Schedules. Ship departure times, counts of containers.
Too little time. Sydney scanned the documents with her phone, as many as she could bear.
Too little time, too little time.
Outside, Sydney heard the slight crackle and beeps of security cameras coming online. She scanned a few more documents, then shoved the box back. Somewhere among what she had recorded on her phone must be evidence of Morrison’s recent trafficking.
She tapped an image of Sauda on her phone, then started transmitting the first of the files.
It didn’t even get a chance to start before she heard a voice behind her.
“Busy?”
Sydney whirled around and came face-to-face with Connor Doherty.
She reacted instantly. Her leg came up—she kicked out at him, aiming for his throat. But he moved shockingly fast. This was no mere account manager. He’d been trained to kill.
He dodged her move and seized her wrist instead. Sydney twisted out of his grasp, but before she could lunge at him again, he stepped back.
No.Sydney darted forward, but the door slid closed in the blink of an eye. Before it shut completely, she caught a glimpse of Connor smiling at her, her phone in his hand.
Then the door sealed, and the blue light went out, trapping her in darkness.
27
Silent Beat
True to her word, Penelope was the first person Winter saw when his car passed through the gates of Kensington Palace and arrived at the pavilion.
Against the backdrop of the palace’s Sunken Garden, the serenity of potted winter flowers and glittering red Christmas bulbs on hedges against a long, rectangular pool, she looked resplendent, dressed in a gold-studded leather jacket and a sweeping, pleated blue dress, her dark hair pulled up into an elegant bun. Ready for her birthday reception.
Not that she seemed in the mood for a celebration. He could tell right away that she’d been crying; the corners of her eyes were still pink, the skin under her lids dark from lack of sleep. She looked small and stiff as she kept her arms folded tightly in front of her chest.
Winter felt a twist of guilt in his stomach at what he was about to tell her.
A bodyguard approached his door and opened it. As he stepped out, Penelope hurried over to him, offering him a small smile of greeting before looping her arm through his and leading him along the edge of the Sunken Garden’s central pool. They were early, of course, and the rest of the lush surroundings were dotted mostly with staff as they positioned enormous arrangements of Christmas roses in front of the heated pavilion. Birds chirped under the cold morning sun, and a fresh breeze chilled the air, setting the bushes trembling.
The serenity of the space felt less like a peaceful moment and more like the silent beats in a song right before a heavy rhythm kicked in. The kind of quiet that tensed Winter’s muscles, warning of something big. He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers fiddling with the pen from Panacea that he now had tucked against the inside lining. It wasn’t a huge weapon, but at least the pen’s hidden blade gave him some sense of protection.
“How are you holding up?” Winter asked Penelope in a low voice.
She didn’t look at him. The arm she’d looped through his was trembling, and through the fabric of his clothes, he could tell her hand was ice-cold.
“Well enough,” she replied. “You?”
“Same.”
She looked behind him. “Where’s your bodyguard?”
“Watching from a distance,” he replied. Then he leaned closer to her. “We need to have a talk.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “If this is about the shooter, I—”
“This isn’t about your shooter.” He cleared his throat. “It’s about your father.”
“My father?” Her eyes darted up to his, hopeful and questioning. “You saw him? I’ve been trying to reach him since last night.”
Winter paused for a moment, wondering if he should be the one to tell her. But anyone who might tell her now would be in Morrison’s circles, and someone had tried to kill her. So he leaned closer, posing as if he were just a boy flirting with a girl. A few staffers in the distance looked over at them, their expressions curious.
