by R. J. Blain
“That explains the bracelet. Takes a man with real backbone to wear something like that. You’re interested in Egypt? Is that why you got a replica made?”
“It’s the real deal. Couldn’t resist trying it on.” I shrugged. It was mostly the truth; I hadn’t been able to resist the cuff attaching itself to me. “Oops.”
“It’s the real deal,” Lane echoed.
“Yep.”
“The real deal as in you couldn’t help trying on a museum piece and it got stuck. You’re joking, right?”
“I didn’t steal it from a museum.”
“Who did you steal it from?”
I widened my eyes. “Me? Steal something? Why would you think that?”
“I paid attention during briefing, that’s why.”
“Rubbish and poppycock, Petty Officer Fredrick.”
“If you say so, Major McGrady.”
“Fucking SEALs.”
“Lunatic Marines.”
We both snickered under our breaths and waited for Vice Admiral Haney to have mercy on us.
Haney had a mean streak a mile wide, and he kept us on deck right up until we reached port, where we were forced to get out of the way of the sailors bringing the ship into dock. Every muscle in my body protested, and Lane winced when we stepped off to the side to observe.
As he had since we had boarded the Royal Navy ship, he kept the British officers company, ignoring our existence except when we made a nuisance of ourselves by standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. I stayed at attention, and Lane followed my lead.
If I leaned on anything, I’d probably ooze to the deck in a limp and unconscious heap, which wouldn’t leave a very good impression. Maybe I wasn’t a real Marine, but if Lane could keep standing straight and tall, so could I.
Professional Pride: 3, Common Sense: 0.
“I need a beer,” Lane muttered. “At least you can trust the Brits to have decent pubs.”
“Do you really think he’ll let us go to a pub? You’re joking, right?”
If looks could kill, I’d be long dead, riddled with holes from Lane’s glare. “The man has to sleep sometime.”
“So do we. The deck’s starting to look pretty comfortable, actually.”
“Don’t even think it, McGrady.”
“Too late. Bloody hell, Fredrick, I’m dead on my feet.”
“You look it.”
The Devonport Naval Base bustled with activity, but as soon as the ship was secured, Haney waved for us to join him. An escort of several Royal Navy officers met us on the docks. The introductions went by in a blur of salutes, polite greetings, and stiff formality. I should’ve paid more attention to who was who, but it took most of my effort to stay on my feet.
Salvation came in the form of a two-starred officer who pulled Haney aside, leaving Lane and me in the hands of two Royal Navy representatives. Neither man seemed interested in making small talk, which worked for me.
Instead of guiding us to the visitor’s on-base lodging, something I’d experienced a few times in the United Kingdom while on mission, we were led to a black, unmarked car. One of the men opened the back door for us, saluted, and left, while the other, a dark-haired man with a stern expression, slid into the driver’s seat.
I doubted I’d ever get used to the way the British drove on the wrong side of the road. Without fail, the reversed seat positions threw me off, making me grateful I wasn’t the one behind the wheel. With how tired I was, I’d probably get in an accident before making it off base.
Lane frowned, adjusted his grip on our shared duffle bag, and flexed his hand near where he’d normally have a handgun holstered.
My fingers itched to have a weapon on hand, too, but I hid my unease by getting into the vehicle and buckling up. Lane followed my lead, although I could see the tension in his posture and in the lines etched across his brow.
“Relax, Lane,” I murmured, staring out through the tinted window as the car drove us through the base towards the city of Devonport. “The Brits don’t bite.”
“Often,” the driver corrected with a soft chuckle. “Welcome to our side of the pond, Major McGrady, Petty Officer Fredrick. I have orders to take you to your lodgings for tonight and permission to take you anywhere you may need to go, within reason, of course. The name’s Ethan. Ethan Jones. What can I do you for?”
“Pub,” Lane and I chorused before staring at each other and chuckling.
“Jolly good, sirs. I know just the place. You been here before?”
“I was stationed in London until recently,” Lane said, glancing at me with an arched brow.
“I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while,” I admitted.
The last time I’d been in the United Kingdom, I’d visited a museum or two, leaving with a few things I didn’t own. I fought the urge to grin at the memory of the heist. It’d been one of my better jobs. By raiding several barbers and salons for hair, I ruined the investigator’s chances of using DNA evidence by scattering the strands through the entire place.
Leaving evidence like hair behind was a good way to get sunk, and my ruse had worked as well as I could’ve hoped. Even if investigators tested the thousands of individual strands, which I had cut in variances to mask the length of my hair in case I left any at the crime scene, it’d be near to impossible to discover who’d committed my crime.
All they had on me was video evidence, and I had gone to great lengths to disguise my appearance and trick the cameras.
Ten minutes later, Ethan parked in front of a two-storied stone building. The Anchor’s Rest was the type of pub I expected to exist hundreds of years ago. Its wooden doors were banded with iron, and I clenched my teeth, shivering at the metal’s close proximity.
Iron didn’t hurt me, but even without touching it, numbness spread through my head and settled into my bones. I clenched my teeth and followed after Lane, my legs shaking. Ethan held the door open, and I eased my way through, careful not to touch the black metal.
I’d never live down collapsing in a British pub. Fortunately, the door seemed to be the only source of pure iron, and once inside, the clinging lethargy eased. Ethan waved at the barkeep, who pointed at a table tucked in a corner.
I took the seat closest to the wall, which put me as far from the iron-bound door as possible and gave me a clear view of the entire pub. Lane sat, positioning himself between me and the majority of the patrons, who stared at us.
Americans in dress blues probably didn’t come around often. My wolf growled his dislike of their scrutiny. The iron helped me in a way, so soon after its influence, I was too tired and fuzzy-headed to bristle at the unwanted attention.
Ethan penned me in, grinning as he scooted his chair closer to the table. “The food here is pretty good. Get what you want; it’s on us. Figured you’d like something like this after being at sea. Got a favorite beer?”
“Guinness,” I replied, though I was tempted to go straight for a glass of scotch. “How’s the fish and chips here?”
“You won’t regret it, but the bangers and mash can’t be beat.”
“Bangers and mash it is, then.”
Lane narrowed his eyes. “Do you even know what that is?”
“I have been to enough pubs in these parts to know. The cockles tempt me, but no sane man can turn down good bangers and mash.”
Ethan chuckled and shook his head. “Americans. You’re all randy bastards.”
“I’m in on the bangers and mash, too,” Lane said, leaning back in his chair and balancing it on two legs. “It’s a rule of international travel. If the local says something can’t be beat, order that. I’ll take whatever cream ale you think is the best.”
When a waitress came by, Ethan ordered for us, which worked for me. She brought our beers right away, and Lane and I shared twin sighs of satisfaction.
Chuckling, Ethan shook his head. “When was the last time you two had a bloody beer?”
“Too long,” I admitted. “And my limit is one.”
Taking a sip, I closed my eyes, and enjoyed my Guinness, right down to the thick froth and its strong flavor.
Lane snickered. “That is the expression of a happy man.”
“He looks like a cat who got into the cream. Fancy seeing you here, Declan. You’re dressed up.”
At the sound of Anthony’s voice, I choked on my beer. Someone rescued my glass before a few hard slaps to my back knocked my breath and my beer out of my lungs. I wheezed, coughed, and cracked open an eye. “Anthony, you impertinent motley-minded horn-beast! What are you doing here?”
“Finding you. Mind if we have a seat?”
I waved, giving my chest a thump to finish getting the beer out of my lungs before turning my attention to Anthony’s company. A dark-haired man in a crisp blue suit watched me, his expression guarded. He didn’t look very old, but there was something about his dark eyes that put me on edge.
Drawing a deep breath was a mistake; the sweet and spicy scent of cinnamon filled my nose, and when my eyes widened, Anthony’s companion smirked. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. McGrady.”
“Major McGrady,” Lane corrected, and the SEAL sat straighter, his cheek twitching.
My client lifted his hands in surrender. “I meant no offense. My apologies, Major McGrady. Navy?”
When I didn’t say a word, Lane answered, “Marines.”
“Sit,” I invited, reaching for my beer, wondering how my client had found me, why he’d dragged Anthony along with him, and how I’d survive my first meeting with another male werewolf.
Chapter Twelve
There was no way Anthony could have found me without help, and when Ethan cleared his throat to put an end to the silent standoff, we all turned in his direction. “Major McGrady, this is Charles Desmond, a friend.”
“We’ve spoken,” I acknowledged, setting my beer down, rising to my feet, and thrusting my hand across the table. “I didn’t think I’d be meeting you here, Mr. Desmond.”
Desmond grinned, took my hand, and gave a firm shake, hard enough I recognized his strength but not so tight I felt challenged by his grip. “I called in a few favors for the privilege, Major McGrady. Anthony is a pleasant traveling companion.”
“It seems we have something in common, Tony. We both have done some unexpected and unwanted traveling recently. Did you have a nice flight?”
Anthony snorted. “He’s even more restless than you are when you don’t get your way.”
“I see you already know Mr. Hammond.” Ethan shifted his seat to make room for Desmond, and Lane made space for Anthony. “Sorry for the subterfuge, Major. I was under orders.”
“I’m pretty sure we both requested to be taken to a pub.” I shrugged. “Are the folks in London behind this?”
“That would be telling, Major.”
Desmond looked me over, his gaze fixing on my undecorated chest. “Is the uniform for appearances?”
Lane stiffened, and before the SEAL lost his temper, I nudged him with my elbow to catch his attention. “Medals aren’t my style, Mr. Desmond.”
“You’re decorated, then. I thought you said you weren’t ex-military.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I see.”
Lane grabbed his beer and drank it down, tapping the empty glass to the table. “I think I need another one. Maybe two.”
“Are you two hungry? We already ordered dinner, but no reason you two can’t join us,” Ethan said.
Desmond nodded. “Whatever you recommend.”
“Ditto.”
Raising his hand to catch the attention of the waitress, Ethan ordered bangers and mash for them and another beer for Lane.
Desmond ordered the best scotch the pub had, and Anthony declined a drink, which didn’t surprise me. The man was more of a lightweight than I was, and he often opted to serve as the designated driver and babysitter of drunks.
While tempted to order another beer, I kept my mouth shut. One would be enough to get me into trouble. After two I wouldn’t remember half the night.
Lane glared at Desmond. “It’d be difficult to get Major McGrady’s full decorations on short notice, Mr. Desmond. He has a five-star Purple Heart, a Medal of Honor—”
“I have a what?” I jerked in Lane’s direction. The Purple Heart with stars I already knew about; I’d taken far more than six injuries while on missions on behalf of some government agency or branch of the military.
“It was awarded after your last mission, sir.”
“Now that’s a load of poppycock if I’ve ever heard it,” I grumbled, shaking my head. “I’m not sure I want to know what else they’ve foisted on me without my knowledge.”
“A few ribbons and a couple of other medals, sir. You’re very well decorated.”
“Is there a back door of this joint so I can sneak out? I think I’m developing a severe case of wanderlust.” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “This is turning out to be the week from hell.”
“Vice Admiral Haney had us on deck at attention from the moment we boarded until we made shore,” Lane explained. “I’m exhausted, and I don’t have two bullet holes in me.”
“One was only a graze. No big deal.”
“Don’t make me recite the entire list, Major.”
“Fucking SEALs,” I muttered under my breath.
“You were shot?” Desmond demanded.
“Count Dracula wasn’t very happy that I let his brides out of Castle Transylvania. He took some pot shots after I went into the drink. No big deal.”
“Count Dracula? Brides?” Lane blinked at me, his expression puzzled.
I was saved from having to answer by the waitress returning, bringing dinner with her. Taking a deep breath, I savored the scent of sausage partnered with garlic and potatoes. I focused on my food, taking my time cutting everything up.
There was a benefit to being exhausted; I lacked the energy to focus on more than one thing at a time, allowing me to filter out the conversation around me and worry about nothing other than my food.
The serving size was large enough it took the edge off, allowing me to keep a firm leash on my wolf, who whined restlessly at the presence of another werewolf in such close proximity.
If Charles Desmond didn’t expose me, I’d pretend he wasn’t anything other than a normal man, too.
“Declan?” Anthony’s voice dragged me back to the conversation. I looked up from my food, staring at him.
He wasn’t the only one who sighed.
“What?”
“When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”
It was a good question, and I turned to Lane. “When did we last get some sleep, anyway?”
“On the cruise. I think we had three hours before our rendezvous with the first helicopter.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Hell if I know. It’s become a blur,” the SEAL admitted. “What day is it?”
“You’re Navy. What division?” Desmond asked.
Lane straightened. “I’m a SEAL, Mr. Desmond. Petty Officer Second Class.”
“Fredrick was assigned as Major Declan’s detail. As such, I thought it’d be best to bring him along. My orders only said to ditch Vice Admiral Haney. Knowing how ruddy annoying SEALs can get, I thought I’d keep him happy by bringing him along for the ride,” Ethan said, grinning at Lane and lifting his beer up in salute.
The SEAL snorted and lifted his glass. “You’re smart for a spook.”
“Me? A spook? Why would you think that?”
“Your boat was crawling with them, so I figured something was up.” Lane smirked, leaning back in his chair to balance it on two legs. “Major McGrady is a very popular man.”
“I noticed. Trust me, I noticed.” I poked and prodded at my food. “So, how did you coerce the Brits into working an op? That’s a hell of a favor to call in, Mr. Desmond.”
“I have friends.”
“I know.” I straightened, twisting to face Lane. “Guess what? So do I
. I need my phone.”
Bending down, Lane grabbed the duffle and dug through it, handing me my cell, which was enclosed in a plastic bag. I dug it out, turned it back on, and checked my email. Bob had sent me the information I needed, and I sifted through several other emails, wrinkled my nose, and dialed his number.
He answered on the second ring. “What do you have for me, Bob?”
“If you keep losing people, I’m going to come over and kick your ass, Bob,” I answered.
Bob groaned. “Which one did you find?”
“Take a guess. I’m in Devonport. Should I send this loose cannon back to you? How many have you lost track of?”
“Just one. He’s with you?”
“Apparently. He kidnapped one of my friends for the ride, too.”
Desmond snickered. “I encouraged. I did not kidnap.”
“No, I’m pretty sure you kidnapped him. He has a severe allergy to guns.”
“I didn’t bring it with me on the plane.”
“So, Bob. The loose cannon. What do you want me to do with him?”
“His wife and his children are ready to kill him. Please let him know this. The eldest daughter is about ten minutes from a murder.”
I chuckled, glancing at Desmond. “I have been informed your wife and children are ready to kill you, and that your eldest is about ten minutes from a murder. It is unclear who will be murdered, though.”
Desmond scowled. “Who are you talking to?”
“Bob.”
“Who, exactly, is Bob?”
My wolf was as eager as I was to challenge the rival male, and I smiled. “Bob is Bob.”
“You’re calling me for a reason, Bob,” Bob said, his tone turning serious. “What do you need?”
“Did you contact the Brits?”
“Would I do that?” Innocence oozed in the man’s tone, and I snorted my disbelief. When I remained silent, he sighed and said, “I may have greased the gears a bit. In my defense, I didn’t know if the loose cannon would actually contact them. I take it he did?”