SHELBY TOOK A seat in the back of the coffee shop, dropping her gym bag at her feet.
“Howya, luv?” the blond man behind the counter called. “What can I make you?”
“Just water for now, please. I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Lovely. Give me a tick.”
She’d thought it strange when she’d first come to London as an undergraduate that the English found everything to be lovely. Later she realized it was their equivalent to “Okay” or “Got it.”
The blond man brought her a large glass of water. Customers ebbed and flowed. The blond man poured tea, coffee, made sandwiches, and served up pastries. Some sat and ate; most took their food to go. None gave her a second glance.
The wail of police sirens jerked her upright in alarm. She twisted in her seat, trying to determine how close they were. Blocks away, at least. She found herself hoping for a simple fender-bender or bank robbery. Nothing that involved Trevor.
The sounds faded.
Finally, she saw Lark—Hadley Nia Larkspur—power-walking down the sidewalk, clutching an enormous handbag. As usual, she radiated inexhaustible energy. Today, her hair was bright purple, cut into a short, messy pixie cut. Her hair matched her makeup—purple lipstick, a shade lighter than her hair, and purple eye shadow, making her already huge eyes even more dramatic.
Lark saw Shelby and dashed the final few feet, bursting through the door and causing every head to turn in her direction. Rushing over, she enveloped Shelby in a hug and the scent of an expensive perfume.
Shelby returned the younger woman’s hug with genuine affection, hiding her sigh. Lark was anything but subtle.
“Shelby! Fantastic! I was thinking about you this morning. You got my email? How’s tricks?”
Shelby took a deep breath. “Been better, Lark. I need some help.”
Lark dragged a chair out from the table and plopped into it. “Fucking awesome. I was bored with the shit I was doing. So what if that douche wants to run for president? He’s got an icicle’s chance in hell. Tell me what you need.”
A helicopter buzzed overhead and moved away. Shelby rearranged herself in the chair and crossed her legs. “You heard about the hostage crisis at the August Museum?”
“Duh. It’s been all over the news. It’s why I emailed you. I wanted to be the one to find out who this Trevor Willoughby is, but they assigned fucking Trisha to it. Like she can get access to what I can. Simpering little bitch. Got into Danny’s pants. Can’t even hack.”
Shelby smothered a laugh. “Well, you also know I was one of the hostages.”
Lark’s eyes became huge. “You’re going to give me the exclusive? That’s freaking awesome! I mean, not for you. But you’re here. Clearly unhurt. So what was it like? Can you describe the terrorists? Are you here to do the interview? ’Cause I’d totally rock the interview.”
She reached into her handbag and yanked out a laptop. As she opened the lid, Shelby saw the custom cover of a three-headed dog with a serpent’s tail wrapped around it. Under the logo, Cerberus’s questioning motto—Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?
“Who watches the watchmen?” she murmured.
“Technically, it’s ‘Who will guard the guards themselves?’ ” Lark said. “But whatevs. Okay, I’m ready. Spill!”
“I’m not here for an interview. Not yet, anyway. But I will give you the story when the time comes. Deal?”
Lark’s eyes shimmered with intelligence. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“And I’ll get with the police to do sketches soon. It’s complicated at the moment. It’s just—I can trust you, right?”
Lark sat back with a snort. “Duh.”
Shelby dropped her voice, forcing Lark to lean forward to hear. “The man? Trevor? He’s not one of the anarchists. He was undercover. That’s all I can say, but he’s one of the good guys. And he needs help.”
Lark’s eyes brightened with curiosity. “What kind of help?”
“Someone else is pulling the strings. A mystery man is funding the Philosophy of Bedlam. Find him, and we stop this madness.”
Lark bounced in her chair. “Holy shit holy shit. This is awesome.”
“We have to figure out who he is.”
Lark’s eyes became shrewd. “We?”
Shelby dropped her eyes. “For the moment, yes. We.”
“So who is he? If he’s not a terror—anarchist, who is he? Scotland Yard? Interpol?”
Shelby managed a weak smile. “Would you like to meet him?”
“Hells to the yeah! Get his ass in here.”
Shelby pressed the speed dial that should have connected her to Trevor, but he didn’t pick up. After the third time the call routed straight to an automated system, she dropped the phone onto the table and twined her fingers together, squeezing them to mask her anxiety. Maybe those police sirens she’d heard . . . No. A highly trained SAS soldier would be able to avoid the police. She had to believe that.
“What’s wrong?” Lark asked.
“He’s supposed to be standing by to come in when I say it’s okay. But he’s not answering his cell.”
A small line creased between the younger woman’s brows. “You didn’t trust me?”
Shelby heard the faintly hurt note in her friend’s voice. “Of course I did—did and do. Anyone could recognize me, though. Or him. I promise I’ll give you an exclusive once we get all this figured out. You’d be helping the greater good, Lark.”
“Fuck the greater good,” Lark said, clapping her hands together and rubbing them. “I’ll nail that mystery man’s candy ass to the floor.”
Shelby felt a wash of relief. She knew she could trust Lark. They’d had first a professional relationship, with Shelby providing information required for news stories; and, later, when they’d established a mutual trust, she’d leaked Shelby tidbits as required to advance American interests in her arena.
“Thank you.”
“Ha. Don’t mention it. This could be my big break. Get me in front of the cameras.”
Shelby stretched. She felt sore in places she didn’t even know could be sore. “You still want to be a television reporter?”
“Maybe. But the producer told me I’d have to tone down the look. Don’t know about that part. Where can I contact you?”
Shelby took out her phone. “This is my temporary cell number. I’m not going home. It’s not safe. The cell’s the best way to reach me.”
Lark’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Where are you staying? Do you have a place to stay?”
“Another hotel, probably.”
Lark hefted her handbag and rooted through it. Pulling out a set of keys, she selected one and removed it. “You’re staying with me. I want to meet Hunky Guy.”
Shelby laughed. “Hunky Guy?”
Lark tapped a few keys on her computer and swiveled it toward Shelby. “That’s how his pic got out there. Girl named Chastity69 posted the pic on her Facebook page.”
Shelby leaned forward for a better look. Sure enough, there was the photo she’d seen on TV news, along with the caption, “OMG, he can marry me now. I want to have his babies.”
“Good grief. She must have uploaded it before they confiscated the cell phones.”
“Yeah.” Lark took a business card and scribbled an address on the back. “You go be safe. I’ll spider-crawl through the Philosophy of Bedlam like a motherfucker. If it’s there, I’ll find it.”
Shelby reached over and hugged Lark. “You’re the best.”
Lark grinned. “I know.”
TREVOR WAITED UNTIL the helicopter banked away from him to leave the concealment of the single tree decorating an intersection. One side of the street had been closed off for some sort of road repair. He stayed with the clump of Londoners crossing the street, then peeled off and walked through the narrow opening between the green-covered fence surrounding a construction site. Someone had left a yellow-and-gray safety jacket draped over a pile of bricks; he snagged it as he went by, tossing his cap away as he did so. The trick to evasion was to blend in. He could do little to alter his appearance, but every little bit would help. He shrugged into the safety jacket, then squatted to examine the small backhoe as a red BMW with orange stripes down the sides passed. Even without the blue letters declaring it a police car, he’d recognized the sedan for what it was.
The Armed Response Unit. They’d broken out the big guns to find him. These officers would be armed. They normally participated when a situation required special weapons and tactics, but clearly he was now the subject of a larger manhunt. He felt the first tightening of concern. He’d left Shelby alone too long as it was.
Crossing behind a Salvation Army church, he headed into a residential neighborhood. A long line of unbroken architecture told him he’d made a mistake. One side was connected townhomes. The other was upper-end flats. He couldn’t see any egress other than the far end of the road. Reversing directions, he reentered the construction zone.
The Armed Response Unit sedan revved its engines as it backed up. A blue Mazda swerved into the next lane to avoid it, horn blaring. The cop must have realized construction laborers didn’t work on a Sunday.
Left with little choice, Trevor ran past the Mazda and down the one-way road. The ARU couldn’t back up forever. Trevor turned right past a sandwich shop and a bus stop onto another one-way street. On the left was some sort of school, but the right held some older houses. The rear of the homes backed up to an alley. Trevor didn’t hesitate as he leapt for the top of a slatted gate, slapping his palms on the top and lifting himself up and over.
The usual trash bins, broken crates, and other rubbish littered the alleyway. He stripped off the safety jacket. By now, the ARU would have called for backup. He eyed the end of the alley and rejected it. The odds of another police vehicle cutting him off, or at least spotting him, were high. The best choice was up.
The rain pipe two buildings down looked sturdy enough. He went up it hand over hand, digging in with his toes where possible. When he was close enough, he leapt for the ledge of the roof, threw a leg over, and rolled onto the flat portion near the chimney, keeping his head below the roof line.
He heard no shouts or engine roars that told him he’d been spotted. Good. Keeping a low profile, he maneuvered to the other side of the building, checking several times for police cars. Nothing.
The gap between this building and the next wasn’t more than ten feet. Backing up to give himself some room, he sprinted to the edge, leaping at the last moment into the air. As he landed, he rolled twice, coming to his feet in a nanosecond. From there, it was child’s play to hop from rooftop to rooftop along the blocks of flats. Flocks of pigeons and sparrows took flight in protest.
He cut as straight a path as he dared back toward the Pret a Manger where he’d left Shelby. The rooftops ended at the next street. Trevor entered the roof door and took the stairs to the ground floor. Exiting into the washed-out daylight, he prepared to jog back to Shelby’s location.
“Freeze!”
Trevor jerked around. He didn’t know who was more shocked, himself or the young beat cop staring at him with round eyes. Of all the confounded luck, to walk straight into what had to be the greenest cop on the force. Who had managed to clear his weapon from its holster and point it at him with shaking hands.
“Since when do beat cops carry firearms?” he asked, surprised.
The question threw the youngster off for half a beat. “Since you, I think. They just got issued this morning.”
“Lucky me.”
The cop took a deep breath. “Down on the ground. Hands behind your head.”
“Look, Junior—”
His eyes got even bigger. “I will not hesitate to fire this weapon. Get down on the ground right now.”
Trevor sighed, dropping to his knees and clasping his hands behind his head. He really didn’t want to hurt the kid.
Who had the sense to keep his Glock 17 trained on him as he pulled handcuffs from his utility belt and cuffed him, one wrist at a time. He patted him down, finding the Beretta and tucking it into his own belt. Helping Trevor to his feet, he walked him the twenty yards or so to his patrol car. Trevor obediently climbed into the back.
The cop had his weapon, but hadn’t done a thorough search. Even with his hands behind his back, Trevor was able to slide his pick tools free. Before the youngster finished calling the dispatcher, voice triumphant, to declare that he’d captured wanted terrorist Trevor Willoughby, he’d already unlocked the cuffs. Three sledgehammer kicks to the door and it popped open, unable to withstand the force of the blows.
The cop cursed, jumping out of the front seat. Trevor popped him twice in the face, then grabbed him, spun him around, and threw him up against the police car. He whipped the cuffs onto the cop’s wrists, closing them tightly.
“Doubt you have my training, Junior, so don’t feel bad about this. I’m going to put you in the back of your car. Your buddies will be here soon enough. I’m sorry, genuinely sorry, if this causes you embarrassment.”
The cop glared at him with one eye. Trevor turned him around, and the cop kicked him. If Trevor hadn’t seen it coming and moved his leg, his knee might have cracked.
“You’re brave, I’ll give you that. Look, believe it or not, I don’t want any trouble. Just . . .” Trevor shook his head, frustrated. “Would it help if I punched you a couple more times, so you look like it was a fight to the death?”
The youngster hung his head. “Yeah, maybe. I’ve only been in the job two weeks.”
“And they let you out on your own? This is their fault, then.” Trevor walloped the kid’s temple right where it would swell and bruise. “All right, into the car. I’m really sorry, mate.”
He closed the vehicle’s door, turned, and ran flat out toward the Pret a Manger. With any luck, Shelby would still be waiting for him.