London Calling Page 12

  They were supposed to be pulled out together. The van drove for what felt like hours. Turns and twists and too many potholes to keep an accurate count. He tried to stop worrying about Owen, but the silence of the cargo hold offered no evidence that he’d been loaded.

  When a guard dropped Macknight off near a small village, Owen wasn’t with him. Neither were his clothes. He had on the black-and-white uniform of the prison. He crept around the outer buildings in the dark and managed to steal a phone sitting on a kitchen table in a two-room wooden house. From the map on the phone, he found his location—Martuk, Kazakhstan. Since he’d been the one with access to Ross, Owen must have been let out earlier. There was no sign of him in the town.

  A few hours later, Jack arrived in a rented Volkswagen Polo. He hopped out of the driver’s seat and slapped him on his shoulder. Macknight relaxed a moment, glad to see a friendly face. He climbed inside expecting to see Owen. No luck.

  As Jack hit the gas, Macknight shot out his arm to stop him. “Where’s Owen?”

  Jack shook his head and brushed his hair back with his hand. “Yudina doesn’t trust us. He won’t release Owen without a bigger payment.”

  “Are you screwing with me?” Every muscle, no matter how sore from Macknight’s prison stay, tightened. His fists clenched. He wanted Yudina dead.

  “I’ve been trying to negotiate with him, but he won’t budge.” Jack took off, leaving the area behind with an impressive speed for such a van.

  Abandoning Owen weighed on Macknight like a lead weight around his neck. “We have to go back. I need Owen, and Ross is still alive.”

  “And what? Storm the prison? We need a better plan than that.”

  “If anything happens to him, so help me God, I will personally rip out Yudina’s throat. And maybe yours, too, for not handling Owen’s security with the care it required.”

  “I’m doing everything possible.”

  This was unacceptable. He punched the door of the car, denting it. Their team was too small to lose someone.

  Everything sucked. Owen was at risk of death or worse, and Ross was still breathing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For over a week, Ian and Toby tried their best to entertain Emma. Her thoughts kept drifting off to her father and Macknight. Maybe he had a lead in locating him, and he’d bring Dad back to her. She hoped for the safety of both men, and Owen, too. Such a strange attachment to two men she’d only just met. Part of her mourned for her father and another part for her career, which was becoming lost to her by her absence.

  Ian played her in chess every day after dinner. He was formidable, but Emma bested him most nights. Lately, the books of poetry she’d found in the library provided her with a more thoughtful view of her present and her future. She often fell asleep rereading Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

  When the more sober activities of the day rendered her emotionally drained, she accompanied Toby to the firing range. Although his aim wasn’t perfect, he was a willing learner, and Emma gave him as much advice as possible to improve his accuracy.

  “I’d love to see you go head to head against Owen,” he said one afternoon, after inspecting her near-perfect target sheet.

  “Is he a decent shot?” she asked.

  “Decent? Owen’s a trained sniper.”

  She laughed. Her skills were good, but not that good. “I’m not quite at that level.”

  “Damn close, although if you really want to prove yourself, you need to beat Macknight.”

  “Really? Even better than Owen?”

  “He is, I swear on my mother’s life. I watch him when I’m on duty in the tower. He comes down here just as the sun rises and practices for about twenty minutes every morning. Damn near perfect. I’d reckon he could outshoot Owen.”

  So his secret wasn’t so secret after all. “Why wouldn’t he show off in front of others?”

  “My theory is that he prefers his position as leader of the group. The sniper often goes off alone most missions, according to some of the operatives I’ve met. He prefers keeping the team organized and alive. I’d love to be a sniper. If I could score higher, I’d move out of here and closer to the action. You have no idea how boring it can be here for months at a time.”

  “I bet. Looks like you have the respect of a lot of the people here. You’ll earn your promotion soon. And if you want to keep practicing with me while I’m here, I’ll show you everything I know.” She meant it. There was nothing else for her to do, and getting her own guards more efficient at shooting would only protect her more. Besides, a little loyalty from the people around her might save her life someday.

  The days moved slow. Helping Grace cook and clean kept her busy. One evening, Emma went to the kitchen to assist in dinner preparation, but Grace had already set out the meal of potato soup and fresh crusty bread on the table. Emma filled the sink with water to scrub the assorted pots and pans, but Grace piled all the dirty dishes on the counter and pointed her toward the table.

  “Sit down, Emma,” Grace insisted. “The meal is getting cold.”

  The mouthwatering food counteracted the rain outside and calmed Emma’s growing nerves. Grace poured two glasses of red wine.

  “Do you work for MI6 too?” Emma asked Grace after running out of things to say about the weather and the need to rid the world of GMOs.

  She took a sip of wine and placed the glass on the table. “I’m just a cook, dear.”

  “You’re a cook with a very high security clearance,” Emma said. Okay, she could have been less pushy, but after days ticking by with no news, Emma was desperate for information.

  Grace smiled, as though Emma’s words had opened a small door into her confidence. “My husband Fred was part of the SAS for years, like Dawson. While he was deployed, I assisted the operations on the home front, more of a secretary than anything. We never had children, but I enjoyed helping young men and women when they returned home after fighting for our country.” Her eyes glossed over as she continued. “When Fred was taken from me in a situation I’m not authorized to know about, I was offered a comfortable retirement in exchange for taking care of people who had to leave society for a little while. So far, I’ve been here ten years and have enjoyed every moment. Macknight and all the other officers that drop in are family to me.”

  After Macknight had lost his family at such a young age, Grace would be a real second mother to him. No wonder he gave her an extra dose of attention whenever he was around. His kindness burrowed him a bit farther into Emma’s heart. His absence was painfully noticeable.

  His name worked its way into almost every activity and conversation Grace engaged in. She obviously admired him, even more than she did the others who worked at Windfield, although she never came right out and admitted it.

  “Does he have a girlfriend or a wife?” Emma asked between bites of freshly baked bread.

  Grace rolled her eyes to the sky and lifted her hands as though invoking a prayer. “Macknight? No. Mr. Serious has one love—his job.”

  Her extreme reaction sort of relaxed Emma. She liked Mr. Serious. She liked Ian, Toby, and Owen, too, but with them, she’d never tried to imagine just how hard their bare abs would feel as her hands rubbed over them. Macknight? It was sort of her current obsession.

  Several seconds went by without words. Grace drank her wine as Emma obsessed about his long, dark hair. The guy was a walking fantasy. She sighed, the sound drawing Grace back into the conversation.

  “I’d love him to find the perfect woman and settle down, but he never commits to anyone.” She pointed her soup spoon in Emma’s direction. “You might stand a chance. I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you. Not even Lucy.”

  “I’m not interested,” she lied. “I was just wondering.”

  “Although MI6 prefers their officers to remain unattached at all times, I think that hurts them in the long run. Not that they’re great companions. They travel a lot. They all have some form of
PTSD from all the combat situations they’ve been through. They don’t trust easily. And they tend to be selfish.”

  “Nice to know.” They sounded like a group of rejects—no wonder they never had relationships.

  Grace sighed. “Even with all of the negatives, Macknight is worth the effort.”

  Emma’s heart wasn’t available right now, anyway. It was too wrapped up in mourning the loss of everything she’d ever known. She didn’t want long-term. Although the whole friends-with-benefits thing could help her alleviate some stress. His body seemed more than capable of taking away the tension strangling her.

  She finished her meal and wished Grace a good night. After a quick shower, she sat on the edge of her bed and stared up at the ceiling, obsessing about everything. Her father, her job, and Macknight.

  Fleming curled herself into a ball near the pillow. The warmth of the dog’s fur and her steady, relaxed breathing calmed Emma’s insecurities. There was something about a dog that made life’s uncertainty more bearable. She shut her eyes and said a prayer that her father would be with her soon.

  After what felt like only minutes, she woke from a nightmare about barbed wire and burning cars. She jerked up and received a furry foot in her face. Her heart raced until the nightmare faded, and the dog’s presence brought her back into her bedroom.

  “Hey, girl.” She rubbed Fleming’s back, but the dog wouldn’t settle. She whined and stood up, circled the bed a few times and wouldn’t let Emma sleep. Through her whines, Emma heard a helicopter approaching. It was loud and fast and coming directly toward the cottage.

  Sirens sounded across the compound. Lights flooded the space out the window.

  She jumped from bed, pulled on her jeans under her sleep shirt, and slipped on her sneakers.

  Running toward the sound, she went to the front door and stopped. Strobe lights cut through the stormy sky, lighting up the windows and the property surrounding the cottage. The loud roar affected her breathing as the rotors vibrated straight through her. She could barely make out the people running toward it, mere shadows caught up in the flashes of light and commotion.

  She crouched by the edge of the cottage and watched the chaos unfold. What the hell was happening? She had no idea whether to run and hide or head outside and find out if she could help defend the compound.

  Macknight had assured her it was safe here, so maybe she was overreacting. Then the sound of gunshots shifted her thoughts from theory to reality. Years of training pushed her in the direction of the action, but she stalled at the door. She didn’t have a gun. She had no idea the actors.

  She turned to look for Grace. No one could sleep through this racket, so she was either hiding or maybe she escaped. Emma called out to her.

  Before she reached the kitchen, Dawson, carrying a large assault rifle, rushed to her side. “Come with me. We’ll get you out of here.”

  He pulled her arm, almost knocking her to her knees as he twisted her around.

  “Wait,” she cried out. “What about Grace?”

  “Someone else will take care of her. You’re our priority.” The tugs and pulls were not gentle. He was moving her out the door at a rapid rate.

  She struggled to remain on her feet through the smoke and dirt blown up by the helicopter. His hand gripped her arm, and he pulled her down the front stairs.

  “Get down.” He fired his gun at several men rushing toward them. The shots whizzed across the air. She hesitated.

  Dirt, leaves, and clouds of dust swirled around the compound, sending shadows of people moving into dark zones and then through bursts of light. Her heart beat out warnings in her chest. Run. This wasn’t the time to sit around waiting for something to happen.

  Thunderous claps shot through the already noisy surroundings. Both sides fired at each other; people fell to the ground. Everything around her was black, white, and flames.

  She followed Dawson’s lead and hustled with him, staying in his grasp as he led her toward safety.

  They hid behind a woodpile. He leaned out a few times, shooting at the shadows. She remained crouched low, hoping a bullet didn’t nail her. Her stomach tightened at the possibility of a gunshot wound or worse. Although, if this was the GRU, they wouldn’t kill her. Not according to what Macknight had told her. They wanted her alive. If he was telling the truth, she had to make sure they never caught her.

  The pressure kneading her stomach still wound tight. Visibility had become almost nonexistent. People were getting shot, and she was as helpful as a corpse on a battlefield. She needed a weapon. Something loaded.

  After a short lull, Dawson grabbed her arm again. His rough yank almost pulled out her shoulder. They weren’t headed to the security building or to a vehicle to evacuate. This time, he headed for the helicopter. He wasn’t firing at them as he ran, he was firing at what looked like his own men.

  It didn’t make sense.

  “Wait,” she called out over the rumbling of the rotors. “Leave me here. I can help fight.”

  “Move. That’s an order.”

  An order? He wasn’t her commanding officer. He was supposed to protect her. Everything seemed off. Her allies acted like enemies. Her intuition screamed: don’t trust Dawson.

  She dug her heels into the dirt ground and fought him with every ounce of energy her body could muster. He twisted her arm and pressed it into the center of her back, giving her little room to maneuver. She risked a broken arm or torture. She sat on the ground, screaming out at the pain until he released her.

  He pulled her off her feet and lifted her into the air.

  Her height didn’t make it easy for him to carry her, especially as she was still fighting. “Let me go.”

  He nearly ripped her arm apart. This was the danger Macknight had warned her about. It was here, killing everyone around her.

  Dawson shouted something in Russian to someone behind them. The words sounded like, “Take her.”

  He was a traitor.

  She slammed her head back into his face with double the strength she’d used with Macknight. Dawson’s nose snapped.

  He dropped her, and she ran.

  Someone caught up to her. Dawson again. His nose damaged, and his expression deadly. He threw her to the ground. She hit hard and rolled to the side.

  “Major. Are you okay?” called one of the other guards. Emma couldn’t see which one through the flashing lights and swirling dust, but was glad for backup.

  Dawson turned toward him and shot him in the chest. She stared at the wounded soldier, her heart punching so hard it was stabbing at her ribs. The soldier struggled to get to his feet, and the blood… There was so much of it. It was Elliot all over again. She froze, unable to help him. His body jerked, and his cries cut through the rest of the sounds storming around her until his actions stilled. She reached toward him, but Dawson’s grip was too much. He’d killed his own man. Every part of her revolted at the tragedy. She retched onto the ground beside her and struggled to break free.

  This time his grip cut into her skin like a grappling hook had taken hold of her. She fought him, but nothing worked. The pain was excruciating. An older man at the door to the helicopter pulled her inside. His face was worn, as though he’d seen and done a million things that should never have been seen or done.

  “Thank you, comrade.” The man shouted out to Dawson before taking aim and shooting him in the head. Dawson’s body landed on the ground in a thud. Before she could scream, she was grabbed from behind by someone else. She maneuvered closer to grasp his arms, but he had her by the waist. She twisted and struggled. The roar of the helicopter became louder.

  She wasn’t going. It would mean death to her father. She reached over her head to grab the man’s hair and pulled. He head-butted her then slapped her cheek with the back of his hand.

  They were lifting off, and she was with the wrong team. Before the door slammed closed, a bullet hit the head of the man holding her. The impact rattled her; the detonation sprayed his blood across her
face. His grip died with him. She pressed through the narrowed opening and jumped to the grass below.

  A few men shot over her from the helicopter. Someone dressed in black, the enemy, raced across the ground straight at her, waving his handgun. Ian appeared and knocked him to the ground. He wasn’t in uniform, just jeans and a T-shirt. He must have been sleeping when the sirens sounded.

  The flash of a gun blinded her for a second. She flinched back as Ian sank to the ground. Blood pooled under his chest. Another dead. She didn’t run away; instead, she dove onto the bastard who had shot someone she’d considered a friend.

  An explosion of rage ran through her. She wrestled the shooter to the ground, taking blows, giving them. He was big, but it didn’t matter. She’d take a bullet to the chest for Ian—it was her job, her calling. Saving lives. The roar of the helicopter and the sound of the men around her faded away as she focused everything she had on the man who had shot Ian.

  When she had the bastard on his back, she yanked the rifle from his hands and punched the stock into his face. His head hit the ground hard.

  “Who are you?” she screamed above the roar.

  He didn’t answer. She struck him again over his left eye.

  “Pathetic bitch,” he hissed the Russian words, despite his face covered in blood, his body lying in defeat.

  “Whose orders?” she shouted back in Russian while kneeing him in the rib cage. A stream of blood flowed out the corner of his mouth and his nose. She repeated her actions until his eyes glowed without light.

  His answer remained silenced forever, but she already knew it. The GRU. This was all for her. Ian had died for her.

  The world fell away as the pounding inside her head deafened her to the thundering of the helicopter. She would not get killed today. Not if she could help it. She shot several times toward the helicopter, blowing out a side window. They’d killed Ian, but he wouldn’t die in vain.

  Several more Windfield guards moved closer toward her. She remained low, straddling the bloodied Russian corpse.