Page 4 of The Falcon and the Flame (The Birds: On Her Majesty’s Sapphic Secret Service #2)
Chapter Three
T hey’d been summoned to the Nest.
More exciting than that, they’d been told to pack their bags.
Lottie was just about to ask for how long and what for when designer luggage was delivered to their flat.
A specific list of designer clothing labels was included in their instructions.
There were the usual briefing documents of course, but there was also ten thousand pounds which landed in each of their spending accounts with the strict requirement the money only be spent on designer fashion.
That focused Lottie’s attention.
“Bull shit, ” Bili swore.
“Get in,” Lottie added, the thrill of a brand new game buzzing like a thousand volts in the middle of her chest. She loved her job. “Dover Street Market? Oxford Street? May fair , babes!”
“At least!”
Bili was a fellow agent for the Circle. She was Lottie’s opposite in almost every way.
She had an Oxford education, rich, cultured parents and a family who loved her, complete with nieces and nephews and endless birthday parties.
Lottie had a degree from the school of hard knocks, painstakingly earned after no fewer than five high schools refused to have her back, a junkie mother in Bethnal Green, and rumours of a younger brother currently doing time for cooking meth, except she wasn’t a hundred percent on that point because she wasn’t entirely sure who her father was.
Bili had long sleek black hair, gorgeous tan skin, and eyes so dark it was hard to tell where her irises stopped and her pupils began.
Lottie’s mousy blonde frizz defied detangler, her sallow white-girl skin never saw the sun, and her eyes weren’t quite blue, weren’t really green, and couldn’t be described as grey.
Not that any of that mattered. Lottie and Bili had been besties ever since the Circle sent them on a mission to Latvia three years ago.
Bili’s quick thinking and Russian language skills got Lottie out of yet another teensy tiny mess she’d inevitably found herself in, and they’d gotten smashed on Stolichnaya in the aftermath.
They’d kissed, laughed at their absolute and total lack of chemistry, then picked the pocket of the nearest businessman for a giggle and hacked his credit cards.
They had a shared love of fashion and danger, and that, it turned out, was all they needed. They looked after each other.
They swanned through London’s exclusive boutiques like goddesses and spent the Circle’s money, collecting expensive paper shopping bags indecent with famous brand names. Twenty thousand quid bought a surprisingly small amount of actual fabric.
That was the point, Lottie supposed, admiring the dresses. That one was going to cling to her arse like honey.
Lottie may not have had Bili’s natural advantages, but she more than made up for it with shit-tonnes of self confidence.
She couldn’t wait to see Harry’s face when she strolled casually into the bar in this little number and let her know she wouldn’t be singing this week.
She had a mission. The excitement went to her head like a drug.
Especially when the summons to the Nest turned out to be to the office of the Nightingale herself.
“I’ve never actually met her—you know—face to face,” Bili whispered, as they followed a suited woman up the stairs of the stately home in London’s exclusive St James.
The Circle called the building the Nest and a secret network of tunnels under London and the Thames linked it to Buckingham Palace and the halls of power.
“She’s cool,” Lottie said, breezily. She was trying to be cool herself. “Just be yourself.”
Bili snorted and swatted her shoulder. “Probably advice you shouldn’t take.”
The woman they were following gave them a glare.
As soon as her back was turned, Lottie grabbed Bili’s hand. They dissolved into giggles.
The atmosphere in the Nightingale’s office was cool. Icy. The Nightingale herself—Evelyn Knight—sat behind a vast mahogany desk, impossibly upright and the very picture of precision and control. She wore an enviable tailored suit, the jacket buttoned low at her waist.
She was hot, powerful, insanely confident and breathtakingly dangerous—everything Lottie admired.
Lottie had been both inspired and terrified by Evelyn Knight from the very first moment she’d set eyes on her.
That had been seven years ago, and Lottie’s life had changed immeasurably since then.
She had the strongest feeling the Nightingale was about to change things up even more.
She felt the game tingle in every fibre of her being.
Lottie noted the position of the players in the Nightingale’s office—Evelyn at her desk, her 2IC Dr Mak Whitlock standing with her back to the large windows, a younger woman Lottie vaguely knew as Ace near the unlit fireplace.
In the middle of the room, two leather sofas faced each other across a low table.
Two uncomfortable wooden chairs were positioned before the Nightingale’s desk.
The directive was obvious.
Lottie ignored it.
Instead, she slouched to the middle of the room and slung herself into one of the sofas.
She did her best to look as if she did this shit all the time, legs crossed, one arm draped over the backrest, her lips in her best cocky grin.
She heard Bili’s intake of breath at her boldness.
She didn’t miss Ace’s appreciative snort.
Mak’s chuckle was the cherry on top, but the measured click of the Nightingale’s heels on the wooden floor as she stalked around her desk to sit neatly on the sofa opposite was the beat of Lottie’s heart.
Round one to Lottie Finch.
Fuck , she loved her job.
“The Q’sar of Ain Zargiers has multiple sclerosis,” Mak announced, “a fact known only to an extremely select number of people and which, of course, needs to remain utterly confidential.”
Lottie raised an eyebrow. That intel came with stakes that were higher than her usual jobs. “You’re trusting me with it?” she joked.
Mak didn’t even look up. “I’m trusting you to do your job, Finch.”
Lottie grinned, unfazed. “Always do.” But if Mak could spell out what that actually was, Lottie would find it handy. “And that is…?”
Dr Mak Whitlock was a stern woman in her sixties with spiky white hair and an impressive array of tatts on well-muscled upper arms. On the few occasions Lottie had run into her in the club that operated on the lowest levels on the Nest, the woman had shown an absolutely devastating taste in leather jackets, band shirts and studded belts.
She could move too, for an old broad. Lottie liked her.
Mak gave her a hard stare. Lottie remembered the briefing documents she’d barely skimmed and left unread on her phone. She smirked back.
“When he was first diagnosed, the Q’sar set a date for his abdication—a stop gap against his declining health.
He told family, the head of his intelligence agency, a few other trusted friends—but the decision was not made known to the public.
” Mak’s tone was clipped. All business. “That date came and went three months ago, despite the Q’sar’s condition deteriorating far more rapidly than expected. ”
Lottie grimaced. “Men with power, right?”
“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Mak said.
“The Q’sar’s problem is that years ago, his eldest son, Rayan, was killed in an accident.
In her grief, the next in line to the throne—the Qasira Zynara—relinquished her claim to the crown in favour of her younger brother, Malik.
And ever since then, Malik has shown himself to be a corrupt, self-serving playboy who avoids royal duty like it’s contagious, has oil money burning holes in his pockets, and a hard-on for screwing over his own country. ”
Bili huffed. “Always the way.”
“The Q’sar knows his youngest son isn’t the man for the job, and the Qasira—who is ideal for it—doesn’t want it. The abdication date has been pushed back twelve months. The old man is trying to buy time, and he’s paying for it with the last of his health.”
Ace tapped her phone and sent some pictures to a screen above the fireplace. The Q’sar looked sophisticated, greying elegantly with a load of laugh-lines and an easy smile. His son glowered moodily in expensive Italian suits and million-dollar wristwatches.
“Malik is pissed he’s not on the throne yet,” Bili deduced.
“Correct,” said Mak. “And our assets in Ain Zargiers tell us he’s becoming increasingly impatient.
He’s aware that business—in fact, most of the wider international powers—would prefer his sister in the role.
We have intelligence that suggests he’s about to seriously disrupt his sister’s business interests and destabilise her position. ”
It wasn’t too hard to figure out what came next.
“And it benefits Britain if Malik has a little accident?” Lottie was freaking brilliant at little accidents . Chaos was practically her middle name.
The Nightingale gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Lottie, Bili, you’ll be flying to Ain Zargiers tomorrow.
Your covers have been provided and the operation parameters are clear.
The Green Futures Alliance of Nations is holding its annual summit in Azzouan, a global event which will be hosted by the Q’sar and his daughter.
Qasirim Malik is expecting new arrivals to his party house—women his team personally selects to keep his business partners entertained.
You will be among them. You’ve agreed to the mission. You’re familiar with his reputation.”
That part of the mission Lottie and Bili had discussed at great length. Neither of them had any problems with that.
“Glorified courtesans?” Lottie grinned. “On Her Majesty’s money? Nice. Can you thank her for the wardrobe? We weren’t completely sure what the dress code for the harem is these days, but we improvised. We can instagram our outfits, if you like.”