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Frigid white flakes fell from the dreary London sky,each clinging to the dark sidewalks only for a brief moment beforemelting away. Tonight, Ronan didn’t mind the bitter cold. He'd beenwaiting months for this moment.
Cracking his neck with a shrug, Ronan workedout the stiffness that had taken hold. He’d held his position inthe dark alley for hours, leaned against the grimy brick wall.Disguised as a vagrant, his beard was long and matted, his chestnuthair a tangled mass.
Nearly imperceptible footsteps approached.Only the soft squeak of the mercenary's left boot gave him away.“Target approaching,” Ronan whispered covertly into his earpiece.Walking carelessly as he rounded the corner, the merc’s face wasshielded by the gray watchman’s cap and thick scarf. Squeak, step,squeak, step… Ronan waited for the sound to pass the green doorbefore making his move.
Squeak, step… The click from the staged dressshop sounded the opening of the metal backdoor. A rumbling Scottishaccent boomed, “Here lass, I’ll give ya a hand with that.”
The sweet-as-pudding cockney accent of hispartner trilled down the sidewalk. Trap engaged. “Thank ya’, sir.Afraid of tearin’ the bag; litt’ring rubbish all o’er thesidewalk.”
Pushing off from the wall, Ronan pulled theloaded syringe from his pocket. Quiet as a murmur, he closed thedistance to the merc in a matter of seconds. Foot reachingout to tap the merc’s leg in misdirection, the mercreacted, shifting away from the invading foot as Ronan reachedaround with the syringe and swiftly, skillfully injected thetranquilizer into the merc’s arm.
Tossing her trash bag back into the opendoorway, Rose took one of the merc’s arm’s while Ronan gripped theother, catching the limp, sedated body before he crumbled. On cue,a black taxi van arrived at the curb. Laughing as if they’d imbibedtoo heavily at the nearby pub, the odd trio slid into the cab.
Running his hand over his filthy hair, Ronanpeered through the tinted windows at their surroundings. To thedriver, he inquired in his adopted East London accent, “Anytails?”
From the front, Jim responded, “Not a soul insight. It’s a sound plan. We should be at the safehouse in undertwenty minutes.” As promised, the cab pulled through the quietpre-dawn streets before reaching a deserted warehouse on theoutskirts of the city.
Ronan wasn’t convinced the plan was sound.Something still wasn’t right. Maybe he was a control freak, but hefound that planning around someone else’s parameters carriedinherently an increased risk. He’d anticipated any eventuality andknew the timing was perfect, but the capture had been too damnedeasy.
For nine long years, Ronan had served as anoperative for the CIA. Intense, terrifying, lonely, rigid. The workhad always come to him as easy as breathing. Like he’d been born toit. Over the years, he’d learned to trust his instincts, and rightnow they were screaming. But, there wasn’t a damn thing he could doabout it.
Nodding to Ronan, Rose whispered, her browwrinkled in an unrestrained scowl, “What’s the plan? Sharpewouldn’t tell me anything.”
Clenching his jaw, Ronan shook his head. “Meneither. All I know is that we’re not to ask a thing. Merc knowstoo much; eyes only, top secret material that we’re not clearedfor. Bollocks if you ask me.”
Six months he’d been following Peter Young.Since he’d stumbled upon the pile of mutilated carcasses outside arural Syrian village. He’d been following a lead on a small band ofmercenaries spotted crossing the border, in possession of cargosuspected to be biologic weaponry. Seller unidentified, buyer aknown terrorist group.
He’d flown under the radar, strictlycollecting intel with no authority to take any action… then he’dfound the disfigured families, but no sign of the mercs or theterrorists. They’d flown the coop before the weapons test. Ithadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to track down the mercenaryleader, Peter Young.
When he’d found Young in London, Sharpe hadintervened, having been tracking Young for another case. Ronan hadworked with Sharpe before. A reputation for ruthlessness, theasshole was a fucking narcissist. Cold, precise, and a don’t-askleadership style. He’d only seriously listened to Ronan when he hada solid lead on Peter Young.
Pulling into the open bay door of theseemingly abandoned warehouse, Jim looked back and motioned thatthe area was secure. The three dragged an unconscious Peter Youngout of the backseat and upstairs to a break room in the back of thewarehouse. Dark and desolate, it was a fitting place for aninterrogation. Sharpe was waiting and had Young cuffed to the chairbefore he started to stir.
“Out,” Sharpe directed, without acknowledgingthe team that had brought him his quarry.
Although he knew Sharpe would refuse, Ronanhad to try anyway, “I’ve been after Young for months. I need intelabout where those damn biologics came from, and where they arenow.”
With a curt nod, Sharpe responded, “I wantthose weapons as much as you do. We only have three hours beforeInterpol arrives to arrest him.” Ronan tried to object, but Sharpecontinued, “It was the best I could do. We’re not the only onesafter him. Get the hell out of here, and stay out of sight.” Sharpestood still as a hawk, looking hungrily at Young as if he were aplump, juicy field mouse.
Ronan bit his tongue to keep quiet. Fuck.Once Interpol had him, he wouldn’t be able to get close. If hewanted to continue the investigation, with or without the supportof his government, he’d need to stay off the grid. Young was wantedall over the world and had yet to even be linked to the weaponsthrough any legitimate channels.
Ronan stalked out to the car, Jim and Rosefollowing close behind. Jim hopped back in the driver’s seat andtore out of the building, as furious as Ronan. None of them spokeas they returned to the city. Rose loved a good interrogation, wasbetter at it than most. Had an innocent face, big doey eyes fewcould resist, with the bite of a viper veiled behind the sweetfaçade.
Dropping them at the nearest Undergroundstation, Jim tore off into the distance. Ronan didn’t even glanceover at Rose, avoiding their being seen together. He worked his wayto the Underground line and headed home to his flat. Stepping ontothe deserted subway car, he was grateful the morning rush ofcommuters hadn’t started yet. He stood and gripped the subway pole,despite the plethora of available seats, for fear the gentlerocking of the train would lull him to sleep.
Long night, but he was dead on his feet aftertaking the long way home. Despite the fatigue, he still needed toshake anyone who might be following him. Six weeks he’d been inLondon. Six weeks of Sharpe’s constant interference. Yeah, Sharpeoutranked him, but that was just on paper. If it hadn’t been forSara, Ronan’s contact and mentor at CIA, breathing down Sharpe’sneck and insisting on Ronan’s inclusion, Sharpe would have run theentire mission solo.
~
“Gregory Stevens, age 32, height 5 feet 10inches tall. Gainfully employed as a neurologist, and enjoys poker,golf, and travel,” Payson nodded with a satisfied smile.
Payson Roberts was convinced true love wasjust around the corner, currently hoping to find him via thislatest online dating program. She’d been trying the online thingfor a while, but this new app was promising. Not to mention theAdonis currently on her screen, a candid shot of him wearing atailored suit in the middle of an elegant dinner party.
Maddy, her best friend - and half-heartedonline dating supporter - responded, “Is he handsome?”
Payson flashed her phone to her friend with agrin, “Not bad, eh?”
