Page 80 of The Unlikely Spare
“Well, thanks for letting me know. Had to hear about this terrorist attack on the bloody news, didn’t I? Like I’m some random stranger instead of your only brother.” I can hear the worry under his gruffness.
“It all happened pretty fast.” I rub my temple where a headache is threatening. “I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.”
“That’s not what the BBC is saying. They’re talking about some coordinated attack, professional terrorists, the works. And your prince went and headbutted someone? What kind of security operation are you running there?”
Your prince. The casual phrase hits me like a blow to the chest. I swallow hard.
“It’s under control,” I lie. Nothing is under control, least of all the riot of emotions I’m battling. “Look, Mal, I can’t talk details. You know that.”
He grunts in reluctant acknowledgment. “Just…check in more, yeah? Nearly had a bloody heart attack seeing your job site on the news with ‘terrorist attack’ scrolling underneath.”
The worry in his voice makes my chest tight.
“I will. Anyway, how are you doing? Anything new with the basketball league?”
“Don’t change the subject,” he says, but then he launches into a story about his last game.
I half listen to him, grateful for five minutes where I can pretend I’m just his eejit brother instead of whatever the fuck I’ve become here.
I’ve barely set the phone down when it buzzes again, this time it’s Scotland Yard. As expected.
The secure line connects with that particular static that encryption causes. Before I can even settle into the chair, DCS Martin Thornton’s gruff Yorkshire accent cuts through.
“Tell me you’ve made progress identifying our insider, O’Connell.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Today’s attack involved at least five operatives with detailed knowledge of our security protocols. They knew exactly when and where to strike. But no one in the protection team cooperated with the attackers.”
“Which means they’re still maintaining cover.” Frustration is threaded through Thornton’s voice. “Do you have any suspects?”
I picture Davis’s nervous energy, Malcolm’s meticulous attention to security feeds, Singh’s unreadable blank face that he gets sometimes. “Nothing solid. They’re all acting normal enough.”
“Not good enough,” Thornton growls. “I’ve just seen the report on the recovered syringe. It contained a powerful sedative, not a lethal agent.”
My gut bottoms out. “They wanted him alive.”
“Exactly. Just like with Matheson and Webley. This wasn’t an assassination attempt. It was a kidnapping operation.”
“What’s the connection?” I ask. “Conservative leader, a Labour politician, now Prince Nicholas…”
“The apprehended subjects were Malaysian, Canadian, Bangladeshi, and South African,” Pierce’s voice cuts in—he must be on the call too. “Four different countries, four different backgrounds. The only commonality is military or security training.”
“So this isn’t connected to Australian indigenous protesters.”
“No. This is international, professional. Just like the Matheson-Webley case,” Thornton confirms. “No religious extremist connections. No Russian state involvement. No clear political ideology.”
I stand, pacing the cramped hotel room. “Someone’s recruiting highly skilled operatives from across the globe. That level of coordination requires serious resources.”
“And serious planning,” Pierce agrees.
“What’s their end game? Political leverage? Ransom? Why do they want him?”
“Unknown. But Prince Nicholas remains a target, and someone close to him is providing intelligence,” Thornton says grimly. “You need to work out how to stop them before there’s another attempt. Because the next one might succeed where this failed.”
The secure line clicks off, leaving me staring at my reflection in the window.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Five trained operatives came for him today. Next time it could be ten. Or twenty.
