Page 43 of The Unlikely Spare
What does Nicholas think when he sees those signs? I think of what he said to me in the car after I was pelleted by the protester. “Does your security training include giving tactical advice on people who rightfully hate you because your ancestors stole their land?”
There had been the usual snark to his tone, but there had definitely been another element in his voice.
Does his selfishness just contain the occasional bout of empathy, like I saw with the injured koala? There’s definitely recklessness mixed in there, too, as I saw with the stingray incident. And arrogance…
“You with us, O’Connell?” Cavendish asks.
Fuck.
All eyes of the security team are on me.
“Yeah, I’m with you,” I say gruffly.
Christ, I’m doing it again. Analyzing Prince Nicholas’s moods like they matter to me.
Like I give a damn whether his selfishness has layers, whether that arrogance masks something else. My job is to keep him breathing, to work out the threat against him, not to understand him.
Cavendish unfolds a map on the table. “Let’s review the Carols by Candlelight setup. Davis, what’s our latest on perimeter security?”
Davis flips through his notes. “Local authorities have confirmed additional patrols around the exterior. All access points will be monitored.”
“We need spotters on the rooftops too,” Cavendish says.
I study the layout. We’re facing dual threats here—some shadow group that’s been going after British targets, plus the locals who’d rather see us piss off back to England.
And that’s just the visible threat.
Throw in a prince who treats his own safety like it’s optional and the fact that one of us might be a traitor, and yeah, it’s no wonder I’m wound tighter than a spring.
My check-in call with Pierce this morning didn’t go well. He’d sounded frustrated when I admitted I still had no solid leads on the sleeper agents.
“These people are closing in, O’Connell,” he’d said. “Intelligence shows increased activity, the same coded phrases appearing in intercepted messages, and unusual money movements. You need to find any potential sleeper agents before the prince pays the price for our failure.”
I scan the faces of my team now, searching for tells—a nervous tic, the telltale bulge of a second phone, asking too many questions about schedule changes.
I’d tossed their hotel rooms in Cairns while they were on shift, and had found nothing more incriminating than Davis’s alarming collection of protein powder, Cavendish’s extensive collection of crossword puzzle books, and a bottle of massage oil in Singh’s room labeledFor Professional Use Onlythat I decided not to think too hard about.
If one of them is compromised, they’re hiding it well.
“The Flying Doctors fundraiser is this afternoon.” Blake taps her pen against the venue blueprint. “There are five potential entry points. How do you want to handle that, Rick?”
Cavendish scratches his chin. “We’ll need to lock down the secondary entrances. Too many variables otherwise.”
“Civilian medical staff will need access,” Malcolm points out without looking up from his laptop. “And there’s a helicopter landing demonstration scheduled.”
“I’m coordinating with the pilot about approach vectors,” Davis says.
Cavendish glances at his watch. “His Royal Highness needs to leave for breakfast with the mayor in five minutes. Singh, MacLeod, you’re on first rotation with the Prince. The rest of you, finish mapping alternative extraction points for tomorrow night’s event. I want options if things go sideways.”
After the meeting is over, I head back up to my room. I’m off duty until this afternoon, so I should be catching up on sleep or reviewing security protocols. But instead, I pace the limited floor space of my hotel room, cataloging every interaction I’ve had with the team, trying to work out if there is anything I’ve missed.
Then my mind drifts to thinking about how Prince Nicholas looked when he took off his wetsuit yesterday, all lean muscle and smooth skin. Water droplets trailing down his chest, the way the neoprene peeled away to reveal?—
Fuck. That thought has no business being in my head.
It’s a much better idea to think about who might be trying to kill him.
I shake my head hard enough to rattle whatever loose screws are clearly bouncing around in there.
