Marked Masters (17 page)

Dinner was fine. Even my seatmate roused
himself for the three or four minutes it took him to inhale the
steak and a bourbon. As he drifted back to sleep, I devoured a
surprisingly elegant chocolate dessert and contemplated stealing
the one still sitting on the sleeping lug's plate. Even I wouldn't
give up chocolate for sleep. But I saved my stealth talents for
another venue. Not because I didn't want the brownie fudge
concoction, but because the attendant came by and picked up his
dishes seconds before I made my move.

The beauty of eastward travel is the way the
journey erases time zones along the way. In our case, the five
hours between U.S. eastern daylight time and London. When traveling
after noon, it means darkness comes even more quickly. My eyes
dimmed long before the lights were lowered. The attendant offered a
real pillow and blanket—I did love first class—and I was set.

"Laurel, wake up."

I felt like I was swimming out of cotton
wool. When I finally got my eyes nearly open, Jack sat where
sleeping lug had been snoozing. Nico stood in the aisle looking
nervous.

"What? Are we there already?" I stretched to
look around but saw everyone else still seated in the dimly lit
cabin. I leaned back against my pillow and felt my eyes close.

"Laurel! Wake up! You have to see this!"
Jack's voice hovered just above a whisper, but the urgency of his
tone snapped me out of my slump.

"Hmm? Are we landing?"

"We're a couple of hours away. But Nico
pulled security footage from the Browning event. You need to watch
this." Jack queued up the video.

"How did you get—"

"No questions, Laurel, just look at what
Jack is showing you." Nico pointed to the screen, then crossed his
arms. "I was trying to find out when Tony B left the event. I saw
who he was talking to as you were taken away."

"Yeah. This guy look familiar to you?" Jack
held the screen closer to my face. I watched the Danger Twins drag
me for just a second before we disappeared out of the frame. In the
top half of the screen, I saw the clutch of "beautiful people" mill
around in the lobby, their mission to see everyone and be seen by
the same. Jack tapped a fingertip at the upper right-hand corner,
and I finally saw what they meant. Tony B buttonholed a younger
man, laughing and slapping the fellow on the shoulder. His skinny
bitch of a wife walked over and pointed in the direction where my
image had disappeared a minute earlier. My Favorite Felon leaned in
then and whispered something in the other man's ear. That's when I
got my best look at who Tony B exited the building with a moment
later.

The other guy was Rollie. Devin Moran's
grandson and heir apparent to the mastermind's criminal empire.

Our party broke up when my fellow
first-class passenger returned from the bathroom and wanted his
seat again. Nico took his phone and trekked back to coach. I
assumed Jack would do the same, but no.

I heard a ding sound overhead, and the
Fasten Seat Belts sign flashed back on.

"Look, mate." Jack stood and pulled out his
wallet, counting out a bunch of bills. "I'll pay you to trade seats
with me. What will it take?"

"I don't want to change seats," my frumpy
fellow passenger said. His voice was so deep I almost couldn't
understand him. "I want first class. I bought a first-class ticket.
And I'm staying in first class."

The guy slid back into his seat and Jack
tried once more, but I could see the effort was fruitless. My lug
was there to stay. I held up a hand. "Jack, see if one of your
neighbors will change with me, and I'll—"

The flight attendant interrupted us. "Excuse
me, ma'am." She turned to Jack. "I'm sorry, sir, but the captain
has turned on the seat belt sign. We're hitting some turbulence,
and you need to return to your seat."

Jack deflated for a moment. I gave a crooked
smile and shrugged. He swept his gaze in a semicircle, and I knew
he was going to try to bribe another passenger. Which, of course,
told me he really wanted first class more than he wanted me in
coach to talk. But the attendant pulled rank instead. "Sir, I
really must insist you go back to your own seat immediately."

The plane waffled right then, and Jack fell
against our seat backs. He took the opportunity to tell me, "We
need to talk about this. Figure things out. Do some planning."

I nodded. But while a jillion thoughts shot
through my brain, the only one that seemed to set up residence was
the message Moran had tried to kidnap me again. I'd gotten away the
before thanks to quick thinking, the rush hour crowds in the London
Tube, and an innocent businessman who would likely forever stay
clear of women in high heels. More importantly, this time Moran's
hired help didn't seem as averse to actually getting rid of me.

Had Rollie been in the office while Tony B
kept me trapped? I'd felt so convinced when I met Rollie a couple
of weeks ago that he was just some really nice French guy, only to
learn later he was not the innocent he appeared to be at first
glance. So what did I think now? I mean, besides what an idiot I
was for not seeing through his persona.

Truthfully, I felt frozen. Like someone had
tased my brain. Rollie had actually been there onsite when the
kidnapping occurred in Miami, talking to Tony B as it all went
down. Obviously things were stepping up somewhere in the game plan.
This had to mean we were either getting close or Moran saw us as a
growing risk.

This new information also meant it was going
to be damned difficult getting away from Jack at Gatwick. I needed
to take every advantage I could. Not just to be contrary, as he
always thought, but to make it take as long as possible for Tony B
to connect up Jack and me. Rollie and Jack already met, and I had
little doubt Moran knew who Hawkes was in detail. But us being
together again would simply confirm we were still working new
angles of the same job. A job whose outcome likely meant the fall
of Devin Moran's empire.

An hour or so later, the plane touched down,
and I was out of the fuselage and off the plane long before the
guys had a chance to waylay me. Oddly enough, I could thank my anal
seatmate for the perk. Though he wouldn't accommodate Jack earlier,
he allowed me to slip around him when he held up the line moving
forward as he again donned his suit jacket and withdrew his bulging
carry-on from the overhead compartment.

I texted Nico to explain to Jack. We needed
no scenes in an airport to grab attention, and I had no doubt after
the Rollie footage that Jack would be even more determined to play
my bodyguard. I could give him my logical ideas on why splitting up
was even more critical, but he wasn't going to buy it unless the
idea came from his brain. Too late.

As promised, a scruffy type who was bearded
and disheveled in well-worn jeans and a black leather vest, and
pretty much met everyone's stereotype of a rock-and-roll roadie,
stood just past customs with a sign that read L. BEACHAM. I waved
to show him I'd arrived and queued up at the shortest customs
line.

While some of the contents of my bag usually
elicited a few interesting questions, I sailed through this brief
search and interrogation unscathed. Traveling light had its
benefits.

The roadie held up a large wheeled bag I
recognized as my own and said, "A pretty lass with pink-tipped hair
left this for you."

"Yes, that was Cassie."

"Okay then. Let's roll." He tossed my bag
like it weighed nothing, and the luggage landed in the back of a
waiting golf cart. I assumed a full bag of luggage was nothing
after manhandling huge electric amplifiers and stage boards. He
waved me toward the passenger side, and I hopped in beside him. I
turned back and saw Jack run into the customs zone just as we
zipped toward the exit. I untied the scarf from my purse strap and
covered my head. A second later I'd added my sunglasses. I'd have
to take them off to climb the stairs to the plane. But since it was
a rock group's charter, my disguise could easily be chalked up to a
publicity-shy celebrity instead of my wanting to stay incognito in
case any of Moran's watchers manned the airport.

The roadie gave my new look nary a glance. I
was really beginning to like this guy.

"I'm Clive, by the way," my escort told me,
holding out a callused right hand as he used his left to steer the
cart out of the building and onto the tarmac. "Patricia said you're
a good egg and you won't grass all our secrets to the press."

"I thought grass was when someone narced to
the police. It works with the press too?" When he frowned at me, I
quit my musing. "Sorry. Whatever. Yes, I'll keep anything quiet
from the press. They've never really been my friends either."

Well, some were, but I didn't think Clive
wanted to hear me dither on. And his opening up with this line made
me wonder what kind of drug use I might witness on the plane. Not
that drug use would surprise any of the press. I would have thought
the group's image actually required that kind of thing broadcasted.
"Look, as far as drugs—"

He held up a hand as we neared what appeared
to be our jet. I don't know one private plane from another, but the
musical cacophony coming out of this one pretty much spelled out
Whyte Noyse to me.

"Here." He handed me a pair of earplugs and
leaned closer so he wouldn't have to shout. "Just wear them until
we take off. I'll make introductions after we're in the air."

Okay.

However, the earplugs were cushy, and when
in Rome and all of that… He grabbed my luggage bag from the back,
so I only had to get myself up the ladder before Jack had a chance
to spot me on the tarmac. Thanks to the long transatlantic flight
and the time zone difference, dawn was struggling to peek out over
the horizon. It wasn't quite full light, but it was worrisome.
Regardless, all the outside airport lighting was still ablaze, so I
needed to get into the noisy plane as soon as possible. Yes, the
thought sounded crazy even to my earplugged ears.

Band members were still boarding, lugging
their own stuff up the portable stairs. I was halfway, stuck behind
a couple of leather-clad Whyte Noyse members and bookended in back
by my roadie escort, when everything stopped. Something wasn't
fitting into the hatch door. I nearly panicked, wondering if Jack
would leap out of the concourse doors at any second. Since half the
band wore shaded glasses, I put mine back on and scrunched down a
bit. I'd just have to be careful as I climbed. I fiddled with my
shoe, trying to pretend I wasn't hiding behind dark lenses and the
metal sides of the stairs. I peeked over the railing to see if Jack
had made it through customs and followed us, then I caught my
breath.

It wasn't Jack I had to worry about.
Standing outside one of the nearby hangers was a rather
disreputable looking guy in a duffle jacket. I lowered my lenses to
better see over the top of the frame. As the man took a toke from
his cigarette and pulled his hand from his face, I was sure. I'd
spent some agonizing minutes looking at that face. I folded up my
own trench coat less than a month ago to make a pillow and try to
keep him comfortable before the EMTs arrived at the London docks.
He was the man I first knew as the smelly Welshman. Last I'd seen
of him was when he'd been whisked away by ambulance in a near death
state. He obviously was alive and kicking. And he was one of
Simon's henchmen.

I had to get Jack onto this. The noise level
was too awful to call him, and the riotous music would give my
precise position away if he was outside the airport. He'd home in
on my exact current location. The only recourse was to text him and
hope he recognized the number. The burner phone was in my hands,
and my thumbs were flying in seconds.

"Hey, no." Clive snatched the cell from my
fingers. "I told your friend when she brought the other mobile
phone for you that I keep all visitors' mobiles until the plane
lands. We don't need any surreptitious Tweets or embarrassing shots
on Facebook or Instagram."

He turned off the phone and started to place
it in his jacket pocket.

"No, please." Down below the rail level, I
raised enough to peek over the bar and point out the now alive and
smoking Welshman. "The guy over there? Standing in front of the
hanger? He's wanted by the police. I have a friend in the airport
who's connected with British intelligence, and I was texting him so
he could handle the takedown."

The roadie squinted one eye at me, then
turned and followed the direction of my finger. Truthfully, the
rumpled Welshman in his dull duffle coat looked far from dangerous.
We watched him move around a bit, then grab a clipboard when it
looked like one of the actual working crew questioned his need to
be onsite. The answer apparently satisfied the Welshman's accuser,
or the poor crewman was too overworked to care, because he waved a
hand as if disgusted and walked away. The Welshman leaned back
against the building to finish a last drag on his cigarette, tossed
the butt, and ground it under his heel.

I held out my hand. "Please. Believe me. I
know what I'm talking about."

Clive shook his head for a moment, then
said, "Okay, but I want it back right after. No mobile phones on
the plane."

"Promise."

A second after I'd fired off my text to
Jack, I returned the phone to Clive with my thanks. The gang above
us finally managed to force their oversized container through the
door with a lot of cursing and an abundance of elbow grease. I kept
my head turned away as I made my way up the last few steps.

Clive hustled me over to a leather couch on
the side of the plane where we could watch the Welshman. The roadie
handed me a pair of binoculars, keeping a digital camera with a
long lens for himself. I expected to see Jack but instead witnessed
several airport security personnel scurrying over to the man.
Apparently they asked for ID, because the Welshman patted his
pockets as if searching for a wallet. He started to pull something
from a pocket, then faked a move left and went right, tearing off
around the corner of the building with the rent-a-coppers following
close behind.