Chapter 10

TEN

H e’d been thinking about that kiss…

Blood loss had to be why he’d been so sloppy again, why he’d been distracted by a simple thank you kiss that had turned into something more.

Dancing in the moonlight .

He had to get Emma moving. If he could get them to the plaza, Brigit had left him a getaway car. Probably more than that.

God, he prayed more than that, but he’d take what he could get.

When he saw the good doctor again—be it from behind bars or not—he was going to kiss her.

Not like he’d kissed Emma, but…

Boots hit the bottom stairs and he pulled up short, shoving Emma back into the apartment. “Balcony,” he ordered, practically flinging her toward it.

She let out an ‘eep’ but hauled ass with him, hanging on to the backpack for dear life. After flipping the lock, he shoved the doors open and pushed her onto the narrow platform. He reached out and grabbed the metal fire escape, sending the stairs to the ground and praying whoever was coming from the front didn't have backup in the alley.

"I'm so sorry," Emma whispered. "If I hadn't fallen asleep?—”

"Save it.” Recriminations wouldn't help them now. He lifted her, slinging her legs over the balcony railing and onto the metal steps. "If we get separated, head for Duncan Plaza. Once you reach there, stay out of sight. I will find you."

She grabbed his arm and pulled him face-to-face with her. “We are not getting separated. Get your ass over here."

She tugged so hard he nearly lost his balance. He shooed her toward the steps. “Bossy, bossy, bossy.”

"Save it," she mimicked.

He chuckled, a stab of pain shooting through him as he jumped the banister onto the step next to her. They shared a brief look, and then they were rushing down the steps.

The sound of police chatter echoed behind them, and the protective instinct he felt for her spread like a flashfire through him. He almost reached for the gun nestled in his waistband but instead searched his brain for options. He didn’t need to add aggravated assault to his growing list of felonies.

"This way," Emma said, grabbing him by the sleeve and jerking him through a tall hedgerow.

He didn’t balk but wondered where she was going.

When they came out on the other side, she dropped into a crouch, snatching something off the sidewalk and pointing at a nearby Corolla. “That one.”

“Are keys falling from heaven to aid you?” he asked.

“Drunk guy. I’m doing him a favor by making sure he doesn’t drive anymore tonight.”

Even as she started to slide into the seat, he considered this course of action. Remaining on foot allowed them to be more agile, but putting distance between them and the police was more urgent at the moment. “I should drive," he told her, running around to her side.

She glanced up, an argument on her lips, but then thought better of it. She scooted over the center console and into the passenger seat. He dove in, started the engine, and peeled out.

They were three blocks away when he saw a uniformed officer emerge from the building's gated entrance. Another followed, yelling at the others as they raced toward their squad cars.

Truman floored it.

It wasn't much of a head start, but at this time of the early morning, there was minimal traffic, and he called up the mental map in his mind to take back streets and alleyways. If he’d gone a more direct route, they would've been at the wharf in fifteen minutes. With his plan, it took an hour, but by the time they reached it, they had dodged the police from the apartment as well as another three cruisers that had been making rounds in the area.

The whole trip, Emma had gripped the door handle and the seat so hard, her knuckles had turned white.

Once he cruised into the deserted parking lot at the Dancing in the Moonlight nightclub, she was shaking out her fingers as if she’d lost feeling in them. "So that's what the note meant." She craned her head, peering out the rear window. "Do you think we've lost them?"

It was nearly three a.m., and the bar had closed an hour earlier. There was a ratty green pickup near the back door, which probably belonged to the person closing. The only other vehicle was an Audi backed into a space in the farthest corner away under the single dead maple.

“For now. That's our new ride," he told her.

And what a ride it was.

She grabbed the backpack as he slid in next to the R8. “This what the key fob is for?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“I’d say that's more than nothing.”

He helped her in and slid behind the wheel, running his hands over it. This baby was in a class by itself. "I didn't know she had it in her," he murmured.

“Huh?”

He hit the auto start button, listening to the sweet purr of the engine. “The friend who left this for us. I don't know where she got it or how she knew I would need it one day, but boy, she picked a superb one."

“She?”

Was that jealousy he heard in her voice? "It's best you don't know her name. She needs deniability if things go poorly with us.”

"Seems like they already have," she grumbled. “Hate to point this out, but this thing is not exactly inconspicuous.”

He drove out of the lot, alert for danger. “Inconspicuous is not exactly normal around here, or haven't you noticed?”

“Touché.” She leaned back against the headrest. “You sure have a thing for unusual cars."

He drove through the side streets, wanting to rev it and see what it could do, but unwilling to take the chance of drawing attention to them. “This isn't just a car, it's a statement."

"I don't care if it's the president’s limo; where are we going?"

The question of the hour. “A pawnshop."

Her forehead furrowed. “For what?"

"You'll see." With the coast clear, he hit the accelerator, and she grabbed the door handle, letting out a startled ‘whoop.’

He knew a guy.

A seriously grumpy bugger who ran a pawnshop as a cover for MI5. He and Dolan went back years—all the way to their childhoods. They’d both been recruited for Invictus, a deep undercover mission that no one but an elite few knew about. It was something he’d never shared with Brigit and didn't intend to. To know about it was to make yourself a target.

Since Dolan was undercover as a simple pawnshop owner, there was no link that tied them together in any database or records. He didn't even know the man's real name, nor did Dolan know his. Because of the nature of the operation that was buried so deep by SIS, neither Buckingham Palace nor Parliament knew anything about it. Those street kids and their names were buried, anyway. He was Truman, and he was sure Dolan thought of himself as Dolan.

The doorbell on the side of the rear entrance was stained, and the plastic cracked. Truman hit it three successive times, paused, then pushed it twice more.

A code—one that would rouse the wanker from his warm bed, even at this hour of the morning.

A minute later, they heard shuffling on the other side of the thick, metal door. Truman waved at the peephole. After some grumbling and creative swearing, three deadbolts slammed back, and the door cracked open, revealing a sleepy-eyed, tussled Irishman. Dolan looked about as happy to see Truman standing on his doorstep as he would the devil. Maybe less so—Dolan was a bit of a demon himself. “What the fuck,” he grumbled.

Not exactly the rousing welcome Truman had hoped for, but then, Dolan was still holding the fact that Truman had won their last poker game against him. “I find myself in need of your services, Lan.”

The man grunted, eyeing Emma over Truman’s shoulder. “I heard about the ruckus in Bethesda. Should've known it was you keeping the scanners hot."

There were two things you could bribe Dolan with—whiskey and cash. Truman didn't have the former, and he didn't want to part with the latter. "I don't need much.”

Emma stood on tiptoes. "Please."

Where were those manners when she was talking to him?

Dolan looked unconvinced but not unmoved. He stepped back, allowing them entrance. “You better not have brought the coppers to my door."

“We lost them hours ago," Truman lied and gave Emma a tiny shake of his head at her surprise. “Dolan, this is Emma. Emma, Dolan.”

Dolan didn’t offer to shake her hand, raking it over his face instead. “Punching above your weight again, I see, " he said to Truman.

Truman ignored the dig and walked through the room that smelled like a bachelor pad—unwashed clothes, beer bottles, and loneliness.

“Only Jesus and his sainted mother know what I’ve done to deserve you showing up here.” Dolan re-locked the door. “What do you want?”

Every work surface was covered with electronics, all in various stages of disassembly. Like a graveyard for equipment, it looked as if a bomb had gone off in there. “I need three burners and a list.”

Emma followed on his heels. Dolan, gentleman that he was, cleared a stack of old newspapers off a stool for her and found his readers. Sliding the glasses on, he began scanning various cubby holes and labeled drawers. "You still owe me," he said to Truman.

"I won the game fair and square, mate.”

Dolan opened a drawer and rummaged in it, pulling out three mobiles, still in their packaging, and tossing them on the table in front of Truman. “Not the poker game, you ijit. You bet twenty on the last Manchester United game, remember?”

“That was two years ago.”

He tapped his temple. “Memory like an elephant. I never forget.”

Or Brigit had reminded him. They’d all been together that day, watching football, eating grilled burgers, and drinking cold beer. It was one of the few times since Truman had been working with the doctor that he’d had a chance to relax. Dolan had chastised him for bringing her—it was dangerous for anyone to know they were friends. But the spy world was friendless and lonely and Truman had believed they all needed to be human for a few hours. “Did Gidge leave anything here for me?”

Dolan shook his head. "Were you expecting something?"

After the car, he sort of was. "Are these untraceable?" He pointed at the phones.

Dolan looked affronted. "You think I'm an amateur?"

Under other circumstances, Truman would have goaded him about it, but tonight, he could see the dark circles under Emma's eyes and the fact she was close to going into shock again. She needed sleep and a real meal, not just water and crackers.

"Do you have any of those microwave meals you love so much?"

Dolan eyed him speculatively “Why?"

Truman jutted his chin at her. "She needs to eat."

She hugged the backpack tighter. "So do you. You’re the one that's injured."

Dolan looked him over, a quick scan. “Bullet?"

"Glass window with a grudge,” he replied. "Emma dug out the shards. I’m fine."

Dolan scratched his short beard, studying her. The fact she was barely standing couldn’t be missed. “You’re Catherine Owens’ kid, ain’t ya?”

“What of it?”

The Irishman chuckled at her defiance. “Met her once. There was an air about her. Like she owned the world.”

Emma softened. “She wanted to.” Her tired eyes darted to Truman. “Didn’t work out for her.”

“I have chicken marinara, roast beef, and Salisbury steak.” At her blank stare, Dolan added, “Frozen meals. I stick them in the microwave. Takes about five minutes.”

"Oh, that's okay,” she said, even as her stomach growled, giving her away.

"I'll take the steak," Truman said, hoping to encourage her to eat.

Dolan looked like he was about to tell Truman to go screw himself when Emma said, “The chicken sounds good."

Dolan gave a nod and, as he passed them, poked Truman in the side, making Truman grunt. "I hope it hurts like hell, you wanker."

Half an hour later, they were finishing their meals—if you could call this slop a meal— and downing sports drinks. Dolan had made sure to give him several small plastic bottles of a drink to replace electrolytes and give him a shot of potassium. IV in a bottle—tasted like ass, but better than going into shock himself.

Truman would've preferred a real dinner with wine—he'd even had reservations at Chez Moliere tonight— last night—whatever. And yet, being with Emma was better than even a sophisticated restaurant in the heart of the city.

"Why didn't Britain want you extradited?” Dolan asked Emma.

Truman answered. "The Americans wanted to make a deal for one of their spies who got caught stealing secrets several years ago. We said no.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “They truly passed up a deal to get the whole gang because of this spy? Must be someone important.”

She was. “The Red Hearts are in for at least ten years, maybe more, for their crimes. The only thing the Queen Mother wanted was her ring. She told Scotland Yard to wash their hands of you and the others once that was returned.”

"Pretty ballsy move, stealing that.” Dolan’s tone was a bit too appreciative.

Emma gave him an appalled glare. “ I didn’t steal it.”

Dolan tried to hide a grin. Tried and failed. “Did you ever try it on?”

Emma put down her fork. Hard. “I didn’t even know I had it.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, pushing back his empty container. The devil was grinning. “You'll go down in history for pissing off the royal family."

Truman thought she might come out of her seat and go across the table to get at his neck. “She had nothing to do with her mother's gang, Lan. It was me—I screwed up. She was framed, and I was too blind to see it."

This piqued Dolan's interest. Setting his elbows on the table, he studied them. “Who framed her?”

“That’s what we need to figure out.” Truman tossed his napkin down. “You in?”

Skeptical once more, Dolan rubbed his jawline. “You know I don’t do that shit anymore.”

Emma glanced between them. “What shit? Spy shit?”

Dolan scooted his chair back and stood. “You’ve got your phones. It’s time for you to leave.”

“Not yet.” Truman rose and gathered the remnants of the meal. “I need a list.”

Dolan didn’t immediately say no—that was a good sign. “Of what?”

“Not what,” Truman said. “Who.” He dumped the containers in the garbage and grabbed another drink from the fridge. “Emma here is in need of a team for a heist.”

Her brows shot skyward. “What?”

Dolan paused, his interest growing. “Bank job? Art museum? Armored truck?”

“Diamonds,” Truman said. “Emma Grant, of the infamous Alice in Wonderland Gang, is looking to put together a heist.”

Emma blinked, speechless.

“Target?” Dolan asked.

“The Bradshaw diamonds.”

“But they’ve already been stolen,” Emma said.

“Exactly.” Truman grinned at his audience. “We’re going to steal them back.”