Page 20

Leo gritted his teeth in the cab, hands shoved deep in his pockets where they couldn’t betray him.

London whipped past in the gray morning light.

A miracle. It wasn’t pissing rain.

Kat sat close enough that her scent invaded his space. She smelled like his soap. The thought of her in his shower, steam curling around her shoulders, made his fists ball.

He crushed it down.

Focus. This wasn’t about want.

The brakes groaned as the cab bumped to the curb.

The Copper Kettle squatted between glass-and-steel giants, its steamed-up windows and sagging green awning defiant.

A sun-faded sign promised a Full English for ￡6.

95!! The Platinum Club glittered across the street—sharp lines and polished chrome in contrast to the Kettle’s chipped brick and bacon smoke.

Leo paid the driver and stepped out, tugging his collar against the chill morning air.

Kat joined him on the sidewalk.

“This is it?” she said, eyeing the building like it might lunge.

He nodded. “This is it.”

He held the door, stepping just far enough aside to let her pass without touching. One final sweep of the street confirmed no obvious threats, no telltale signs of surveillance. Just ordinary people going about their day.

He followed Kat into the cafe, scanning inside as the door swung shut behind them.

The bell jangled and a steamy fug of fried bacon and bitter coffee hit him in the face, making his cheeks tingle. The cafe buzzed with the hum of customers—cab drivers hunched over tabloids, office workers fueling up for the grind.

Brock was already waiting, tucked near the bay window with a perfect view of the club across the street. He wore a fishing jacket bristling with pockets and a fresh Johnny Cash tee.

Leo pulled out a chair for Kat and sat down beside her.

“Brock.” Leo acknowledged him with the barest tilt of his head.

“Stand down, soldier boy.” Brock poured tea into a vast striped mug without looking up. “You’re so tense your spine might snap.”

He gave them both a once-over—eyes staying just a beat longer on Kat. “New hairdo?”

“Sort of,” Kat said, fingers brushing her temple. Color bloomed high on her cheeks.

Brock stirred his tea, the spoon clinking a little too loud against the china. “You two look like a Hallmark movie gone sideways.”

Leo shot Kat a glance.

“We’re fine.” She picked up a menu like it might offer a way out. “I’d kill for a coffee.”

Brock signaled the waitress with two fingers raised. She waddled over, pink-cheeked, biro poised.

“Full English, extra bacon, extra sausage, extra black pudding, fried bread, two slices. Beans on the side. Coffee for the lady.” Brock turned to Leo, eyebrows raised.

“Coffee.” Leo cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

The waitress scribbled and left.

“That’s quite a breakfast.” Leo laced his hands together on the chipped formica.

“Blood sugar crashes make me cranky. You want steady Brock for this.”

“Talk,” Leo said, voice low. “What have you got?”

Brock fished an envelope from his jacket and set it down. “Patience is a virtue, mate.” Then, with maddening calm, he slid two tiny porcelain figurines—a shepherd boy and girl—onto the table.

A muscle beat in Leo’s jaw. “We don’t have time for?—”

“Salt shakers are us,” Brock said, arranging them. “Pepper mill’s the target. Sugar packets? MI6.”

Kat leaned in. “You found something?”

“Better.” Brock tapped the window. “I found someone .”

Across the street, a black Bentley glided to a stop. A driver emerged, circling to open the rear passenger door. The man who stepped out radiated power—bespoke overcoat, gleaming Italian leather shoes, dark hair untouched by the damp.

Kat stiffened. “Adrik Korolov.”

“Guest of honor at tonight’s game. Quarter mil buy-in,” Brock said, as the waitress set down his alarmingly large breakfast and two coffees.

He wasted no time spearing a sausage and dunking it in the oozing yolk of a fried egg.

“Guest list reads like Interpol’s most wanted—Russian oligarchs, Saudi princelings, party officials’ spoiled sons.

Everyone with dirty money and flexible morals. ”

“Perfect hunting ground for someone selling weapons and influence.” Kat’s voice hardened.

Leo focussed on his mug. “And Eldridge? What’s his link to her, beyond framing Kat?”

Across the street, Korolov mounted the steps. His security flanked him like chess pieces—side, sweep, rear. Military. Armed, despite UK law.

Brock held up a finger, chewed deliberately, then reached for the envelope. Several photographs slid across the table. “Private club in Geneva. Taken five months ago.”

Leo examined the grainy black and white images. Victoria Eldridge, cool as glass, seated across from a man, his back to the camera.

“This is Korolov?”

Brock nodded. “You’ll have to take my word for it. But yes.”

Kat sucked in a sharp breath. “Gage went through her bank records. There were flight tickets to Geneva.”

“Gage?” Brock’s eyebrow arched with interest.

“Her brother,” Leo failed to mask the edge in his voice.

“Ah.” Brock tossed Kat a wink. “Protective bastards, aren’t they?”

Leo ignored him, his gaze on the photos like he could bend the truth to fit what he needed.

“Five months.” He rolled the number around in his head, getting a sense of it. “That’s long before Kat was even in the picture.”

Kat blanched. “This isn’t about revenge.” Her voice dropped. “It’s bigger than me. Way bigger.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Brock said, assembling a tower of sausage and tomato. “It’s not just Geneva. Eldridge has been making lots of regular trips abroad. All above-board. MI6-approved.”

He chewed, then swallowed. “Except her meetings with Korolov. Not one logged in official reports.”

Leo’s heartbeat was a fist in his throat. “You know what they’re meeting about?”

Brock thumped a thick blob of ketchup onto his plate. “Project Nightshade. That’s the name. Very hush-hush. All I’ve got is scraps—seems it started right after your crew nabbed that neural chip archive in Iceland.”

He leaned in. “When I cross-referenced chatter on a few…less reputable channels. I found mention of deployment in strategically significant regions. ”

“What does that mean?” Leo fought to keep frustration from coloring his voice.

Brock shrugged, his top pockets flapping. “Something digital. Scalable. Contagious, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s big—and the way no one’s talking about it? That’s never good.”

He mopped his plate with a triangle of fried toast, then aimed his fork at them.

“Leave the digging to me. You two? Time to polish your poker faces.” His grin unfurled, laced with trouble. “And practice looking married. Convincingly.”