Page 43 of The Gentleman

He held the door, stepping just far enough aside to let her pass without touching. One final sweep of the street confirmed no obvious threats, no telltale signs of surveillance. Just ordinary people going about their day.

He followed Kat into the cafe, scanning inside as the door swung shut behind them.

The bell jangled and a steamy fug of fried bacon and bitter coffee hit him in the face, making his cheeks tingle. The cafe buzzed with the hum of customers—cab drivers hunched over tabloids, office workers fueling up for the grind.

Brock was already waiting, tucked near the bay window with a perfect view of the club across the street. He wore a fishing jacket bristling with pockets and a fresh Johnny Cash tee.

Leo pulled out a chair for Kat and sat down beside her.

“Brock.” Leo acknowledged him with the barest tilt of his head.

“Stand down, soldier boy.” Brock poured tea into a vast striped mug without looking up. “You’re so tense your spine might snap.”

He gave them both a once-over—eyes staying just a beat longer on Kat. “New hairdo?”

“Sort of,” Kat said, fingers brushing her temple. Color bloomed high on her cheeks.

Brock stirred his tea, the spoon clinking a little too loud against the china. “You two look like a Hallmark movie gone sideways.”

Leo shot Kat a glance.

“We’re fine.” She picked up a menu like it might offer a way out. “I’d kill for a coffee.”

Brock signaled the waitress with two fingers raised. She waddled over, pink-cheeked, biro poised.

“Full English, extra bacon, extra sausage, extra black pudding, fried bread, two slices. Beans on the side. Coffee for the lady.” Brock turned to Leo, eyebrows raised.

“Coffee.” Leo cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

The waitress scribbled and left.

“That’s quite a breakfast.” Leo laced his hands together on the chipped formica.

“Blood sugar crashes make me cranky. You want steady Brock for this.”

“Talk,” Leo said, voice low. “What have you got?”

Brock fished an envelope from his jacket and set it down. “Patience is a virtue, mate.” Then, with maddening calm, he slid two tiny porcelain figurines—a shepherd boy and girl—onto the table.

A muscle beat in Leo’s jaw. “We don’t have time for?—”

“Salt shakers are us,” Brock said, arranging them. “Pepper mill’s the target. Sugar packets? MI6.”

Kat leaned in. “You found something?”

“Better.” Brock tapped the window. “I foundsomeone.”

Across the street, a black Bentley glided to a stop. A driver emerged, circling to open the rear passenger door. The man who stepped out radiated power—bespoke overcoat, gleaming Italian leather shoes, dark hair untouched by the damp.

Kat stiffened. “Adrik Korolov.”

“Guest of honor at tonight’s game. Quarter mil buy-in,” Brock said, as the waitress set down his alarmingly large breakfast and two coffees. He wasted no time spearing a sausage and dunking it in the oozing yolk of a fried egg. “Guest list reads like Interpol’s most wanted—Russian oligarchs, Saudi princelings, party officials’ spoiled sons. Everyone with dirty money and flexible morals.”

“Perfect hunting ground for someone selling weapons and influence.” Kat’s voice hardened.

Leo focussed on his mug. “And Eldridge? What’s his link to her, beyond framing Kat?”

Across the street, Korolov mounted the steps. His security flanked him like chess pieces—side, sweep, rear. Military. Armed, despite UK law.

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