Page 159 of The Unlikely Spare
“But you didn’t report it,” he presses.
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
The question hangs between London and Auckland like a taut wire. Why? Because by the time I admitted to myself what was happening, it was already too late. Because Nicholas had slipped past every defense I’d built, like he was picking locks he was born to open. Because the thought of Nicholas in danger overrode ten years of training and ambition.
“Because I’m an eejit,” I say finally. “Sir.”
An eejit in love. I don’t know if sharing that will do me any favors with the brass though.
Thornton makes a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so grim. “At least you’re an honest idiot, O’Connell.”
The tablet beside him pings. He glances at it, his face hardening. “We have Pierce in custody. Multiple charges pending, including conspiracy to kidnap, terrorism offenses, and corruption of a public official. His phone records show multiple calls to a hotel maintenance worker the day before the spider appeared, and there is evidence of illegal tapping into the New Zealand police and maritime communication systems, which webelieve is how they tracked you down. He’s not talking, but we have enough evidence to bury him.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by the question I’ve been dreading. “And my brother?”
Thornton meets my eyes through the screen. “Gone. By the time the Belfast police reached his flat, he’d cleared out. Neighbors saw him leave two days ago.”
The news lands heavy in my gut. Relief that Malachy isn’t in prison wars with grief that he’s chosen to run, that I’ll probably never see him again. My little brother, who I used to piggyback through Belfast streets, who I taught to throw a punch and take one, who I once sat beside in a hospital room, learning what words like “permanent disability” meant.
Gone.
“I’m sorry,” Commander Adebayo says, and I believe she means it.
“He made his choice,” I reply, though the words taste bitter.
Thornton clears his throat. “You’ll face disciplinary action when you return to London. Suspension pending investigation, at a minimum. Potential dismissal, depending on the panel’s findings.”
I nod. I expected this.
“However,” Thornton continues, and my head snaps up. “Your actions did prevent an international incident. Prince Nicholas is safe, the traitor in RaSP has been exposed, and twelve billion pounds are being redirected toward legitimate reparations.” He pauses. “Good work, O’Connell.”
The connection ends before I can respond. I stare at the blank screen, trying to reconcile “potential dismissal” with “good work” and coming up empty.
Ten years building a career. Ten years of being the best at what I do.
All sacrificed for a man with a sardonic mouth and terrible camping skills.
Totally worth it.
When I finally emerge from the debriefing room, Davis and Singh are waiting in the corridor like mismatched bookends. Davis won’t quite meet my eyes—struggling, I think, to reconcile Prince Nicholas’s relationship with the man who broke every rule in the book. Singh just looks tired.
“Where is he?” I ask because there’s no point pretending we don’t all know who I mean.
Davis’s jaw tightens. “His Royal Highness has insisted you be brought to him immediately upon completion of your debrief.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Insisted, was it?”
“Demanded, actually,” Singh says dryly. “Repeatedly. With increasing volume and creativity. I particularly enjoyed the bit about having us reassigned to guard parking meters in Slough.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitches. “He doesn’t have that authority.”
“Try telling him that.” He gestures down the corridor. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before he starts threatening to reinstate medieval punishments.”
They escort me through the hotel like I’m either a prisoner or a particularly unstable explosive, which, given the last few days, might not be far off. The ride is silent except for Davis clearing his throat every thirty seconds like he’s working up to say something he never quite manages.
When we reach the penthouse floor, I hear Nicholas before I see him. His voice carries through the door of the suite, clipped and imperious in a way that means he’s either furious or worried. Possibly both.
