Page 119 of The Unlikely Spare
The stolen Toyota smells like pine air freshener and takeaway coffee.
My foot hits the accelerator. Terrorists are hunting us. I need to keep Nicholas safe.
I deliberately don’t look at him. I want to give him space to process everything without having to pretend composure for my benefit. Christ knows he’s had enough people forcing him to wear masks.
When he does finally speak again, his voice is controlled, deliberate—the prince back in full command of himself.
“So, anyway, do the brilliant minds in Scotland Yard actually have any idea which particular brand of terrorists is hunting me? Do we know why I’ve pissed them off so much that they’re going to all this trouble to target me?”
I hesitate, and Nicholas turns those icy eyes on me. “Bloody hell, Eoin, you’re still not trying to keep things from me, are you? Surely at some point you’ll realize that honesty might actually be helpful in this scenario? Or do I need to be promoted to a higher security clearance first? Offer another royal favor?”
Nicholas is right.
Why do I have the natural impulse to shield him from the worst of it, even now? It’s not protocol, it’s something deeper, more instinctive.
I want to protect him from the ugliness of this world.
I’ve always been the caretaker in my family. Even before Malachy was injured, I had to take care of him, my little brother who got himself in trouble with his smart mouth.
But Nicholas wants to be an equal partner in this.
I’ve always worked best alone. It’s part of what attracted me to undercover work. In Northern Ireland’s police force, then Scotland Yard, I earned a reputation: the lone wolf who delivers results. Partners are variables I can’t control. I trust my instincts, my training, my ability to adapt on the fly. No one to coordinate with, no one to compromise for, no one to protect except the mission objective. It’s served me well, kept me alive through operations that claimed better men than me. But now, with Nicholas—with this impossible, infuriating man—I’m floundering.
Because for the first time, the mission and the man have become hopelessly, catastrophically entangled.
“We still don’t know who is targeting you,” I admit. “This group doesn’t follow the usual pattern we see with terrorist groups.”
“What’s different about it?”
“There are no obvious links between any of the suspects we’ve apprehended to suggest a common motive.”
“So it’s definitely not just home-grown anti-colonial activists who are trying to disrupt the royal tour?”
“No. The nationalities are far too diverse for local terrorists. We believe it’s connected to the Matheson-Webley kidnapping. Someone is trying to disrupt the United Kingdom’s institutions. And we don’t understand why they have targeted you rather than the Prince of Wales.”
“Well, isn’t this a lovely thing to contemplate? I suppose I should be grateful the spare isn’t getting brushed over in this instance.”
“God knows if they did manage to kidnap you, after a week of enduring your wit, they’d probably pay us to take you back,” I say.
“They’d likely release me with a formal apology and a request for trauma counseling for their own men,” Nicholas says, a small smirk twisting his lips.
The flash of his self-deprecating humor makes me want to touch him. I manage to restrain myself because I’m fairly sure that my touch isn’t what Nicholas wants right now.
“So, is ransom the motive? I mean, if they are not trying to kill me, what do they want with me?” he asks.
“We have no idea.”
He slides a look at me. “Doesn’t Scotland Yard have some of the brightest minds working on this? Or have they been too busy teaching their agents the fine art of royal seduction?”
“And that’s yet another jab I’m ignoring,” I say.
“Well, if you’re not going to engage in any witty repartee, then I guess I’ll have to turn my full intellect to figuring out what Scotland Yard has failed to.”
“Grand. While you’re at it, maybe you can figure out which member of your security detail wants you dead. Save me the trouble.”
The words come out slightly bitter. I still don’t like the fact that I’ve failed in my assignment.
“I’ll endeavor to do my best,” Nicholas replies.
