Page 129 of The Unlikely Spare

The speed he’s adapting to life as a fugitive rather than a figurehead is impressive. And also slightly disturbing.

The steering column comes apart like it’s held together with good intentions and sellotape. My fingers move with muscle memory, stripping insulation, touching copper to copper.

Nicholas folds his long frame into the passenger seat, eyebrows raised.

“So, are you going to explain your slightly disturbing competence in hot-wiring cars?” he asks.

“I worked undercover as part of a car theft ring operating between Belfast and Dublin. Eighteen months embedded with the Flannery crew. They specialized in luxury vehicles for export to Eastern Europe, but they’d take anything with four wheels if the opportunity presented itself.”

It feels strange, sharing this with him. And I have the urge to tell him more. How Jimmy Flannery tested new recruits by making them boost a car with him watching. How I spent Christmas that year in a warehouse full of stolen BMWs, playing cards with thieves who regarded me as a friend. How hard it was to testify against some of them afterward, knowing I’d sent men to prison for trying to feed their families the only way they knew how.

Christ, when did I become someone who wants to share?

But I want Nicholas to understand me, to know the real me, warts and all. Even if it’s too late. Even if he’ll never trust me again.

I pause at the edge of the car park. “Which way?”

Nicholas squints at the app on his phone. When he shows me the screen, he’s careful not to let our hands touch. Such a small thing, but it feels like another wall going up.

“East is a single highway, nowhere to hide. It’s basically a one-way ticket to getting caught. South gives us options at the lake’s end. Multiple roads, harder to track.”

“South it is,” I say, swinging out of the car park and joining the flow of traffic along the waterfront.

Plans and escape routes tumble through my head. The problem is, I’m in a foreign country and Pierce knows every trick in my book. Hell, he wrote half the bloody chapters.

Bastard probably has my entire decision tree mapped out on a whiteboard somewhere.

“They’ll be monitoring every exit point,” I mutter, more to myself than Nicholas. “Airports, hotels, rental cars. And there will be an alert on us by now.”

“Charming. So we’ve achieved maximum wanted status, being hunted by both terrorists and law enforcement. That’s impressive for a Tuesday.” Nicholas sounds like he’s discussing dinner plans rather than imminent capture.

“That’s about the size of it. And we can’t underestimate the terrorist group. These people have resources, connections, and absolute conviction in their cause.” I work my shoulders, trying to unknot muscles that have apparently decided to become one with my spine. “I need to find out about Malachy. Whether he’s really…” The words stick like broken glass.

Nicholas pins me with that look that sees too much. “So why don’t you call him?”

The old me would clam up now. But I don’t want to. If I want to rebuild Nicholas’s trust in me, I need to be prepared to be completely honest with him, even if it chokes me to say it.

“I’m scared.” The words fall out like pulled teeth. “Scared it’s true about Malachy. He’s all I’ve got left for family.”

“I know something about betrayal by those you trust,” Nicholas says quietly. “I could write the definitive guide. Maybe a bestseller:Backstabbing for Beginners: A Royal Perspective.” He pauses, and then quietly adds, “Apparently, I need to add a new chapter.”

The words land like a punch. I grip the steering wheel tighter, sending a glance at him. This impossible man, who hides old wounds under Savile Row tailoring and deflects pain with posh sarcasm.

Who trusted me despite all his instincts, and then I proved those instincts right.

Yet here he is, sitting in a stolen car wearing tourist shop finery, trusting the man sent to deliver him to his enemies to keep him safe. If that’s not pure brass-balls bravery, I don’t know what is.

That settles it then. I have to be equally brave.

“I’ll need to find somewhere safe to pull over so I can make the call,” I say.

“Or novel idea. You could pull over, we switch seats, and I drive while you call your brother,” Nicholas says.

His suggestion catches me off guard. The idea of Nicholas driving hadn’t even entered my mental calculations. In my mind, he’s still filed underAsset to Protect, notActive Participant in Escape Plan.

Nicholas reads my expression perfectly, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. “We’re in this together, remember? Or do you think I’ll just sit here looking decorative while you do all the work?”

He’s right, of course.