“Can I help you?” The voice was female, British, cold.

  Jack shifted his gaze to the left. He saw the woman’s reflection hovering in the window. She was thin and middle-aged and beyond that he didn’t care. He noticed that she was standing next to a rack of evening gowns. His eyes darted left and right. The place was a designer women’s clothing shop. That explained the overbearing smell of perfume.

  “I said, can I help you?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “I’ll be out of your way in a moment,” Jack said.

  “If you aren’t going to buy something, please leave,” the woman said.

  Jack glanced back at her to drive his earlier response home. She flinched at his glare. He spun his head around in time to see the hotel lobby door opening. The man in the suit stepped outside, looked left, then right, turned in the direction of the latter, stayed on the other side of the street. The man’s eyes moved methodically, square by square.

  Jack cursed under his breath. He was dealing with a professional. He took two steps back, hoped that would reduce the chance of him being seen from the outside.

  “It’s tinted and mirrored,” the woman said. “He can’t see you.”

  “That’s gotta be a real pain for window shoppers,” Jack said.

  She forced a rhetorical laugh. “I don’t want them. They dirty up my shop. Serious buyers only. Which you obviously are not. So as soon as your little friend is out of sight, get out of my place.”

  British hospitality.

  “Yes, ma’am.” A moment later he added, “Any chance you have a back door?”

  “No.” She aimed a pale thin finger toward the front door.

  Jack waited until the man in the suit passed by, then he left the store. Cool spring air, a mixture of cherry blossom and exhaust, greeted him once again. The remaining dampness on his forehead grew cold. He paced the guy across the street, staying far enough back that he could get away should a chase ensue.

  The man stopped in front of a place called Libby’s, went inside. From where Jack stood, there looked to be a menu taped to the outside of the window next to the front door. Jack waited a minute, then crossed the street and continued toward the restaurant. He stopped when he reached the corner. The smell of wood smoke enveloped the building. Jack cupped his hands to his face and pressed against the glass.

  Four people dining at a table next to the window flinched when they noticed him peering in at them. They stared up, mouths agape, eyes narrowed.

  Jack shrugged, offered a half-smile, returned to scanning the room. Where had the guy gone? The place was dimly lit. It offered some sense of privacy despite the wide open layout of the place. Rows of tables with nothing separating them from one another. He spotted the man, twenty feet in front of him, seated at the bar. The guy seemed confident. He wasn’t constantly checking over his shoulders or looking around the room. He laid in wait, looking helpless and limp. The same way some of the most lethal predators on the planet act.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  Jack jerked back, whipped his head to the left. He’d dismissed the portly man in the black pants and white button-up shirt heading toward him.

  “Well?” the guy said.

  “Looking for my brother,” Jack said.

  “Well you’re scaring the piss outta my customers. So either come inside and have a drink and a bite to eat, or beat it.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder.

  Jack placed his hands on the window and pressed his face to the glass. The man in the suit rose from his barstool and walked toward the back of the restaurant.

  “I’m going in,” Jack said. He pushed past the portly man and pulled the door open. “Where’s your restroom?”

  “Loo’s in the back.”

  Jack moved cautiously through the restaurant, concerned that the guy in the suit might not be the only person in the place looking for him. The restaurant could have been a designated spot to meet should things fall through.

  Glances were cast his way. None lingered. They almost immediately returned to their plates or their drinks or their lunch mates.

  It took Jack less than ten seconds to cross the length of the room. He entered a dimly lit corridor, stopped in front of the men’s room door, pushed it open. Warm light flooded the hall, carrying with it the floral smell of chemical air freshener.

  Jack stepped in, unarmed, cautious.

  The guy in the suit stood in front of a urinal, his back to Jack.

  Jack stopped.

  “Help you with something?” the guy said in a British accent.

  Jack said nothing, took a quiet step forward.

  “I’d caution you not to go any further. I’m armed.”

  Jack ignored the warning, took another two steps, reassured by the belief that the man would conclude the task at hand. Only then would the guy reach for his gun and turn around. In that time span, Jack could close the distance and neutralize the guy.

  He was wrong.

  The man in the suit whipped around in a half-circle, pistol drawn, grin on his face.

  “Hello, Jack.”

  5

  Jack stood four feet away from the man in the dark suit. His heart raced. His muscles tensed. His stomach was in his throat. The guy had his pistol out, but his aim was off and he was unbalanced. The guy’s position opened up a window of opportunity for attack, albeit a small one. Jack did not hesitate. Years of training and finely tuned instincts took over. He turned to the side, lunged forward. His right arm neutralized the threat of the gun. His left fist neutralized the threat of the man.

  In two seconds the fight was over.

  Jack retrieved the pistol. He leaned over the man, slapped the guy across the face. When the guy didn’t come to, he slapped him again.

  The man groaned. His eyelids fluttered open, eyes focused on the bright lights behind Jack’s head, then rolled back, replaced by bloodshot whites.

  “Who are you?” Jack said.

  The guy moaned, refocused his eyes, said nothing.

  “Answer me,” Jack demanded.

  The man cleared his throat. “Slater. Leon Slater.”

  “What do you want with me, Leon? Why were you waiting for me in the hotel?”

  Leon shook his head.

  “That was you at the airport, wasn’t it?”

  Leon nodded.

  “Why?” Jack said. “No one knows I’m in England.”

  “You’re wrong.” Leon scooted back and propped himself up on his elbows. His head lingered below the base of a stained urinal.

  Jack rose, offered his hand to Leon, helped the man to his feet. “How’s that?”

  “You traveled over here under your own bloody name. You don’t think the moment they scanned your passport every damn agency in the U.K. became aware of your presence?”

  The point was a good one and gave Jack reason to pause. Of course he had been worried about it, but his name had been cleared. He wasn’t wanted in the U.K. for anything. And he figured if something was going to happen, it would have been at customs, and a quick call to Frank would have fixed it.

  “I’m retired,” Jack said. “Hadn’t really thought about it. How’d you get to the airport so fast if they’d only recently flagged me?”

  “We knew your flight plans. Dottie insisted I come meet you and escort you in case someone else tried to get to you first.”

  “Dottie?” Jack hadn’t considered that Leon was there to meet him and escort him to Dottie’s place.

  “Yeah,” Leon said. “I work for her. Anyway, you took off in a damn hurry and you were in the cab with the girl. I figured it best to reach out to you later.”

  Jack walked over to the bay of sinks, ran the hot water, splashed a handful across his face. “Why’d you draw your gun on me?”

  “I was offering the gun to you.” Leon patted his left side, close to his underarm. “My piece is holstered right here. I knew you’d be unarmed and thought you might appreciate a weapon. Didn’t you think it funny I wasn’t aiming at you?”

  “You could have said something other than I’m armed.”

  “I wanted to finish my piss. Christ, is that a crime?”

  Jack inspected the handgun he’d knocked from Leon’s hand, a Browning High Power 9mm. It told him a few things. Leon had been in the Special Air Service (SAS), and had probably retired some time ago as most of the guys now carried the Sig Sauer P226. He also surmised that Leon had no intention of hurting him. The Browning’s safety was on.

  “You’re welcome, by the way,” Leon said.

  Jack nodded once. “How long have you been out?”

  “Of what?”

  “SAS.”

  “Who says I was SAS?”

  “Who else still carries a Browning?”

  “I’ve heard some members of various intelligence organizations do.”

  “Does that mean you were never SAS?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Leon flashed a grin and Jack smiled back.

  “Come on, let me buy you a drink,” Jack said.

  Leon wet a paper towel and wiped his face. The two men exited the restroom and took a seat at the end of the bar. Leon ordered for both of them, a lager that Jack had never heard of. When the bartender set the beer down in front of him, Jack immediately noticed that a tan frothy head filled a third of the mug. The sun’s setting rays found their way through the tinted glass of the restaurant, knifed through Jack’s mug, turned a burnt orange as they found a final resting spot on the antique bar top.

  Jack lifted the mug containing the sun soaked lager and took a large gulp. He savored the head that was left over on his upper lip while swirling the liquid in the mug in a counterclockwise motion. Bubbles and brew mixed.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” Leon said. “We should get going.”

  “What’s the rush? My hotel is half a block away.”

  “You can’t stay there now, Jack. If I could find you, anyone can.”

  Jack shrugged. “I can handle myself.”

  “Besides, Dottie wants to see you tonight.”

  “I’m tired. I just want to rest tonight. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.”

  “You can sleep on the way. We’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us.”

  “I thought she lived in the city?” Jack said, concerned now that everything Leon had told him up to this point was a lie.

  “She does. She also has a place outside of the city. Tonight, like every night the last couple months, she is outside of the city. It’s a place that he doesn’t know about. And she wants you to stay with us tonight so she can discuss terms with you tomorrow.”

  Jack’s lingering doubts remained. He reached around his back, pretending to scratch an itch. The stiff handle of the Browning brushed his palm. Relief washed over him like the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Would a man hell bent on killing him offer him a loaded weapon? Jack thought not. So he lifted his mug, tilted it toward his open mouth, finished his beer. He patted his chest and pockets, mostly out of habit, making sure he’d left nothing behind.

  “Let’s get going then,” he said.

  Leon led the way to the door. The portly fellow nodded, faked a smile, and then looked away. Jack followed Leon outside.

  “Dammit.” Leon stopped, took a step back, bumped into Jack.

  “What is it?”

  “Get inside.”

  Jack did.

  “Four men in front of the hotel,” Leon said. “Black Bentley parked on the street.”

  Jack slid his head through the opening and saw the men. They were dressed in dark clothing, long sleeved t-shirts, and black or dark gray cargo pants. Heavily muscled. Probably armed. Two of them entered the hotel. One stood on the sidewalk, looking up. The fourth leaned back against the Bentley.

  “Who are they?” Jack asked.

  “I presume they work for someone who has an interest in why you entered our country.”

  “In or out?” the voice called from behind.

  Jack turned and saw the portly man.

  “Whatever you guys decide, you need to stop blocking my doorway.”

  “Shut up,” Jack said.

  Leon placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “What my American friend meant was, do you have a back exit?” Leon pulled open his jacket, revealing his holstered weapon.

  The man’s expression was blank. He jerked his head back, motioning toward the kitchen. He said, “Through there.”

  Leon said, “Many thanks,” and he handed the guy a folded bill.

  As soon as he left the dining room, Jack retrieved the Browning. He racked it, left the safety on. Two quick taps remained in order to file a round. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, not in the middle of London.

  The kitchen was loud, bright, full of stainless steel countertops and shelves. Voices went mute as stares fell upon the two armed men hurrying toward the exit. A large red-haired man with a long braided goatee stepped away from his duties at the fryer and blocked the narrow path between the kitchen equipment and the door leading outside. He looked like a modern day Viking.

  “Who the frig are you guys?” Red said.

  “Do you really want to find out?” Leon said, casually aiming his pistol in Red’s direction.

  “I want to know what you’re doing in my kitchen. You’re putting the food at risk.” Red’s head leaned back on his thick stump of a neck. His eyes were wide. Jack wondered if the guy was high or just had a death wish.

  “We’re only passing through. Take it up with the fat guy out front. He told us not to linger in the doorway.”

  “You could’ve gone through the front.”

  “No, we couldn’t,” Leon said.

  Jack wondered what the hell was going on. If he’d been in the lead he’d have taken Red out and stepped over his unconscious body. Yet, here was Leon treating the guy like they were in the debate club. He nudged Leon forward.

  “Just step aside, mate,” Leon said. “You don’t want us to be in here when the other guys come through.”

  Red narrowed his eyes and studied the two men for a moment. Then he took a step back and allowed them passage through the kitchen.

  They stepped into a narrow alleyway. The sky was a deep shade of pink. Tall buildings shielded the area from the sun’s final rays. The air was cool and crisp, especially after being in the hot kitchen.

  “My car is two blocks from here.” Leon took off in a jog.

  Jack hesitated, thought about turning and sprinting off in the other direction. Four hours in town and already he’d been chased, had a gun pulled on him in a bathroom, seen a Bentley with four guys obviously looking for him, and been confronted by a pissed off cook that resembled a Viking god covered in grease and flour.

  Perhaps he’d be better off returning home.

  Leon’s footsteps slowed to a shuffle. Jack looked up and saw the man facing him, jogging in place.

  “You coming?”

  Jack looked back. A block or so, then the open road. He already had a good thirty foot lead. If he sprinted he might be able to lose the guy.

  “Well? We haven’t got all bloody night.”

  Jack turned, started walking, sped up to a jog. “Let’s go,” he said as he neared Leon.

  6

  Thornton leaned back in his chair, rested the base of his skull on the ridge of the chair back. He stared down his nose at the four men who cowered on the other side of the overbearing mahogany desk. He looked from one man to the next, shook his head as he made eye contact with each. He said nothing, figured the men would have been more comfortable if he was yelling at them. At least then they could accurately gauge his level of aggravation. Instead, the silence in the room told the story of his anger at their failure to bring in the man who earlier that day showed up on their screen like a Great White’s dorsal fin, spotted by a lifeguard, too close to shore, circling its prey.

  None of the men knew Noble as intimately as Thornton. None of them had been in Monte Carlo when he’d had an encounter with Jack, who had used a pseudonym at the time. Perhaps if they had been there, Noble would no longer be an issue. Then Thornton wouldn’t have had to drop a million plus in legal fees to get him off the hook for slapping Dottie around after she’d insulted and embarrassed him.

  Those are the chances you take when you bring your B team.

  What did that say about his A team, though? They couldn’t get the job done tonight.

  Thornton placed his palms on his desk, leaned forward, rose out of his chair. He lifted his hand. His index finger shook out of anger. The men across from him straightened.

  “Leave.” Thornton jabbed toward the door. The four men turned, heads hung in shame, and headed toward the door. “Not you, Owen,” Thornton added. Owen was the lead man. The A guy on the A team. When a job was done right, he took the majority of the praise. Tonight he’d take the brunt of his boss’s anger.

  Owen stopped, turned, waited. The three other guys left, one by one, through the open doorway. The last man crossed the threshold. The heavy reinforced door shut with resonance that told the men in the room they were isolated, separated, protected.

  Owen lifted his head and made eye contact with Thornton, who smiled and gestured toward the chair across from his. Both men sat. Thornton pulled out a cigar, lit it, remained quiet for a minute for dramatic effect. The heavy odor of the cigar enveloped his senses and he recalled meeting Owen at a back room poker game. The man had thrown a hand that Thornton was all-in for. He’d seen Owen’s cards. Pocket aces. An Ace on the flop. Thornton had a potential full house. He went all-in. Owen called. Garbage on the turn, an Ace on the river. Owen folded his cards, nodded, got up for a beer. Two days later Thornton had the man in his office and offered him a job.

  Tonight was the first time he’d ever been let down by Owen.

  “So tell me again, Owen. How did you fail to find Mr. Noble?”

  The muscles in Owen’s jaw rippled. The man appeared to be doing his best to control his temper. A good thing, thought Thornton. He knows better than to challenge me.