Page 146 of The Unlikely Spare

“The protector,” Nicholas murmurs, almost to himself. “Always putting yourself between danger and everyone else.”

“Someone has to.”

He turns to face me properly, tucking one leg under himself. It’s such a casual gesture, like we’re having a normal conversation rather than fleeing for our lives. “But what about you? Who protects the protector?”

I keep my eyes on the road. “That’s not how it works.”

“Maybe it should be,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tighten.

But before I can even figure out what to say to that, he’s already turning back to the window.

“Tell me about your most dangerous undercover assignment,” he says, and just like that, we’re back on safer ground. “The one that made you realize you were good at this.”

I glance at him, recognizing the deflection for what it is. It’s a way to keep us talking without venturing into the minefield of whatever we are to each other now.

So I tell him about Belfast, about the Flannery crew and six months of living on the knife’s edge while my real life consisted of microwave dinners in a bedsit and visiting Malachy for his physio appointments every Tuesday at three.

Undercover work was complete immersion for me, a way to retreat from the reality of my own life.

And if my breath catches sometimes when he asks particularly insightful questions, if I notice the way his hands clench when I describe the close calls, well…

We’re both pretending not to notice a lot of things right now.

Nicholas tilts his head against the headrest. “I envy you,” he says quietly.

That catches me off guard. “You envy me?”

“My whole life is scripted.” Nicholas doesn’t look at me, instead watching the road unfold ahead. “Every word vetted, every appearance choreographed. I’m currently in a stolen car with terrible hair dye, running from terrorists with an Irish detective who kidnapped me, and this feels like the most authentic I’ve been in years.”

“Glad I could help with your authenticity journey,” I say dryly.

“I’m serious.” He looks at me. “Do you know what it’s like to finally do something that matters? Even if it all goes wrong, at least it’s real.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking of how real things have felt since I met him. “I know how that feels.”

Nicholas’s hand moves like he might reach across the console to touch me, then he seems to think better of it.

And the hope inside me grows just a tiny bit more.

The police checkpoint materializes around a blind corner—two patrol cars angled across the highway, officers in high-vis vests directing traffic into a single lane. My spine goes rigid against the seat back.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Nicholas sits up straighter, those ridiculous glasses sliding down his nose. “Perhaps they’re checking for drunk drivers? Checking registration stickers? Searching for escaped circus performers?”

But his voice carries that particular strain that means he’s fighting to keep it light. We both know what this is.

The queue of cars ahead gives us maybe ninety seconds. I scan our options. There’s a sheer rock face to our left, a steep drop to our right.

“We could try to talk our way through. I do an excellent Australian accent. ‘G’day, mate, just heading to the bottle-o for some tinnies.’”

“Your Australian accent sounds like Dick Van Dyke attempting Crocodile Dundee,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the scene in front of us. The officers are checking licenses, peering into cars.

Sixty seconds.

“They’re looking for something specific.” I watch an officer wave through a family in a campervan after barely a glance. “Or someone.”

Nicholas’s jaw tightens. “Right then. What’s our play, Detective?”