Plus, even if hedidknow where she lived, there were four of them and only one of him. Gathering Spider’s vast group of henchmen would take time. Time he didn’t have. So that meant…what?
And then he knew. It came to him in a blinding flash of inspiration.
Chelsea Duvall was a thief. She had stolen—or, more precisely, was poised to steal—private information from one of Great Britain’s most influential men. And lucky for Steven, his boss was friends withotherinfluential men,governmentmen. Men who would be only too happy to help Steven find Chelsea and stop her, if for no other reason than to remain on Spider’s good side.
Pulling the phone from the cradle once again, he dialed a number from memory—the cobwebs in his mind had begun to clear—and when a nasally-voiced assistant answered, he wasted no time. “I must speak with the deputy commissioner.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The commissioner is—”
“He’ll want to speak with menow,” Steven interrupted, then delivered the coup de grâce. “Tell him I’m employed by a man who goes by the name of Spider.”
Chapter 7
“So what you’re saying is we’re up Shit Street without a GPS.”
As an Englishman, Christian Watson was a connoisseur of the finer points of the English language. That meant he had to give Ace credit for using it creatively when Emily informed them that while they were making their way back to the flat from Morrison’s penthouse, Morrison had come to and called his contacts in Scotland Yard. Now there was an APW—similar to an American APB—out on Chelsea.
Apparently, for the last ten minutes—they had been stuck in blasted London traffic for nearly fifteen—Chelsea’s face had been splashed across every telly in the country. She was Public Enemy Number One. The reports accused her of stealing private files from Morrison, files that were highly classified, files that could be “very dangerous to the sovereignty and safety of Great Britain.”
The strategy was quite brilliant when Christian thought about it. Everyone in England knew just how powerful the media mogul was, and no one would doubt that a man of his stature and connections was in possession of damning or classified information.
“Damn, that was fast,” Ace grumbled. “He must have come to and immediately started calling in favors.”
“Or else it was that other bloke,” Christian posited. “He was a rather large fellow, wasn’t he? Perhaps the dose didn’t work as well on him.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Emily waved a hand. “We just need to get the hell out of here. Pronto. Like…yesterday. Morrison and his goons might not know about this apartment.” Because they had treated it like a safe house. Chelsea had been careful not to list her address on any of the paperwork she signed, claiming she hadn’t found a permanent spot and was couch-surfing until she did. And she had taken a different route to and from work every day, meticulously making sure no one was on her tail. It was just a normal precaution in their line of work. One Christian was incredibly grateful for, given the current state of affairs. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t find it sooner rather than later,” Emily finished.
“And once we get out,” Christian said, “what then?” He looked around the flat’s sitting room as if expecting the answer to pop out from behind the settee. “We can’t spirit Chelsea out of the country the usual ways. The authorities will be on the lookout for anyone fitting her description at all points of entry and exit.”
Since Chelsea had an exotic complexion, an unmistakable figure, and lion-bright eyes, she wasn’t the type to blend into a crowd and slip through the net tightening around the country.
Bollocks.
“So we lie low in some two-bit motel and wait for the heat to die down,” Zoelner suggested.
The hair on the back of Christian’s neck curled at the thought. He’d already spent too much time in England.
“Please.” Emily gifted Zoelner with a look of pure disgust as she grabbed one of the rucksacks—or backpacks as she called them—from the pile. In the short time they had been rescuing Chelsea, Emily had packed their gear and a few items of essential clothing. And yes, the thought of her elbow-deep in his underwear drawer gave Christian the oddest little thrill. “Who do you think you’re dealing with here?C’est moi.” Emily hooked two thumbs toward her chest. “Roper Morrison might slam a door shut, but I know how to kick open the windows.”
Emily Scott had a lithe, feminine figure, and her face was an exquisite mishmash of features that made her far more interesting than conventionally pretty. But beyond that, more importantly than that, she possessed a rapier-sharp mind.
Her job title might be office manager, but from all Christian had seen, he figured it was more accurate to call her a magician. She had an uncanny ability to pull rabbits out of hats and resources out of the ether. In addition to that, she was bossy. She was brazen. And she was altogether bothersome. Especially since she was a mother hen to all the other operators at BKI, but when it came to him, she seemed far more interested in blistering his ears than in—
“Morrison might be able to make things happen here in England,” she added, “but he doesn’t have nearly as much clout across the Channel. One of the boys back at BKI called in a favor from a former Armée de l’Air friend who left the French services to start his own private charter-jet company. A plane will be waiting for us at Paris–Le Bourget Airport. That way we can skip the cameras and most of the bureaucratic nonsense at Charles de Gaulle.”
“The problem isgettingto Paris.” Ace frowned.
“Exactly,” Christian agreed. He desperately missed the days when they had worked “unofficially” for the U.S. government. Black Knights Inc. had been covertly assembled and clandestinely run for the last seven years by none other than the president of the United States and his trusty Joint Chiefs of Staff. So in a situation like this, a quick ring to the president would have had strings pulled and an American military transport waiting to take them home. But the president had left office nearly three months earlier, and his successor had no interest in continuing to fund and run a personal defense firm.
So even though the Black Knights were still tasked with finishing their final mission to bring down Spider, they were doing it all on their own.Unleashedwas the term the president had used to describe them on his last day in office.
They were supposed to turn over to the CIA whatever Intel and proof they found on Morrison/Spider, but before that, they were working outside the law, outside the protection of the good ol’ U. S. of A. And even though Chelsea’s boss, the director of the CIA, had agreed to let her help the Black Knights in this last hoorah, he had done so with the strict edict that no other CIA services or personnel would be used on a task he had come to refer to as the former president’s “personal pet project.”
Bugger it all.
“Not as much of a problem as you might think.” Emily winked. “There’s a guy in Dover who owes me a favor. He’s agreed to smuggle us into Calais on his fishing boat. Once there, we’ll meet up with Angel, who will drive us to Paris.”
Christian frowned, thinking of the former Israeli Mossad agent who worked for BKI. Jamin “Angel” Agassi was a giant question mark. Had been since day one. And in all the weeks, months, and years since, the man hadn’t done much to clear up the mystery surrounding himself. Angel spent very little time at BKI headquarters in Chicago. Instead, he was constantly on missions that kept him abroad. Missions only the president seemed to know about.
