LITMIR.BIZ

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friend’s place.” He dropped volume and nodded toward Andy, who was straining to decipher the voice at the other end of the radio. “To the authorities, to Hyland, this all has to look authentic for Andy’s sake, like a real response to a nine-nine-nine call, like you just cleverly hoodwinked the system.”

      “So he’s an innocent pawn?”

      “A pawn, aye. Innocent, no.” Even so, Jamie wouldn’t leave his former crewmate in the shit again. Last time it’d been merely a lucky escape from unemployment—or worse. “As long as we keep ahead of the ground troops between here and the hospital, we’ll be fine.”

      She nodded, buying his attempt at reassurance. He sure was good at sounding confident when really he had no idea. Maybe all that medical training was useful for something.

      He checked his watch. The wave of Saturday night drunks and pill-poppers would have passed through the emergency department and the advance guard of sports injuries would be limping in. Not peak time but there’d be a few ambulances coming and going. If they timed it right, the chopper wouldn’t know which Merc to follow out of the ambulance bay—or know if Samira was still in it.

      “Harriet Davies is the consultant on,” Andy said, ending his call. “You remember her?”

      Jamie smiled. “Perfect.”

      “Ah, shit, not her, too. Is there anyone you didn’t fuck over?”

      Samira’s eyebrows shot up.

      “He’s joking,” Jamie whispered.

      They drove on, the engine alternating between a whine and a roar as Andy slowed and accelerated. Jamie watched for enemy vehicles as the landmarks flashed by, so familiar he could be stuck in a dream about his past—a Tesco’s supermarket, a redbrick church, squat terraced houses and dreary office blocks, graffitied rail bridges, the Shard jutting up like a great glass splinter. Still the same South London in the same grimy brick and concrete. But he no longer belonged.

      Samira clutched the sides of her seat, evidently concentrating on regulating her breathing. In for four, out for four, in for four, out for four. For one all-too-short day—and night—he’d glimpsed the woman underneath that tight self-control, that reserve. Her speech was so precise she always seemed to be mentally scanning a dictionary. She held herself so straight—neck long, chin level—she might have been brought up under a ballet instructor’s whip. The kind of well-brought-up woman his mother would have approved of.

      Huh. These days he was the man mothers warned their daughters about.

      “We’re coming up to Waterloo,” Andy called. “We could try to lose them in the railway underpasses?”

      Jamie narrowed his eyes, picturing the snaking street layout. “No, keep going. We wouldn’t be able to stay undercover long enough to fool them—we’re not exactly stealth in this thing.” From above, the ambulance roof was a high-vis yellow target. “If anything, it’ll just delay us while their ground forces catch up.”

      Andy tsked. “Ground forces,” he muttered.

      “We’re close enough to the hospital now—head straight there.”

      “Yes, sir, Sergeant Major, sir!” Andy blasted the horn. “Do you have sergeant majors in your weirdo army, Jamie?”

      “We just call them arseholes. You should join up—you’d fit right in.”

      Jamie opened his rucksack. “Here,” he said, pulling out a black cap and passing it to Samira. “Keep it pulled d—”

      “Down low, I get it,” she said, putting the wig back on and ramming the cap over top. She arranged the hair to frame her face.

      He grabbed another cap from his bag and yanked it on. Tess had them all paranoid about who could be watching any CCTV feeds, legally or not. And no city did security cameras like London. Paranoia capital of the world.

      But then, Samira would know more than most about surveillance, given her job. Former job. What had she called it? A forward-deployed infrastructure security engineer. It means I get paid to set up the most secure systems in the world and then get paid to hack into them. I have to constantly keep ten steps ahead of myself.

      Aye, he’d always had a thing for the smartest woman in the room. They made his brain light up, among other parts, they made life interesting, they got him in trouble—good trouble and bad trouble. Next time he ran away to join a mercenary force he’d check first that it was unisex. Not that five years ago he’d had the luxury of options.

      Samira retrieved her mirrored sunglasses from the floor and jammed them on under her cap.

      “Are those sunglasses or hubcaps?” he said, shrugging on his bomber jacket. He left it unzipped for quicker access to his Glock.

      A laugh, white teeth against plum lips and brown skin. He could almost feel a click in his brain as the reward center—the nucleus accumbens—lit up and the dopamine released. The rat getting the cheese. He frowned. Weird. That feeling—the warm, sweet buzz in his veins. It was the sensation he used to get when...

      “You’re looking at me strangely,” she said, dabbing her nose and chin as if expecting to find the remains of breakfast.

      He directed his gaze out the window, swallowing. The evidence might not pass peer review, but there it was, clear as an fMRI scan. The day he and Samira had given in to their insane attraction had left its mark on his brain, laid down a pathway of memories that were right this second tugging at him to seek that pleasure again, promising that if he just drew her to him and...

       Resist.

      “We’re nearly there,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Let’s swap rucksacks. Mine’s lighter.”

      They rolled into the ambulance bay and pulled up alongside two other identical Mercs. Andy was home free. Now for Samira. The sooner Jamie got her to safety and left town, the better for all involved. Giving in to impulse was not something he did, not anymore.

      “Cheers, pal,” Jamie called as he reached for the door handle.

      “My pleasure,” Andy replied, sounding like he’d stepped in dog shit. “And do me a favor, James?”

      “A favor? Thought we were even and you wanted to keep it that way.”

      “Never contact me again.”

      “Ah, still so fickle, Andy.” He pulled Samira’s rucksack on. “Okay, Samira. Stick close and let me do the talking.”

      A glint of white on the road alongside drew his eye. His hand froze on the handle. The Peugeot, slowing, the blond guy looking from Merc to Merc. Shite.

      “Jamie?” Samira had followed his gaze. Her breath shuddered. Crap. A panic attack now could be the death of them both.

      The car rolled past and pulled up on the roadside, the passenger door swinging open before the wheels stopped. The angles of the parked Mercs would protect them from view but only for a few seconds.

      Jamie pushed open the rear door and grabbed her hand. It was icy. “Out. Quick.” He slammed the door behind them and drew her to his side, his right hand hovering over his weapon. They skirted the bonnet of another Merc, dodged a paramedic holding a crying, struggling toddler and scooted in through the first of a double set of mirrored glass doors. They backpedaled a second while the second set opened. Behind them the blond goon’s head bobbed across the forecourt. Andy drove straight at him, forcing him to lurch backward, briefly cutting him off. They were definitely even.

      Inside, the waiting room had been upgraded to something resembling a posh airport lounge. In the middle was a circular reception desk in a bubble of light. Jamie adjusted his path, scanning the faces of the staff.

      “Jamie,” Samira whispered, tightening the straps of the rucksack on her back, “there’s a woman staring swords right at you.”

      So there was. A tall, trim figure

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