London Calling

by Veronica Forand

  She sure as hell wasn’t a traitor. And now he’d lost her trust.

  He wanted her. Ally or enemy, Emma needed round-the-clock protection since he’d failed to kill Maslov. Maybe the embassy could provide that. If not, he’d call Derek to see if he would take her back under their wing. Not yet. Right now, he was the hostage of Scotland Yard.

  When the police arrested him, he was carrying two guns and still appeared like an ex-con with his buzz cut, tattoos, and piss-poor attitude. In the rush to catch up to Emma, he’d left his identification in his car. After she’d disappeared into the building, he was thrown in the back of a police car and interrogated by some fifty-year-old cop who treated him like a gang member caught up in a turf war.

  He didn’t have time to wait. He had to make the flight to Russia to assist with Ross and Owen’s rescue. If the Russians moved Ross, Macknight didn’t stand a chance at finding him. And time was running out for Owen.

  Macknight had remained silent on the way to the station, even when the officer accidentally backhanded him as he escorted him inside the station. No doubt it was his frustration at Macknight’s silence. The rest of the department focused on other things like staring at their coffee mugs rather than witness police brutality. Macknight couldn’t reciprocate in the middle of a room full of witnesses. Not yet, anyway. So he shut up, took his blows, and waited.

  He placed his one phone call, which was actually a numeric code to HQ. When he returned to his seat, the officer asked plenty of questions while Macknight sat cuffed inside the interrogation room, his wooden chair digging into his back.

  The officer played the part of the screaming drill sergeant.

  Macknight didn’t respond. Despite the cop’s growing anger at his prisoner’s lack of cooperation, he had no authority in Macknight’s world. And if the guy hit him one more time, he silently vowed to drop him, surrounded by the guy’s colleagues or not.

  A half hour later, his eyes had fogged over, despite his efforts to remain alert. He should have been asleep right now in a leather recliner on a Lear jet headed to Russia. No such luck. At least Emma was contained. The U.S. embassy wouldn’t let her go if she started spouting off stories of Russian spies and state secrets. Not without an investigation.

  The phone rang on the police officer’s desk. The weasel-headed maggot’s expression fell. Perhaps Macknight’s ride had arrived. About bloody time.

  A minute later, Jack strolled through the space in a tailored brown suit with a yellow bow tie, looking like he’d been sent down from Buckingham Palace to check on the little people.

  “Officer, has this lowlife been giving you any trouble?” he asked with more concern for the prat who had been knocking Macknight around.

  “Not at all. He’s been under control at all times.”

  “Good. Have your men found the criminal who shot the woman in the park?” Jack stood over the officer’s desk and perused the papers on it, something Macknight had done earlier out of habit.

  “We’re close. Word is, she’s holed up at the United States Embassy.” He eyed Jack with what Macknight interpreted as professional jealousy. Jack’s demeanor worked perfectly to keep this officer quiet and let them walk away with minimal questions and even less argument.

  “Very well, then, keep up the good work.” Jack threw down a business card on the officer’s desk. “Contact this number and ask for Derek Barlow if you learn anything new.”

  “Yes, sir.” A raised eyebrow from Jack had the officer uncuffing Macknight.

  Jack nodded, all smug and not an ounce of deference to anyone. He pulled out a set of handcuffs and yanked on Macknight’s seat until he was standing. “Let’s go.”

  Macknight dusted off his jeans. “Where am I going? I need an attorney,” he said with his best impression of a hard-ass criminal.

  “Your attorney will be meeting you later.”

  The officer handed Jack a slip of paper to pick up Macknight’s handguns. He took it, then cuffed Macknight and pushed him through the police department with enough pressure to twist Macknight’s shoulders and add a level of humiliation to his walk of shame. It didn’t help that Jack looked like royalty and Macknight was in jeans and covered in tattoos.

  “Hanson’s pretty peeved with you,” Jack said, driving Macknight’s car with him cuffed in the back seat.

  “Hanson can go to hell. Get these handcuffs off me.”

  “On the plane. No use taking them off in view of the station. They don’t need to go poking around in our business.”

  “I’m sure the Commissioner sees a few murders in her domain as her business.”

  “All records of you will be purged from the system in the next few hours. You don’t exist.” He pulled into the airport, showed his identification, and drove to Hangar A-7 and their waiting plane.

  Fifteen minutes later, the aircraft taxied to the runway. Macknight’s tension increased as they moved farther away from Emma. Her dark expression as he’d held her captive in the park assured him that she’d never trust him again, with good reason. He’d missed the truth in the video he’d seen, letting his fears overtake his logic. He’d failed her.

  He sat up front, his mobile in his hand, his muscles ready to jump up and run to the cockpit to tell the pilots to return to the terminal. The U.S. Embassy couldn’t begin to understand the web of lies suffocating Emma. Then again, what could he offer? Not much. Maybe she’d be fine all wrapped up in the American flag for a while, despite being important to the U.K. They could keep an eye on her.

  They better. Her safety was paramount to the future of MI6 in Moscow. Owen was important only to Macknight. No one would look out for him if Macknight didn’t. MI6 would let him rot in prison to avoid admitting they broke a prisoner into the Black Crow.

  On the other hand, Emma alive was more of a risk to MI6. Would Hanson take her down after all the chaos they set loose in London? Insanity buzzed through his brain. “We need to be certain Emma is safe. Maybe we should wait until we have confirmation.”

  “Derek will take care of her. He’s not the heartless bastard you think he is.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve never worked for him.”

  “For all the years I’ve known him, he’s always looked out for the underdog. I think the reason you two don’t get along is you’re never the underdog, so he doesn’t have to fight for you.”

  “You don’t know shit about me.” Macknight squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for the best. He looked out the window as the plane took flight, a massive, out of control aircraft hurtling toward hell. There was no stopping this journey now. His entire job was making the impossible happen, and too often, he’d failed. “You want to pledge fealty to Derek Barlow, be my guest, but don’t make excuses to me for his behavior. Just remember that you’ve been assigned to watch my ass, not his. If I can’t trust you, I’ll work alone.”

  He didn’t have to worry about Jack. He’d proven his loyalty over and over again, especially against Lord Hanson.

  “I promise to have your back, mate.” He tossed Macknight a bottle of beer.

  Macknight laughed. “You think I’ll side with you for a pint?”

  “A pint always makes things easier. You should be thankful for Derek. It was Hanson who wanted to pull you from the assignment. Thinks you’re out of your mind. Derek fought to keep you going. You owe him.”

  Macknight’s phone rang. A perk and a downside of government work, they could reach you anywhere, even a few thousand feet above the ground. Airline rules be damned. “Hey, Barlow, Jack was telling me all of your school secrets.”

  “Bullshit. He holds secrets better than I do.”

  “Any update on Emma?” he asked.

  “We’re getting her back.” Nothing further.

  The weight holding him down lifted. “How did you manage that?”

  “Ms. Ross was caught up in a turf war between the Commissioner and CIA. The Americans bowed out. They didn’t want the bad press. Instead, we’re going to trade a few things wi
th the Americans. They’ll hand her over.”

  “Hand over or handed over?” Macknight asked.

  “Relax. You and Jack have an assignment. Deal with Ross. Save Owen. I’ve already sent someone else to pick her up.”

  “Where are you putting her?”

  “That’s classified. Stay focused on your own assignment. Any delay could compromise Ross and Owen. Focus on what you do best. Cleaning up messes. We’ll protect Emma.” Derek terminated the call.

  Jack walked over to him. “Let’s get this job done. Then you can find Emma and beg her to forgive you for being a complete dickhead.”

  “Maybe.” The chance of ever seeing Emma again was about nil. Once he rescued Owen and killed Ross, she’d return to her little town in the middle of nowhere, and he’d go on to his next assignment.

  Hank and Ricky appeared from the back of the plane. Time to transform again. Hank trimmed up what little was left of Macknight’s hair into something neater than he’d had before, more like a military buzz cut than a prison one. When he’d finished, Macknight hopped in the shower and headed into the back bedroom.

  Ricky was set up in what appeared like a surgical suite. What the hell were they doing to him now?

  “I think I’m good with the tattoos.”

  “Actually, you aren’t. They’re all coming off.”

  “Right now?”

  “Lie down. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” Ricky patted the bed.

  Macknight stripped down to his briefs and stretched out on the bed. “Be gentle.”

  “I always am the first time.”

  The machine buzzed when on. Heat stung into his shoulder, causing him to flinch back. “Maybe I should have some more alcohol first.”

  “This builds character.”

  “Right.” There was no sleeping through this. Maybe the pain of the laser would cut into some of his tension.

  The pain wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. Perhaps the special ink didn’t require the same effort to remove as regular ink. Three hours later, his entire body was red and sore.

  Not an inch of ink left.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The driver from MI6 turned out to be an old friend. Toby, in a more formal uniform than the one he’d worn at Windfield. Emma’s nerves calmed at his presence. The last time she’d seen him, he was in the kitchen with Grace at Windfield. That thought sobered their reunion.

  She pushed the memory of Windfield out of her head. Thinking about it upset her already aching stomach.

  “I’m your driver today. They reassigned me to a detail at MI6 HQ. I’m hoping to work my way into an officer position there.” He stood near her in a new uniform, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for the paperwork to be completed.

  “You’d be a terrific operative.”

  He smiled and walked to the door. “Are you ready?”

  “I guess.” She was traveling with only the clothes on her back. The Styrofoam cup of coffee they’d given to her earlier sat on the table, probably cold. She grabbed it. If Toby was anything like Macknight, she’d be drugged before meal plans were set.

  Ms. Harriton escorted them to the door. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Ross. Good luck.”

  Emma couldn’t contain her hate for the CIA. Someone had negotiated her away and not one person fought to help her out. “It would have been nice if the country I’ve always called home had supported me.”

  “We are,” the lying, apathetic bitch replied. “We take these situations seriously. In this case, your transfer to the U.K. benefits everyone involved.”

  “Everyone except me. Thanks for nothing. If I die at the hands of the Russians, blame yourself.”

  Toby held the door to a black Mercedes. It looked like Macknight’s car. A company car. She sat in the back seat and placed her coffee in a drink holder. A nap would be great if the trip was an hour or longer.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, scanning her face.

  “I’ll be fine. When I get to the new location, I can ice my knee and rest. I heal quickly.”

  “I heard about the shootings. What happened?”

  She didn’t answer, not wanting to relive that part of her day. “Are we going back to the infirmary?”

  “No. HQ wants you at a different safe house. We’ll be there in a few hours. We can stop in a bit if you’d like.”

  “Snacks.”

  “Exactly. I know a place about halfway where we can find the best chips.”

  “Sounds great.” She shut her eyes, exhausted from her injuries and the emotions of the day. After an unknown amount of time, she woke up on a highway outside the city of London.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Only an hour or so.”

  She could smell the ocean. Being on an island, that didn’t narrow her location by much. She stared out the window.

  A sign for Dover came into view. She racked her brain for anything about the area. There was a ferry to France. White cliffs. Maybe a military base. She couldn’t remember much else.

  “Can you stop at the next gas station? I need to go to the bathroom,” she asked. Hunger roared through her empty stomach.

  “I don’t have time. They gave me specific instructions to not stop.” The car drove past several small marts.

  Why did he tell her they’d stop for fries then? “Can I borrow your phone to contact Derek Barlow? I left my stuff back at the infirmary and want to get it back.”

  “It’s dead, but we’ll be there shortly. You can call him then.”

  A dead phone? No way. There were no coincidences.

  When he started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, she knew. Same pattern as when he’d lied in poker. Tap, tap, tap, pause. Then he’d repeat it, over and over again.

  Toby had met with Dawson often while she was at Windfield. In fact, he’d mentioned his respect for both him and Macknight. Dawson was a traitor. So why wouldn’t Toby be one, too? He hadn’t rescued her at Windfield; he’d gone in to watch where she went. Had he killed Grace? The image of the clean-faced kid murdering someone as sweet as Grace roiled her stomach. She fisted her hand as tight as possible. Her body tensed, but she drew breath after breath to keep her exterior as emotionless as possible. The longer he thought she was clueless, the more of an advantage she’d have.

  “Are we near that chips place you’d mentioned?” she asked. “I’m suddenly starving.”

  “We passed it a few miles back.”

  “There has to be a place to get them every few miles. This is England. Home of fish and chips. Is there another coming up?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not from around here.” Tap, tap, tap, pause.

  She’d been so confused about how the Russians knew exactly when she’d left the infirmary. They must have been based in town and waiting for the opportunity to take her, then were alerted by Toby. Then Emma helped by spreading her fingerprints all over the internet.

  “Ever been to the States?” she asked, trying to keep his brain occupied.

  “No. I haven’t been anywhere. Macknight’s a lucky bloke. He’s been on every continent, I swear. I tried a few times to join the SIS. They wouldn’t take me. Said I wasn’t patient enough. So instead of traveling the world, I was left to man the same hundred acres for years. A bunch of rubbish.” He wasn’t listening to her. She’d become his confessional. Guilt did that to people. “They chose Macknight because of looks and connections. I bet he came from some aristocratic family. That’s what it’s all about.”

  “You’re really great at your job. They’d be morons not to promote you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” He remained facing the road. “I only have a year left in my assignment, and then I’m out. I’m going for the money for my next job.”

  “Money does make the world go round,” she agreed as she searched for a weapon. Nothing but cold coffee.

  He drove into Dover, past a ferry terminal to a row of warehouses. They had to be getting close to their destination. Her one contact with MI6 was a
traitor, the man she thought cared about her well-being didn’t, and her father was lost in a huge world she knew nothing about. Suddenly, the odds grew hopeless, and her confidence disappeared. She might take Toby down, but then what? She couldn’t go home, but she refused to give up, either.

  She pulled her arm out of the sleeve of her sweater. If she could maneuver the fabric around his neck, she could take control. She shifted from her spot behind the passenger seat to behind him, acting as though she had something in her shoe.

  When she reached toward him, he reacted, slashing behind him with a knife, catching a bit of her neck before she could lean back. It stung like a paper cut.

  “Go back to your side. They want you alive, but I can injure you if necessary. Your looks don’t matter where you’re going.” He drove with one hand. The other ready to cut her.

  Blood dripped down to her collarbone. The pain was nothing compared to her anxiety. Every nerve in her had fired up. The door wouldn’t open. She was running out of options.

  He honked three times in front of some large cargo doors that opened into a bright blue warehouse. He drove inside.

  She left the self-pity for another day. She had to figure a way out of here.

  “I don’t see what Macknight sees in you. You’re a total bitch.” He left her in the car to meet with two men. One of them was Scarface. Macknight had called him Maslov.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Trapped. Emma tried the doors again, but they were still locked. Even the front doors. She searched every corner of the car for a weapon. Nothing.

  She waited a few moments and planned. Three people stood about fifty yards from the car, but no one was watching her. She attempted to access the trunk by pulling the back seat down. No luck. There was only one thing left for her to do besides wait to be pulled out of the car.

  The group took turns staring at the car and the prisoner inside. Emma could sit there and wait for them to take her or try to get out of there herself.