Page 123 of The Unlikely Spare

“So basically, what you had was a small group of people in England profiting from the misery and exploitation of millions of people around the world,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And the descendants of the people exploited by colonialism are now starting to go, ‘Hang on a sec, how is it that you, as a descendant of someone who committed atrocities, are living in luxury while we are still dealing with the generational trauma and poverty your ancestors created?’”

“I think that’s essentially it in a nutshell, yes,” I say.

“And I’m a living embodiment of the aristocracy, being descended from the royal family on one side, and one of the oldest noble families in England on the other.”

My eyes don’t leave his. “Yes, you are.”

The words come out rougher than I intended, caught somewhere between professional assessment and something far more dangerous. It’s my acknowledgment that I know exactly who this man is, what his bloodline represents, and yet I still want him with every cell in my body.

His eyes darken at my tone before he looks away.

“So they are trying to kidnap me to raise the world’s attention to their cause of demanding justice. They tried first with Harry Matheson, and now they’re trying to kidnap me. Nothing will get people’s attention quite like a royal ransom demand.”

“I think you might be right,” I say.

“Well, look at that, it appears I might be more than just a pretty face.”

“I need to talk to Scotland Yard,” I say abruptly.

If Nicholas is correct, it explains so much.

The multinational origin of the threats. Operatives recruited from countries historically exploited by the British Empire. Former colonial people seeking justice, not through political channels, but through direct action against those who are still benefiting from centuries of theft and subjugation.

It’s not random terrorism.

It’s calculated retribution.

I retrieve the satellite phone from the pocket of my shorts with trembling fingers, my mind racing with the implications.

If Nicholas is right about this, we’ll need every resource Scotland Yard can muster.

The connection takes longer than it should, each electronic chirp stretching my nerves tighter. When it finally connects, I’m surprised to hear not Thornton’s clipped tones but the familiar voice of Colin Pierce.

“Pierce,” I say, relief hitting me like a double Jameson. “Thank Christ it’s you. Where are you?”

“O’Connell.” His voice comes through with that familiar mix of Barbadian roots and Cambridge precision. “I’m currently in Singapore, about to board my next flight. Report your status.”

I glance at Nicholas, who’s watching me closely. “Sir, we’ve identified a potential motive pattern. The Prince noticed something a terrorist said to him at Hobbiton that matcheswords used on protest signs. All words for justice in former colonial languages.”

“That’s an interesting observation. But how does this connect to Matheson-Webley?”

“The aristocracy. They’re targeting representatives of institutions that benefited from colonialism. The monarchy, obviously, but Matheson is from old money, aristocratic connections even though he renounced his title?—”

“And you believe the sleeper agent is…?”

My jaw clenches. “I still don’t know, but based on this theory, Singh seems most likely, sir. His family background has connections to several former colonial territories. He disappeared just before the explosion at Hobbiton.”

“What’s your location, O’Connell?” Pierce’s voice is suddenly sharper.

“Taupo. Lakeside. We’ve changed vehicles twice.”

“Good. And the rest of the protection team?”

“Completely separated. No contact since Hobbiton. I didn’t trust anyone after?—”