “I could overpower you and take off into the woods,” she said.

  Macknight took a step back and pointed to the tower. “Ian’s a damn good shot, and he’s got an M4 carbine. There’s no outrunning that.”

  Ian, standing about twenty feet high in a tower overlooking the range, lifted the weapon so Emma had a perfect view of it.

  “He has ears down here, too,” she said, glancing around for the microphone, but she couldn’t see it.

  “Yes.”

  “Good to know.” Come to think about it, the entire compound was probably wired for sound and video. How the hell could she sneak out if they were monitoring her movements twenty-four seven?

  She looked over the offering at the main table. Five handguns. A Magnum .44? Nice. She passed over the super powerful handgun and picked up a Glock 19, but then was drawn to a Russian firearm.

  “An SPS?” she asked. “One of the most accurate guns I’ve tried.”

  “We train with anything we might see in the field. You’ve shot a Serdyukov?” He sounded incredulous.

  “My father loves firearms. The SPS is pretty damn special. I had to try it when he brought it home from a trip.” Incredibly accurate, and the bullets were capable of penetrating body armor.

  Macknight lifted the Sig P226. Not a bad choice, but she preferred the feel of the Glock in her hand. The same as her service gun.

  Her father also preferred a Glock to a Sig. Damn, she missed him and his random advice. Sorrow hovered over her, a storm cloud that wouldn’t leave.

  Macknight led her to a range table, handed her ear protection and a loaded magazine. The target was about twenty yards away.

  He went first. Twelve rounds shot. Twelve holes in the center of the silhouette’s chest.

  She lined up her shot and held her breath as she shot all fifteen bullets into the center of her target.

  They retrieved the paper targets and placed them on a picnic table.

  Macknight’s bullets were shot within a fairly small grouping, all slightly to the right of the bullseye. Her pattern was within a tighter grouping, centered perfectly.

  “Impressive.” Macknight headed back to the range table. “Let’s go again at the longer distance.”

  Emma followed him to the thirty-yard targets. He strode ahead of her with confidence. She didn’t mind. His jeans fit in a way that invited her to follow him anywhere.

  They both loaded their weapons. She was done before him. It gave her the opportunity to watch him. How a man tended a firearm told her a lot about him. His fingers had dexterity, and his touch on the steel seemed solid, but not rough. He worked without shortcuts, which meant he maximized safety and minimized the chances of jamming his firearm. Perfection was a formidable weapon.

  “Ready?” he asked, his voice low and rumbly.

  She nodded. “You first.”

  His grouping separated a bit more than before; hers landed in an almost identical pattern to the first time, something her father had demanded of her during hours of drills.

  He got on his phone. “Can you bring out the MK11? Thanks.”

  “A sniper rifle? You’re hard-core.”

  “Maybe this is a test,” he said.

  “I understand. You want to make sure that I can protect you in the field. Don’t worry. I’ll guard your backside anytime.”

  A glimmer of humor flickered in his eyes. “Can you handle it?”

  “Sure.” Although she’d never formally trained with one, her father had set her up privately against the local club champion a few times.

  As her expertise became apparent, Macknight’s personality withdrew back into his cold shell. Instead of reveling in the victory, her joy withered.

  “Are you that sensitive to a woman beating you?” she asked, the change in temperature too drastic to ignore.

  “No,” he replied, but didn’t elaborate. Mr. Hyde had returned.

  They ended the session without another word to each other.

  Chapter Twelve

  Macknight had been played. She was much more competent on the firing range than he’d ever imagined. Far more than a local cop from some small town in the mountains. Damn it all, she was Owen’s equal, a competent sniper if she’d ever wanted that role. Small wonder she hadn’t turned the gun on Macknight right there at the range and then taken down Ian before the kid lifted his weapon.

  The anger rising inside him sent rays of red through his thoughts. He placed the MK11 back on the table, ignoring her while he wrestled his emotions under control.

  They walked back to the cottage. He stewed at her complete failure to protect them from the car the night before. There was no way she should have missed whoever was following them.

  Once in the kitchen, he backed away from her. “I need to contact HQ. Will you be okay for a little while?”

  “I’m fine.” Of course she was. Emma wasn’t some weak damsel in distress. Hand the woman a gun and a few magazines, and she could protect the whole base.

  He headed to the door in search of some air that didn’t smell like vanilla and Emma. W
hen he arrived in his room, Owen was sitting on his bed, his hair now colored almost white blond. An illogical and risky thing to do after half his ear was blown apart, but Owen’s comfort was his appearance. If he needed a full makeover to get over the past few days, then he was entitled.

  “Don’t you have a room of your own?” he asked.

  “I wanted an update.” Owen leaned back against the headboard and placed his dirty boots on the duvet. If he weren’t sporting a red, ravaged ear, Macknight would have knocked his feet off, but Owen had been injured while Macknight stood at a bar flirting with a bartender. Owen deserved to do whatever he wanted.

  “How is Ms. Ross?”

  “Emma Ross can shoot a gun, really well. I don’t know if she could best you, but the competition would be close.”

  “Interesting. I’d like to try my hand against her. I haven’t had decent competition since you stopped showing off.” Owen looked at him with an annoying amount of confidence.

  He ignored Owen’s taunt. Macknight being the best at the range wouldn’t do anything for the team except cut into Owen’s confidence, and confidence was a sniper’s best friend. “I don’t trust her. She hit the windshield between the two men in the car behind us, missing both of them. An amateur could have made that shot.”

  “A wee bit of an exaggeration. Did she know why you were taking her to Windfield at the time?” Owen asked.

  “Not exactly. The bastards pulled me so far out of my way, she woke in the middle of the car chase.”

  He laughed. “She was on that chloroform chemical cocktail? Ha. Brilliant. And you were no doubt driving like Mario Andretti. Now I’m even more impressed.”

  “What if she’s with Russia like her father?” As he stated his concern out loud, it sounded ridiculous.

  “Bloody hell, is that why you’ve been acting like a tool? She’s not a suspect, and Ross isn’t, either.” Owen shook his head, his frown cutting a wedge into Macknight’s cynicism. “We don’t have a clue whether he went willingly. Unless you have intel that you haven’t bothered sharing.”

  “Ross was the person who brought Panin and Lucy together. For the right price, he could have sold us all out.” Macknight tightened his fist until the veins over his knuckles squeezed into the bone. He couldn’t relax. His pain might only feel better if he slammed his fist into the wall.

  “I know you’re pissed off about Lucy. It guts me, too, but we need to learn the facts before throwing blame on some innocent American.”

  “Innocent? She practically clawed off my face when I met up with her breaking into Grace’s office this morning,” he said in his own defense.

  “If you were in her shoes, would you sit around waiting to be rescued?”

  The answer was no, and maybe he was being hard on her. Yet her competence and ability to carry on no matter what they’d thrown at her had him in part admiring her and in part questioning her every decision. “I still don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t trust anyone. Never have.”

  Yes, he had. He’d trusted people. They stabbed him in the back and left him for dead.

  “I trust you and Grace.” And he’d trusted Lucy. No one else mattered.

  “I suppose you’re alive today because of your general lack of faith in humanity, but give Emma a chance.” He walked over to Macknight, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You need to reassess your evidence. You’re seeing connections that don’t exist.”

  “What if I’m not?”

  “Move slowly, and make sure you have actual proof before hanging yourself on false evidence. I need you, mate. I can’t work in this inferno forever. You’re my only sanity, and if you go off your rocker, I’ll never make it out of this job alive. Don’t get kicked off the case because you need to strike out against the unfairness of the world.” Owen headed to the door. “I’ll talk to Emma, learn her secrets, and you can carry on being a complete eejit.”

  “Fine,” he replied.

  The only way to make himself feel more confident was to learn as much about her as possible. He grabbed his laptop and began looking up everything related to Emma Ross.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abandoned in the kitchen, Emma took a deep breath and helped herself to more coffee. The window looked over rolling hills and countryside. An oasis of tranquility. Everything would be okay. Her dad would come back to her, and they’d laugh about this someday.

  She spent a few hours in the living room, staring at the pages of Pride and Prejudice while working out an escape plan. Eventually, she fell asleep.

  When Grace called her for dinner, Emma rose from her chair and headed into the kitchen in search of food and some answers. Grace wore a floral apron, but underneath she had on jeans and a wool sweater. She appeared ten years younger than she’d looked earlier.

  The other man from Derek Barlow’s office, Owen Knox, sat at the red table in a white T-shirt and ripped jeans. His hair was now bleached blond and spiky like a Billy Idol impersonator. The bandage had disappeared from his head, but his ear, bruised and swollen, was on display, stitches and all. “Ms. Ross. Just in time to be my dinner companion. Hungry?”

  “It’s Emma. And yes, I’m starving.”

  Owen had a bright, relaxing quality to him. A better companion than Macknight and his roller-coaster intensity.

  With a grin that went straight up through his eyes, Owen pointed to the chair next to him. He was flirting with her, and she was totally open to it. Not that she’d ever fall for anyone behind these walls, but it was an entry into his good graces and maybe to information about her father. Macknight had turned into a dead end.

  “Wine?” He held up a bottle of Cabernet.

  “No, thanks.” She smiled at his affability, but she wouldn’t let her guard down with alcohol. Not while assessing her situation.

  “I made a fresh loaf of bread, a tomato salad, and here’s some beef stew.” Grace ladled some into Emma’s bowl. The smell filled her nose with rosemary and black pepper.

  She broke off a piece of the bread and smeared it with butter. “Grace, although I’d like to leave as soon as possible, I could eat your cooking forever,” she said.

  “As could I.” Macknight leaned against the doorframe. He winked at Grace and made her blush. He gave not so much as a frown to Emma. The slight was consistent with his Mr. Hyde persona, and even knowing that, his hot and cold attention annoyed her.

  She pressed her fingers into her temples. She was losing her mind. Being a prisoner wasn’t bad enough, but Little Miss Emma needed to be popular, too.

  “There’s more than enough room for everyone.” Grace pointed to the chair next to Emma. “You left your guest alone all afternoon.”

  “Taking an interest in my work?” He sat across from Emma, leaving Owen next to her.

  “Don’t worry, Emma, I’ll take care of you if the grouch won’t.” Owen pushed a glass of wine in front of Macknight. “From what he told me, you’re more on my level in marksmanship than he is. I’ll take you to the range tomorrow morning. It’ll be fun.”

  “I’m hoping to not be here tomorrow.” Or in a few days.

  “That wouldn’t do at all. Compared to everyone else here, excluding Grace, you seem like top-notch company.” Owen’s eyes gave off such bright, pleasant vibes.

  Macknight ate in silence. She turned back to Owen. Perhaps he had more information.

  “Did you hear anything new about my father’s disappearance?” she asked.

  He shook his head, his smile fading a bit. “Not yet. We have teams that specialize in tracking down people. We’ll find him.”

  “I hope so.” She finished half her meal. The more she worried about her father, the less space she had in her stomach. “Could he already be dead?”

  Owen shrugged. “Every probability is a possibility, but Edward Ross is heartier than most men. I remember once traveling with him to meet up with one of his assets in a less than peaceful area. The truck in front of us was hit by an IED. We were all blinded by the he
at and power of the blast. Despite the fire and shots fired from two locations around us, your father managed to pull one of the soldiers from the wreckage and drag him into our vehicle. He saved the guy’s life, not that he received any credit for it. His role had to remain undercover. When we flew back to London, some wanker from the Ministry of Defense who had escorted us received the Queen’s Commendation for Bravery instead of your da.”

  “He saved lives?” Picturing him in a war zone wasn’t what she’d imagined. He was a white-collar kind of guy, not a soldier. Wasn’t he?

  “He’s a tough bastard. If anyone can make it through this, it’s him.” Owen sang her father’s praises for a secret life unknown to Emma. Her own memories of him collapsed.

  “When was that?” she asked.

  “About four years ago.”

  His words didn’t comfort her. They made the situation more concrete. About four years ago, her father had returned from a trip with severe burns on his hands and arms. She’d never forgotten the hours he sat in his chair, in obvious pain, but not complaining. He’d told her a waiter had spilled a teapot on him. He’d lied. He’d always said she couldn’t travel with him because it was against BP policy. Lie. He’d promised he’d always be there for her. Lie. He’d told her to trust him. LIE. This wasn’t some whimsical situation that might mean theoretical life or death, but actual blood and darkness.

  Her head ached. She picked up the wine Owen had given to Macknight and drank every last drop. Being an emotional wreck wouldn’t help her situation, either. She placed the glass back on the table, her hand shaking as she released it.

  Grace returned with a chocolate confection that could be used to bribe the most stubborn witnesses. Even the smell was decadent beyond measure, but she couldn’t eat anything more. Not when the outside world had her father hostage, and she was stuck inside a British countryside prison. Grace and Owen smiled at Emma as though they were welcoming her to a family.

  This entire place was set up to keep her content enough to remain. The flattery and feigned affection didn’t work with her. Everyone had a specific assignment in this surreal place. She had a family, and he was missing. All the rose-covered trellises and chocolate tortes were useless in her search for him.