Page 57 of The Unlikely Spare
I need to identify them before they make their next move.
I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to think clinically. Singh, with his smooth adaptability and linguistic skills. Davis, with his eager-to-please attitude and starstruck glances at the prince. Malcolm and his meticulous analysis of statistics. Blake’s street smarts. MacLeod’s practical approach. Even Cavendish, with his years of experience and unquestioned authority.
Any of them could be playing a long game. Just like Paul Hargrove did before the Matheson-Webley kidnapping.
Fuck. I’ve handled tougher cases than this. Infiltrated drug rings. Brought down trafficking networks. Spent months undercover with people who would have killed me without hesitation if they had discovered my true identity.
This is just another job. A high-stakes one, certainly, but the principles remain the same.
Observe. Analyze. Uncover the truth.
The fact that my body responds to Nicholas when he’s half-naked isn’t relevant. The fact that his sarcastic quips sometimes make me want to smile despite myself isn’t important. The fact that I occasionally find myself watching him when I should be watching for threats—that’s a problem I need to solve, immediately.
I’m a professional. I’ve always been able to compartmentalize, to keep my personal reactions separate from the job at hand.
This assignment should be no different.
I finally lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, well, actually today, we have the Christmas Carols event in the town square. Hundreds of civilians, multiple access points, minimal control over the environment. A security nightmare under the best circumstances.
An assassin’s playground under the worst.
I need to sleep. Need to be sharp, focused. I close my eyes, forcing my breathing to slow, my muscles to relax one by one.
I absolutely do not think about blue eyes or the feel of a bare shoulder beneath my palm.
I am a professional.
I can handle this.
Eight hours later, I’m standing at the Christmas Carols event, scanning the crowd for the seventieth time in twenty minutes.
Blake’s at the northeast corner, her hand never far from her concealed weapon. Singh’s doing his casual stroll along the western edge, but I know he’s clocking everything. Malcolm’s glued to his tablet by the sound booth, probably calculating the probability of a kangaroo bouncing through and ruining the whole show.
Davis catches my eye from the stage and gives me a thumbs-up like we’re at a bloody football match. Kid’s either too green to be bent or playing the longest game I’ve ever seen.
Cavendish’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Stage entrance in two minutes. All units confirm positions.”
Each team member reports in sequence. Their voices sound exactly as they should.
Then Nicholas walks out and the crowd goes mental. He’s wearing a light-blue button-down that makes his eyes look even more impossibly blue under the stage lights. His royal smile is firmly in place as he waves to the crowd.
The local mayor gushes about the honor of having royalty here before Nicholas takes the microphone.
“Thank you for such a warm welcome to Alice Springs,” he says. “Particularly warm, I might add. I don’t think I’ve ever celebrated Christmas in forty-degree heat before.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“I’m told it’s tradition for your guest of honor to join in the caroling,” Nicholas continues, “and while I’d normally claim diplomatic immunity to avoid public singing, I can’t possibly disappoint all of you wonderful people who’ve come out tonight. I just hope your Christmas spirit extends to forgiving royal pitch issues.”
He’s playing the crowd perfectly as usual. I can see it on the faces of all the people around me.
The band strikes up “We Three Kings,” and Nicholas starts to sing.
Bleeding hell. He can actually sing.
Not just carry a tune, but really sing. His voice is a clear and strong tenor. The crowd falls silent, and there’s genuine surprise on everyone’s faces, including several members of our security team.
O Star of wonder, star of night
