Page 55 of Shadow Boxed (Shadow Warriors #2)

Chapter forty-four

London, from the tinted windows of Embray’s chauffeured Lamborghini Urus, looked the same as the dozen other times O’Neill had visited the city: monotonous, drizzly, and polluted.

The ride was sweet though. Smooth. Silent. All mechanical precision wrapped in understated luxury. Fuck, he hadn’t realized the Urus came in a chauffeured version, certainly not one big enough to accommodate the four of them, plus the driver.

He, Simcosky, and Embray sat on the leather bench seat in the back, while Capland rode up front with the driver. O’Neill, along with the other two Shadow Mountain warriors, was all dressed up in his bodyguard costume—an off-the-rack suit, complete with tie and a pair of shiny dress shoes.

Embray, on the other hand, had dressed as himself.

And looked mighty sleek in a classic charcoal suit with the jacket unbuttoned.

Judging by the fit and the fabric, the suit cost more than O’Neill made in a year.

The billionaire had skipped the tie. And the shinny dress shoes.

But then he was the boss, and he wasn’t dressing for a role.

“You three ready?” Embray asked, pulling his attention from the window long enough to slide a glance at O’Neill and Cosky. “We’re coming up on Berkeley Square.

“We’re good.” Cosky took it on himself to answer for O’Neill and Cap too. “Rawls says the ambulance is in position and waiting.”

“Are Wolf’s crews in place to block the real ambulance?” Embray asked, his gaze returning to the window.

Plan A called for Zane and Rawlings to position the fake ambulance as close to the Berkeley complex as possible.

For the strategy to work, they needed to arrive within minutes of Nantz going down.

Three more teams were stationed near the closest ambulance depots to Berkeley Square.

When a real ambulance was dispatched, Wolf’s teams would step in to delay them.

“They’re in position to intervene,” O’Neill said as he reached for the crystal decanter atop a custom-made wood shelf perched on top of the console between the two front bucket seats. The liquid inside was dark amber and filled to the neck. “What do we have here?”

“Dalmore 64 Trinitas,” Embray said absently, staring at the buildings both tall and short that were rolling past.

“That’s whisky? Right?” O’Neill asked.

“Specifically scotch whisky, and one of the most expensive liquors in the world,” Capland answered from the front passenger seat. Dude knew a bit of everything, so it would seem.

When Embray didn’t tell him to put the decanter back, O’Neill leaned forward to grab two tumblers. No doubt the price tag on the decanter was outrageous. He hoped it was worth it.

“Might as well toast your upcoming business meeting,” O’Neill said, saluting Embray’s profile with the decanter. He poured a splash of the amber liquid into the first crystal tumbler and passed it to Embray, then poured another for Cosky.

“I’ll pass,” Capland said, his voice distracted.

“You sure? Doubt you’ll get another chance to enjoy the nectar of the elite.” When Cap just scoffed, O’Neill shrugged and splashed some Trinitas into a tumbler for himself. “Hey boss, how much is that decanter worth?”

Embray shrugged, without turning his head. “200 grand, give or take.”

O’Neill whistled and took a slow sip. The whiskey burned as it went down.

But it was smooth, with a lingering aftertaste of coffee and orange.

It was nice…quite nice…but not two-hundred grand nice.

He put his tumbler back on the shelf. Cosky’s glass joined it.

But Embray just held his drink and stared out his window.

In an insane waste of money and fuel, they’d flown two Citations to London.

Embray’s jet had ferried the billionaire, along with Cosky, O’Neill, and Capland, and landed at Luton airport, the same runway Nantz had landed on.

The rest of the warriors had taken Shadow Mountain’s new Citation.

Wolf’s jet hadn’t filed a flight plane, nor did it carry any FAA identification, or register on radar, so finding a landing site for it was . ..problematic.

The landing strip needed to accommodate a three-thousand-foot runway.

It needed to be private. And it had to be within an hour of the Berkeley complex.

Somehow, Capland had located a site that met all three requirements.

He’d also found a decommissioned London ambulance, arranged to get it painted, decaled, and stocked with equipment.

After the overhaul, the vehicle mimicked the emergency vehicles currently servicing the Berkeley Square area.

How had Cap managed to produce two unicorns in forty-eight hours? The computer geek was scary proficient.

“You think Rawlings can pass as a paramedic?” O’Neill asked. “That drawl of his could raise questions.”

“It disappears when he wants it to,” Cosky said.

Cosky and the other squids had almost teared up when Rawlings showed up at the last briefing and volunteered to take the paramedic role. Not that they’d ever admit it, but relief had registered on all their faces. Even Mackenzie’s.

“Next block is Berkeley Square,” Embray said quietly. He straightened in his seat.

O’Neill pretended to text Wolf their location, along with their ETA, and then immediately deleted it. He sent the actual message through the Neealaho. The pretense was annoying, but the SEALs didn’t know about the neural net.

If their plan held, Embray’s London friend would be waiting for them.

He’d already set the meeting up with Nantz, without mentioning that Embray would be joining them.

According to Embray, his colleague wouldn’t attend the actual meeting, and he wouldn’t question Nantz’s sudden illness, or his subsequent disappearance.

A return text hit his phone. Wolf. But the message was empty.

In location. Waiting . Came through the Neealaho.

On paper, the plan was foolproof, which was why O’Neill had braced himself for a clusterfuck.

Minutes later, their chauffeur pulled up to the curb in front of a nine-story white building.

He parked the Lamborghini but left it running.

Both doors up front, as well as Simcosky’s, opened.

Once Cosky slid out, O’Neill followed. Cap and the chauffeur walked around the front of the vehicle, while he and Cosky circled the back.

The four of them met up in front of Embray’s door.

Time to play his part. O’Neill unbuttoned his jacket and unsnapped the holster beneath his left arm.

Then with his hand on his gun and his eyes on the prowl, he fell into his bodyguard role.

Bodyguarding felt a lot like undercover ops—constantly alert, eyes always scanning, treating everyone as a threat, his weapon always ready.

The chauffeur opened Embray’s door and stepped aside. The big boss slid out of the Lamborghini, straightened, then meticulously buttoned his jacket and pulled down the cuffs. When he stepped forward, O’Neill, Cosky, and Capland fell in behind him.

When they reached the building, Cosky strode forward, opened the door, and slowly scanned the lobby. After a few seconds, he stepped inside and held the door open for Embray to enter.

O’Neill waited for Embray and Capland to pass through the door, then followed them into the lobby. A loose huddle of suits stood halfway across the room. They broke apart as Embray entered the building and headed toward the door. He recognized the suit in the middle immediately.

Son of a bitch.

As he’d expected, they were headed into clusterfuck territory.

Capland had pinned several pictures of their target to the computer screens in the war room. In some of them, Nantz was dressed in casual clothes, in others, a suit. But all of them, every single one, he had the same face at the man across the lobby.

The fact the dude had stopped dead and was staring at Embray with a pale, suspicious face was another clue they were screwed.

Their plan had just blown up in their faces.