Page 73 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Pendragon had operatives across Europe. There would be a safe house nearby, a clean vehicle of any size I wanted, and structured extraction protocols. One phone call, and someone would be here within the hour with a new car and a location that didn’t exist on any public map.

My father—or one of his reps—would take the call at any hour and immediately deploy the company’s resources. That’s what he did, wasn’t it? He gave his son every advantage, every tool, and every leg up.

But if I called him, I’d spend the rest of my career knowing I couldn’t handle my own operation without his infrastructure.

Not today, Dad.

I slid farther under the car and checked the rear axle.

My fingers hit a small box under the back seat on the passenger side. It shifted when I nudged it. Magnetic. I pulled it free. It was a commercial GPS tracker, the kind you bought online for less than a hundred bucks.

For fuck’s sake.

I lay there, staring at the thing. The device was too obvious for professionals, so either the group who’d set us up was disorganized, or the men who’d been sent after us were inexperienced. They’d fought like amateurs. Or it was both. One had produced a knife. Another had gotten angry about it.

What now, Penn? Hold onto it and attach it to the next car we found? What would happen to the unlucky driver? Would our attackers hurt them? I couldn’t do that to someone else.

The door above me opened, and I jerked my legs to the side as Gwen stepped out.

“Sorry!” she squeaked.

“It’s fine.” I slid out from under the car, stood, and crushed the tracker under my heel.

“What was that?”

I clicked off the flashlight and kicked the plastic remains into the ditch. “GPS tracker.”

Her head rolled forward, and her shoulders slumped. “Could my life get any worse?”

Normally I’d have a dozen worse days lined up. The Round Table guys and I could spend hours listing things that would make it worse. But with Gwen? I said, “At least no headlights are barreling down the road toward us?”

She let out a laugh that was half-sob. When she looked up at me, the fading light danced in the tears collecting against her eyelids.

Brush those away.

No, Penn, don’t fucking touch her.

She held up the strap from her messenger bag, the metal clips dangling. “I thought we could tie this around your arm. Like a tourniquet.”

A tourniquet? After everything she’d been through today, she was still focused on my arm.

“Thanks, but that’s not what this needs.” I removed my jacket, wincing as I eased it off my injured arm, and rolled my shirt sleeve above the wound. I turned the flashlight on to see it clearly. The gash ran four inches below my elbow, shallower than it had any right to be, given how it continued oozing. “A tourniquet cuts off circulation. This just needs direct pressure.”

She pulled her shirt sleeve down over her hand and pressed it flat against my injured arm, while holding underneath with the other hand. She sucked in her lips, as though holding back more tears.

I flinched and pulled my arm back. “You’ll get blood all over yourself. You don’t have a change of clothes⁠—”

“Neither do you.”

“Exactly.” I held my arms out to my sides. “I’m a mess from crawling around under the car, so you need to stay as clean as possible if we need to talk to someone.”

She laughed, a small and thin little thing.

Wrap your arms around her. Do it.

I couldn’t. I was covered in dirt and blood, and we were standing on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere. Plus, if I hugged her right now, I wouldn’t be able to let go. And if whoever put that tracker under the car realized I’d taken it off, they’d waste no time closing the distance.

“Get back in the car.” I gestured at her open door. “I need you to find us somewhere to stay.”