13
MARBLE RUN
DOMINIC
The Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden smelled like old wood and spilled ale. I found Cal tucked into a corner booth, his laptop open and his fingers moving across the keyboard with the focused intensity of someone who'd made himself oblivious to everything else in the pub.
Almost oblivious.
His eyes flicked up when I was still three tables away, clocked me, and returned to the screen like I wasn't worth interrupting his work for. I slid into the booth across from him uninvited.
“You're late,” he said without looking up.
“You didn't give me a time.”
“I said afternoon. It's nearly five.” His fingers kept moving. “Though I suppose for someone who just stands around looking threatening, time's more of a suggestion.”
“I had an actual job. Someone needed protecting.” I flagged down the server and ordered a Guinness, then got a proper look at him.
Purple bloomed along his jawline, disappearing beneath his collar. Fresh enough to still be swollen.
My chest tightened. “What happened to your face?”
“Which part?” Cal's mouth curved without humour. “The eyes? Can't do much about those. The bruise? Tuesday.”
“Who hit you?”
“Someone who didn't appreciate being followed.” He finally looked up properly, those mismatched eyes meeting mine with a challenge he was daring me to pick up. “Why? You planning to do something about it?”
“Planning to figure out whether you're compromised.”
“Christ, you sound like a security briefing.” He returned to his laptop. “I'm fine. Still working. That's all that matters.”
The server brought my drink and I took a long drink, using the time to look at him properly. More bruises visible now that I was looking for them — one on his temple, partially hidden by hair. Defensive marks on his knuckles. A stiffness in the way he held himself that suggested ribs.
“How bad?” I asked.
“Bad enough that it hurts. Not bad enough that I stopped.” His jaw tightened fractionally. “I've had worse.”
“That doesn't make me feel better.”
“Wasn't trying to. I was telling you the truth.” The laptop beeped and Cal's attention snapped back to the screen, eyes scanning whatever had appeared. “Finally. File three's finished.”
“What files?”
“Harrow's communication records. Calls, texts, emails — everything from the past eighteen months. Should tell us who he talks to, who he pays off, who he threatens.” His fingers flew across the keyboard, opening folders, cross-referencing data.
My hand tightened around the glass. “How did you get Harrow's records?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah. It matters.”
Cal's eyes lifted to mine and something shuttered behind them. “I got access to his phone. Downloaded everything.”
“How?”
“Creative problem-solving.”
