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“Granddad, look!”
Roland paused in the midst of packing his luggage and smiled as his four-year-old granddaughter raced through the bedroom door clutching something in her hands. He was a granddad three times over and while he loved them all dearly, he and Nelly had a special bond. “What’ve you got there, darling?”
“A unicorn!” She thrust it toward him so he could see the cuddly toy with its sparkly rainbow horn, then hugged it to her chest. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She certainly is, but I’ll tell you a secret.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s not as beautiful as you.”
Nelly giggled and hugged her new toy harder. “Did you pick her out for me?”
“I might have. What do you think?”
“You did! I knew it.” Beaming, she clambered up on the end of the bed and made herself comfortable to watch him, still hugging her toy. “Where are you going?”
“To a place called San Francisco.”
“Is it far away?”
“Very far. On the other side of the world.”
“Where though?”
He loved her curious mind. “I’ll show you. Come on.” He took her by the hand, helped her hop down and led her down the hall to his study where the antique globe sat on a table in the corner. One of his greatest pleasures in life was having his children and grandchildren over for dinners on the weekend. “Do you remember where England is?”
“That’s where we live,” she said, pointing to it.
“That’s right. We’re just south of London on the River Thames. Can you see where it is?”
“Here.” She picked out the tiny, faint line immediately because they’d done this several times before.
“Clever girl.” He ruffled her curls. She was a quick little thing and had firmly wrapped him around her little finger mere hours after being born. “I’m catching a plane in the morning and flying waaaay over here across the Atlantic Ocean...” He traced a fingertip across the route the plane would take. “And waaaay over here to this country called the United States, to the city I’m going to on the far West Coast. Right here.” He tapped the city.
She studied it for a moment, taking it all in. “That’s a long way.”
“It’s a very long way.”
She looked up at him with big brown eyes that were identical to her mother’s. “When are you coming back?”
The way this child tugged at his heart. “Soon. Maybe a week or two, that’s all.” It all depended on what the situation was like when he finished his initial meetings.
“Will you be lonely? You can take my unicorn with you if you want.”
“I think your unicorn would be much happier staying with you. And I won’t be lonely as long as you and your mum send me messages and videos.”
“And Rainbow, too.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that her name?” He nodded at the unicorn.
She grinned. “Yes.” She looped one arm around his leg, hugged him. “I love her. Thank you!” she cried and skipped out the door.
The indulgent smile on his face slowly faded along with the patter of her little feet as she raced downstairs to join the rest of the family relaxing in the living room. Foreboding crept in, the cold reality of his current predicament hitting him.
It was impossible to keep smiling with Warwick James still in the wind.
After the operation in Durham in which Isaac Grey had been killed, James had suddenly disappeared. For two whole weeks, Roland hadn’t been able to find out where he was, until he’d suddenly popped up on a flight from Heathrow to the US. The person tasked with following him had tracked him as far as Portland, Oregon, several days ago. There’d been nothing else since.
No online activity. No credit card activity to tell where he was or what he was up to. James had simply gone to ground somewhere on the West Coast.
Saying it alarmed him would be an understatement. It made him more suspicious than ever that trouble was brewing, and he was too busy currently to delve further into this personally at the moment, but something more had to be done.
He’d first become suspicious of James just prior to the Lake District op last summer. He was increasingly concerned that James had seen or heard or deduced things he shouldn’t about the Grey case prior to being wounded. Things that incriminated Roland directly and would spell the end of his career, reputation, and land him in jail if they ever came to light.
The only silver lining was that James had suffered a severe concussion and short-term memory loss in the explosion. Roland had watched him carefully during his recovery. James hadn’t appeared to talk to anyone else involved in the parts that Roland intended to ensure stayed buried. Hadn’t revealed anything worrisome or suspicious during questioning. He hadn’t been nosing around asking questions since. So it was possible he either didn’t know, or didn’t remember.
But if he had known and then forgotten due to his injuries, it was also possible that he could regain his memory at some point.
Roland had kept tabs on James throughout the past year because he simply couldn’t be sure whether James knew too much...or nothing at all. Either way he was too dangerous to be left unmonitored. James suddenly disappearing like this after the Durham op raised too many red flags. He had to be brought in for a thorough debriefing to ascertain whether he was a threat or not.
There was no telling whether he’d remembered something, who he was in contact with, or who he’d been talking to. James was highly skilled and experienced as both a soldier and a covert operative. If he didn’t want to be found it would take someone equally as skilled to track him down.
Roland needed answers so he could decide what measures to take next. He’d already risked so much during the Grey case. He couldn’t afford to take another one this soon. So while it would be convenient to have James done away with somewhere out of view in another country, Roland wasn’t prepared to make that call unless he knew James posed a credible threat.
Which he might. And that was the hell of it.
He strode back down the hall to the master bedroom and straight into the en suite. On his side of the sink, he opened the mirror and took out the bottle of prescription medication he’d been taking daily since the gastric ulcer had first been diagnosed a year ago this past June. He’d never had stomach problems in his life—or any other serious health issues for that matter—until the op in the Lake District.
He swallowed the tablet with a sip of water, wiped the few drops he’d spilled on the marble vanity with a clean face towel before going back into the bedroom to finish packing. His family had no idea what was going on. What he was involved in. Or how much he stood to lose if it all came to light.
After spending a lifetime working in British intelligence and making his way up the chain to where he was now at MI6, he wasn’t about to let that happen.
“Need a hand, darling?” his wife said from behind him.
He put on a smile to hide that something was wrong and looked at her. He never told her about work, had always tried to protect her from the stresses and darkness of his job. “No, I’m nearly done.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Be down in a few minutes.”
“All right.” Her quiet footsteps tracked back through the bedroom and out into the hall.
Roland clenched his jaw, hand tightening around the tie in his fist. The situation with James was untenable and taking a serious toll on his health, both mental and physical. Something had to be done, and he wasn’t willing to risk getting more personally embroiled with this than he already was.
He also hadn’t reached this level of stature in his career without good reason. A stature that just happened to come with a wide net of contacts to help in situations just such as this.
He strode to the walk-in closet. From the safe behind the custom-built shoe rack, he took out a burner phone and used it to access a secret database he used sporadically whenever a situation became too sticky.
A message was waiting from the American private investigator he’d hired to track James from Portland.
James verified in Crimson Point. A picture was attached. James, his facial scars unmistakable, getting out of a vehicle with the sea in the background.
He searched the name of the place. A small town on the Oregon Coast.
What the hell was James doing there? Talking to someone in the FBI or CIA? His stomach clenched tight at the thought. If James had remembered overhearing something he shouldn’t have and was now talking about it...
Roland accessed an encrypted program. A list of qualified contractors popped up to choose from.
Within minutes he found someone already in the area, and sent out an activation message to the contact number listed beside the contractor’s name.
He was just zipping up his suitcase on the bed minutes later when the response came back.
Tied up on a job at the moment.
How long until you’re available? he replied.
A day or two. Maybe less.
He paused, considering his options. Decided that given the quality and profile of this particular contractor, waiting another twenty-four to forty-eight hours was worth it. Ordering a hit on James at this point was premature, and while Roland had his faults, James had been fundamental in hunting down Grey. That had to be taken into consideration here.
At the end of the day, he wasn’t ready to order the execution of such a loyal asset without hard evidence against him. Better to be conservative for now.
That’s fine, he answered. Need the package brought in as soon as possible. By any means necessary. Contact me only when you have it.
Got it.
He tucked the mobile away into his trouser pocket, already feeling better. One way or another, he intended to get the answers he needed.
And if those answers confirmed his fears, then James would have to be eliminated.
****
A thick gray fog blanketed the shore as Warwick ran along the damp, packed sand at the edge of the waves. It was late afternoon now. In another hour it would be dark. He was exhausted but couldn’t sleep.
He’d stayed outside Marley’s place again last night—the second night in a row— until the sky had turned light this morning, hoping she might stop by before heading to work. When she hadn’t, he’d gone to the care home and waited. Again. She hadn’t shown there either.
So he’d finally gone back to his rental to crash. After an hour of fitful sleep, he’d been ready to come out of his skin, so he’d driven back toward town and wound up stopping at a deserted public access lot off the highway, feeling like he was being torn apart inside. Compelled to release all the pent-up energy and chaotic emotions he was struggling to lock down, he’d left his vehicle, wandered down to this deserted stretch of beach and started running.
He was the only soul out here except for the seabirds skimming through the fog. Large waves rolled into the cove in a powerful rush driven by the wind farther out to sea, drowning out the sound of his pulse in his ears and the soft thud of his treads. His bare feet were soaked and numb from the cold, his jeans wet up to his knees.
He ignored the discomfort and kept running, trying to clear his head. Except it wasn’t working. Even with his heart pounding, even when he gasped for breath and his legs and chest screamed for mercy, he couldn’t outrun the thoughts tumbling through his mind.
Marley. Grey. The op in Durham. The explosion. Waking up in hospital. The painful recovery. That nagging sense that he’d forgotten something critical. Something dangerous, though he didn’t have a clue what it might be.
Marley again. Seeing her face-to-face two nights ago.
Where was she? Was she okay? He wanted to see her again. Talk to her.
No. You need to leave her the fuck alone, mate.
A large wave came in, soaking him to mid-thigh. He slowed to a stop. Bent over and braced his hands on his knees and sucked in air until he got his breath back. A gust of cold wind raked over him and his sweat-soaked shirt, making him shiver.
Straightening, he checked his watch. Was surprised when he realized he’d been out here for nearly an hour.
He turned around and headed back the way he’d come, at a quick walk this time. Throughout the entire trek back to the parking lot, he battled with himself. He owed her answers, but there was a very real chance that he might put her in danger if he gave them.
Yet the thought of leaving her behind now that she knew he was alive was like having his heart carved up by a dull knife.
He kept going, distracted and deep in thought, barely aware of the scenery anymore. Of the bleached driftwood logs lining the high-water mark on the curving beach. The dark drifts of seaweed and long bull kelp washed ashore by the crashing surf.
Then, out of the blanket of fog, he saw something else up ahead lying on the sand. A body sprawled out facedown at the edge of the surf.
He broke into a run. Partway there he saw the soaked long black hair plastered to the wet sand, and the slender build of the dark form.
A woman in a wet suit. She appeared unconscious. Didn’t move as he pounded over and dropped to one knee beside her.
He felt for her carotid pulse beneath the angle of her jaw. It was faint, but there. And she was breathing, albeit shallowly. She was ghostly pale except for the blue tinge around her lips and eyes. A surfer maybe? There was no one else in sight.
“Can you hear me?” he said close to her head. She didn’t respond. Not so much as a flicker of her lashes. Definitely hypothermic.
Quickly checking her for injuries, he saw some cuts and bruises on her hands and face and a large laceration along the right side of her rib cage. He rolled her onto her other side and placed her in the recovery position, started to whip out his phone, then stopped. There was no service here and this woman didn’t have time to wait for an ambulance anyway. He needed to get her dry, warm and to hospital as quickly as possible.
Bending low, he levered her across his shoulders and stood, his tired legs screaming in protest. He started back up the beach at a lope, the shifting sand making it twice as hard.
The woman was still unconscious when he made it back to the parking lot and put her in the backseat of his rental. He quickly stripped her wet suit and the shirt she had on underneath, leaving her in just her underwear. The wound on her side was deep and bleeding freely. Definitely a knife wound.
The chances of someone being stabbed while out surfing were pretty damn small. So what the hell had happened to her?
He wadded up a spare shirt from his suitcase in the trunk, pressed it to the wound and tied it there around her ribs using the arms of a sweatshirt. Wrapping her up in a blanket, he pulled the seatbelt across her limp form and buckled her in place before hopping behind the wheel and turning the heat on full blast as soon as he started the engine.
He checked his phone. Minimal reception but he dialed 911 anyway, told the operator what was going on and to alert the hospital that he was bringing the woman in.
Speeding out of the lot, he headed north on the highway back toward town. Whoever the woman in the back was, she was running out of time.
