Counterfeit Conspiracies (11 page)

I shrugged. "Charm, family ties, turning a blind eye when a certain pickpocket goes after a mark who just acted rudely."

"That's your criteria, eh? Any particular range of etiquette faux pas considered beyond rudeness?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's enough to be able to pretend to hold the act over someone's head."

"Nothing I've found on you suggests a dabble in blackmail."

"No, but I'm an expert at using guilt to get my way."

"Keep a bit to bargain with. Good to know."

"I'm sure you've never felt guilty in your life, Jack."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Remembering to call me Jack."

The cabbie turned his head in profile and said, "Looks like we've lost the bloke. Have a particular locale in mind, or should I just keep driving?"

Smash.

Bullets pounded a five-second staccato against the back window. We all dove to the floorboards, and the cab shuddered to a stop. Brakes squealed around us, and the buildings made the screams sound like we were in an echo chamber. Something big slammed the rear bumper. Another round of bullets gave me a fix on direction. "Out the door. Your side. Now!"

Jack's moves were smooth. Door open and outside in one fluid motion, he crouched and held out a hand to hustle me from the vehicle. He yelled to the cabbie, "Call nine-nine-nine."

We dove under a nearby lorry and rolled to the other side. I dragged the poor Prada along the asphalt, then slipped the scarred metal-looped leather strap over my head and anchored the bag halfway under my arm.

More gunfire. This time coming from ahead of us. Jack slammed against me, pushing my body flat and covering my back and head. The pitch of the cries rose. Obviously, the crowds weren't scaring the shooter.

"Brazen bugger," Jack whispered, his lips close to my ear.

My head was turned, one cheek against the roadway. I couldn't see him; his skull pushed at the back of mine, the lorry's fat tire keeping us hidden from the gunfire. I could smell his cologne over the trace petroleum aromas, probably mixed with a lot of testosterone and pheromones, too. I knew he wouldn't let me up until we had a plan of sorts. "Who do you think it is?"

"No clue. You okay?"

"Fine. Can we make it to that alley between the shops?"

"And be like fish in a barrel?"

"Best idea I see. Unless you have another." I heard a high-performance motorcycle in the distance.

"No, I—"

The roar of an oncoming Kawasaki drowned his words, and I smelled rubber as the machine screeched to a stop mere inches from my nose.

"Here." I heard Nico's voice.

A helmet landed near my head at the same time the weight holding me to the pavement slid away. Jack quickly switched places with Nico. I pulled the helmet over my hair, swung the ragged-looking Prada to the side, and climbed on behind Jack. My arms circled his waist. He gunned the crotch rocket once and we took off. As we pulled away, I watched Nico disappear in the alley we'd been discussing a moment before.

Sirens wailed around us. Jack wove the motorcycle through the vehicle logjam, shimmying through tight spaces and pushing the throttle when an area opened up for a second. I kept my knees tight against the bike, my eyes constantly on a search for our enemy. Law enforcement would only hinder us at this point.

"We can't have the authorities catch us either," Jack shouted over his shoulder.

"Agreed." I patted his shoulder for emphasis. I wasn't sure when he and I started operating on the same wavelength, but at that moment I could truly say I was glad Jack Hawkes was on my team. My heart pounded, and I got a tighter hold as he twisted the accelerator.

When we slowed for a moment, a forearm clad in brown canvas grabbed the arm I used to anchor the Prada. I thought it was a purse-snatcher until I got a better look.

"Weasel!" I warned Jack, and kicked out with my heel.

Jack whipped around, trying to see what was going on, and almost lost control of the bike. I had to handle this myself. "Eyes forward! Get us out of here!"

The skinny hood latched onto my hand and almost unseated me. I could feel the motorcycle wobble under us, and Jack overcorrect to stay vertical. Weasel moved closer. I wrapped my right hand around Cassie's cell. The curve of my knuckles thickened as they embraced the phone's narrow edge, and I silently willed the plastic to add more
oomph
to my next hard won effort. My fist crashed into his shoulder, driving hard. I gave the punch everything I had.

It wasn't enough.

He grabbed my shoulders to pull me toward him, off the bike, and away from escape.

He thinks he's winning. Can't let that happen.

I hauled back as far as his grip allowed, then head-butted Nico's helmet into his nose.

Weasel staggered back. Crimson floods erupted from his nose and lip. One look into his eyes showed how cloudy his brain was after the blow. I slammed another kick into his torso, and almost fell completely off the bike in the emotional rush.

"Go!" I slapped Jack's shoulder twice for emphasis, and wiggled back into the bike seat.

"Hang on!" He hit an opening, running the Kawasaki so fast I couldn't be sure if either wheel actually met the asphalt. Cool, damp air rushed at us, calming my stomach. Excess adrenalin raced through my veins, and I had to fight an urge to kick out at everyone who passed close to the bike. Toes curled in my boots, grip tightening like a grappling hook around Jack's waist. I forced myself to breathe slowly, ducking my head to stay safely hidden by his broad back and shoulders as I took the few seconds of respite.

At least for the moment.

Jack looped the machine every direction on the compass, using alleys and avenues with equal abandon. I hung on, but took the risk to text "Thx" to Nico so he would know we'd broken free. I needed to start thinking now about a Christmas gift. The guy was truly a lifesaver.

After another half-hour or so, the tires wobbled over a cobblestone lane beside a small bistro, and the Kawasaki finally quieted from its nonstop rumble.

"You want a coffee?" Jack asked. His voice muffled through the full-face helmet.

"I want scotch. A double." I couldn't see his smile, but heard his laugh, and followed him through the door.

The helmets went on the extra chairs beside us, and we scooted up to a round table. I shook out my hair, then finger-combed it back into place and hoped for the best. Jack wore his customary casual air, giving the appearance we were only out for an evening ride. I would have been annoyed except the jerk was growing on me.

He moved to the bar and placed our order. I took the opportunity to send a more detailed message to Nico, asking him to see what he could learn about the Mayfair address for Moran that I found in Simon's file. The phone gave me the 'message sent' signal just as Jack returned with a tray holding two coffees and fish and chips.

"Messaging the waiter from the Italian job?"

I laughed. "You make it sound like we're bank robbers. But, yes, I did notify Nico we are safe and thanked him. I didn't realize you'd recognized him in the heat of the moment back there."

"I'm genius at face recognition."

"Good to know."

He added quite a lot of sugar to his coffee. I followed suit, knowing even a little shock is nothing to play around with, and I'd had more than my share of trauma for the day. As I sipped, he said, "That's why I knew I'd seen you before when we met again at the
castillo.
"

"Well, you were right on one of your observations," I said, thinking back to the encounter on the balcony.

He raised an eyebrow. "Only one? Where am I wrong?"

"You seem to know everything down to my shoe size—"

"Nine, medium width."

I closed my eyes, searching for my center in a job that was rapidly going sideways. "Anyway, use your resources. You obviously have more than the average Joe."

"I don't have a Nico."

"And you never will. He hates smartasses."

Jack laughed as he sprinkled malt vinegar and salt onto his food. I tossed my pickled onion his way. "You don't like these?" he asked, spearing the abomination with a wooden fork.

"Your research apparently didn't go deeply enough into my likes and dislikes. Slipping, Jack."

"I forgot to check sites like eHarmony and Match dot com. It won't happen again."

The fish sizzled in the container. I could have cooled it down with vinegar, like Jack did, but decided to go purist instead. Let him think I'm more Yank than worldly. "So what sites can a guy with supposed MI-6 connections access?"

"Supposed MI-6 connections?"

"Are you finally admitting you're MI-6?"

"I'm not admitting anything. Just asking a question." He sipped his coffee. "Tell me about Nico. How did he know where to find us at that crucial moment?"

I hedged, "Nico knows everything. It's why I can always count on him."

"He appeared like magic. I'm guessing GPS, right?"

I wiggled Cassie's phone. What was the point of trying to deceive?

"Then you must have contacted him earlier and told him you'd switched with the girl at the Victoria and Albert."

"She told you we swapped?" When he grinned, I knew I'd slipped into another trap. I grabbed a piece of fish and took a bite, despite knowing it was still hotter than I liked, just to keep from saying any of the angry words I was thinking at the moment.

He pointed to my phone. "Did you give him follow-up instructions in that text message?" When I kept eating so I couldn't answer, he said, "This is all going to be so much harder if we don't work together."

The couple at the next table looked at us, and the woman kept giving us one of those peripheral looks, watching us even when she pretended not to. I swallowed hard, then quieted my tone and leaned closer to Hawkes. "Work together? How are we working together? You're following me via bug or video. My contacts are saving your ass. You keep telling me just enough about myself to try to keep me off-balanced, and give me only enough about yourself to make me sure you're just a glorified con man. Tell me, Jack, why would I want to 'work together' with you?"

Yes, I used air quotes to make my point. I didn't want any misunderstanding.

He just laughed.

"I guess I should have shown my gratitude by letting you drive the bike," he said, while extracting a chip from my container. I noticed he'd already devoured all of his.

"Are you actively trying to annoy me, or is it natural behavior?"

"Well, I did pay for them."

"Excuse me for not showing my gratitude." I shoved them across the table and rose, finishing my coffee as I headed for the door.

I wasn't actually mad, but I needed to unhinge him a bit. His brawn could be important in the near future, and I always operated on a paraphrased version of the old school advice, namely "Until you know who's a friend and who's a bastard, keep everyone in your sightlines." This man definitely fit the full spectrum of those parameters.

On cue, he followed me out the door and tried to grab the bike's handlebars. I slapped his hands away. "Mine."

"You think you can handle this much power between your legs?"

"Guess it's time to show you exactly what I
am
capable of handling, Hawkes. Get onboard if you're brave enough."

 

 

 

 

 

In the next half-hour or so, I proved to Jack exactly how comfortable I was with a growling throttle in my hand. Overcast western skies grew steadily darker as the last bit of sun hid in the gray. Pedestrians moved more quickly toward home and hearth, and vehicular traffic tightened with every cab and bus reaching max load. On the scarlet and gold Kawasaki, however, mobile opportunity was almost limitless, and I admit to showing off at several points. My intent was to push a few buttons as I challenged sound and space barriers.

Come on, Jack deserved a touch of fright by this point.

Now in the forward position, I had the advantage of choosing my scenery as we moved closer to the docklands destination. I've always loved the many views of the London skyline, and I picked directions that showcased the best. My favorite two high points in London were Tower Bridge and the lovely Swiss Re building. Brits refer to the latter as the Gherkin, but the building always reminded me more of a giant-sized Faberge egg. At different times during our journey, I saw both in the distance as I crisscrossed the urban grid. The haphazard footprint of this capital city, regardless of the defined neighborhoods, is a quirky collection of villages. The landscape lends itself to sweeps and swaths of roadways, leading to lanes and loops, and a potential to throw off drivers and pedestrians alike. Dead ends become parks, and throughways change to lanes with entirely different names. The engine rumbled as our zigzag pace ultimately oriented east-southeast, to the heart of the docklands region, and the redeveloped and gentrified section highlighted at the new millennium. Despite not possessing the photographic London memory honed by black cab drivers, I had enough experience with the city to know its tricks and traps, and used my knowledge accordingly. I opened the throttle when any straightway sprang up before us.

Jack simply hung on for dear life.

Even under cloudy skies, the city skyline was interesting from practically any viewpoint. The hour sat close enough to full dark for all headlights and street lamps to offer the fuzzy glow that came from early evening and drizzly weather conditions. The streets were a bit slick, but the tires gripped like tiger paws. We skidded a couple of times, but only when I truly wanted to do so. Another quick turn, and I heard Jack's cursing in my ear, despite the barrier of the helmets. I smiled and wedged the bike through a sliver of space so close our pant legs brushed either vehicle.

A couple more kamikaze moves, and I felt secure in believing we weren't followed. I worried about what was going on with Weasel and Werewolf, and hoped Nico finished up in Mayfair soon and got an update from law enforcement. I couldn't risk contacting Scotland Yard, since I'd have to admit I was there and didn't stay for questioning. Personal ethics are truly a bitch sometimes, and we had only a brief window to locate the rendezvous destination and find a place to hide in case our prey arrived.