Love and Let Die (Masters and Mercenaries #5)(2)

Oh, god, he was leaving his wife in a morgue.

He forced the pain down. Someone had killed Charlotte, and it likely had something to do with the operation he was working. He was tracking a Russian national who was attempting to buy nuclear material. Charlotte had ties to the Russian mafia. She hadn’t tried to hide it. She’d shown up at the club he was playing at while he worked in Paris, and he’d thought she would be a pleasant way to spend a couple of weeks and gather intelligence. It was only supposed to be some short-term sex, but somehow it had become more. Then he’d brought her to London with him and she’d been his lover, his wife, his submissive.

Now she was his mistake and someone was going to pay.

He got to the ground because there was nothing else for him to do but comply for the moment. The hall was too crowded for him to move. Once they got him in cuffs, he would only have his legs to work with, but he’d been in worse situations before. He couldn’t let them put him in a cell. The minute he was in a cell, he was a sitting duck.

A million scenarios ran through his head, but at the end of the day, he was alone. This was his operation, and he’d f*cked it up.

Cold metal circled his wrists, and he let his body go limp. The cops struggled to get his six-and-a-half-foot frame upright, but he wasn’t going to help. No f*cking way. A tired cop was a cop he could get away from. He would let the f*ckers drag him the whole way.

A man in a suit and tie walked in. He was different from the cops, but there was no mistaking his authority. He had a partner with him, a slightly smaller male, still tall but leaner. They pulled badges out, showing off their credentials.

Ah, Scotland Yard had finally made their appearance. These men looked like they could handle themselves. These weren’t paunchy, over-the-hill detectives just trying to make their way to retirement. No. These were predators.

Maybe they were really Scotland Yard and maybe they weren’t. He was about to find out one way or the other.

The Agency would disavow any knowledge of him. He was utterly on his own. His brother had no idea where he was. His best friend was in Washington working at the FBI.

Ian Taggart would disappear into the system and another operative would take his place.

After a few moments of arguing, the larger of the two men stepped forward, having won the right to the prize at hand—him.

“Come with me,” the big man said with an elegant British accent. Ian bet he wouldn’t lose his perfectly upper-crust sounds when he was angry. He had an aristocratic look about him.

He had to run. He had to find a way to get to his contacts.

Ian looked back at the window as they began to haul him along, but the little f*cker technician had shut the drawer, sealing Charlotte away from him.

He was in a daze. His eyes didn’t seem to want to function. His stomach was in knots. He didn’t want to leave her. How could he f*cking leave her?

He struggled, reason fleeing. He needed to hold her again. He needed to be sure. Things in his world could be false, manipulative.

“Just a little more, mate.” The man he was walking beside never looked anywhere but toward the elevator. “And don’t bloody well try anything. I’ve had a rather rough night and would like to get home in one piece. I believe my handler would prefer to be the one to take me apart.”

His partner stepped up beside him, a smile on his face as he winked at one of the nurses. “Oh, aren’t you a pretty little bird. Are you sure we don’t have a minute, Damon? I won’t take long, and the Yank there looks like he could use a rest.”

One thing had gone right. One f*cking thing. The elevator doors dinged open. “You’re MI6.”

The dark-haired one gave him a tip of his head. “Of course. Should have been here sooner, mate, but my partner insists on afternoon tea. The name’s Damon Knight.”

“And I’m Basil Champion the third, but obviously the third time’s the charm. You can call me Baz. I think the three of us are about to spend a bit of time together. We’ve hit a snag with the Irish. Into the lift you go before the police figure out we’re not really Scotland Yard and we all get f*cked.”

They all stepped into the elevator.

Damon Knight pushed the button to go up and turned to him. “What do you know about a man named Liam O’Donnell?”

O’Donnell was an Irish operative, the very one he’d hand selected to meet with the Russian. He felt numb, but compelled to ask the question. “What’s gone wrong?”

“Everything.”

The doors closed and despite the fact that he had two other men with him, Ian suddenly knew he would always be alone.





Charlotte Dennis came awake in complete darkness. For just a moment she thought she’d gone blind. The drugs she’d taken could cause numerous horrific side effects. Maybe this was just one of them. But the pain in her shoulder was pure gunshot wound. Fuck. Had they taken the bullet out? She’d known they would have to leave it in for a while. If they had taken the f*cking bullet out, they might have noticed she was still bleeding. Corpses didn’t bleed. She was sure someone had given her a drug to stop the bleeding but removing the bullet would have started it again. Was she still bleeding? Still pierced by metal?

God, she was in so much pain, and the ache in her heart was worse than the bullet wound.

“Hello?”

Someone was supposed to be here to take her to Chelsea. She and Chelsea were supposed to be free of their father now.