Page 12 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Seven

Eoin

Scotland Yard’s briefing rooms always smell the same, like institutional disinfectant layered over decades of sweat and shite coffee.

I sit ramrod straight in my chair as Detective Chief Superintendent Martin Thornton spreads documents across the conference table. Four weeks of undercover work as a protection agent, and I’m back in this windowless room with Thornton and Pierce to report on my progress.

Or my lack of progress in this case.

For the first time in my professional life, I’m failing. I have no leads. No anything.

“Intelligence reports indicate a concerning pattern,” Thornton says, his gruff Yorkshire accent filling the room. “Since the palace announced Prince Nicholas would replace Prince Callum on the Australia-New Zealand tour, we’ve detected an alarming surge in activity.”

Pierce, seated to Thornton’s right, slides a folder toward me.

I flick through it. Christ. No wonder they’re worried. Coded communication, dormant accounts suddenly springing to life, burner phones activating in patterns throughout Australia.

It’s like watching a sleeping beast wake up.

“It’s incredibly similar to the pattern that happened before the Matheson-Webley kidnapping that we only saw retrospectively,” Thornton says.

“You think this mystery group is going to target Prince Nicholas while he’s on tour,” I say.

Pierce nods. “It definitely looks that way.”

“The most concerning thing is the activity began a few hours before the palace’s announcement about Prince Nicholas,” Thornton says.

It takes a few seconds before the implications hit me.

“You think they knew about the switch before it was public?” I ask slowly.

“Yes.” Pierce rubs between his eyebrows. “And obviously, combined with the intelligence reports of a sleeper agent, this places the Prince’s protection team under the spotlight.”

Thornton leans forward. “O’Connell, you’ve been embedded with the protection team for four weeks now. What’s your assessment?”

I sort through what I can tell them. “Rick Cavendish runs his team with military precision—ex-SAS with an unblemished service record.

“Officer Blake has excellent instincts, particularly for crowd assessment. Singh’s social adaptability makes him valuable at public functions.

Malcolm is methodical to the point of obsession—I caught him triple-checking the same security feed three times in fifteen minutes last night.

MacLeod brings practical experience. And Davis, while inexperienced, is attentive and eager to prove himself. ”

“Any suspicious behavior? Unexplained absences? Unusual communications?” Pierce presses, his keen eyes focused on me like he’s willing me to give him something, anything.

Christ. He’d probably fought for me to get this assignment, convinced Thornton that his former protégé could handle a case this big. And here I am, four weeks in with fuck all to show for it.

I’ve spent long hours analyzing each team member, watching for inconsistencies or any unusual patterns. So far, nothing.

Which either means they’re all clean, or whoever’s working against us is exceptionally good.

“Nothing that’s got my hackles up,” I reply honestly.

“I’ve been through the duty rosters with a magnifying glass, and there are no patterns in the sick days or holiday requests that raise flags.

Background checks on extended family revealed nothing beyond a few parking tickets and one cousin with a cannabis warning.

I’ve checked for unauthorized devices, unusual Bluetooth connections, signs of electronic dead drops, but there’s absolutely nothing that hints ‘I’m selling secrets to terrorists. ’”

“And the prince himself?” Pierce asks. “Is there anyone else in his circle who could present a weak link? Anyone who could be potentially compromised or manipulated?”

I contemplate his question, the faces of Nicholas’s entourage flickering through my mind.

The thing is, for all of Prince Nicholas’s charm and reputation as a playboy prince, he doesn’t appear to have many personal friends.

He definitely has a wide circle of acquaintances, but besides his brother Prince Callum, there doesn’t seem to be anyone he’s particularly close to.

It’s all champagne toasts and inside jokes until something genuine threatens to surface, then he retreats behind snarky banter.

The people that the prince interacts with most frequently are his security team.

Unfortunately for me, any interactions I personally have with the prince aren’t exactly pleasant.

Ever since I called him out about his callous behavior to his mother at Rosemere Hall, the prince has made it his personal mission to be a complete pain in my arse.

Like yesterday at the hospital opening. The little shit deliberately wandered off the approved route to chat with patients, leaving me scrambling after him while he threw that smug look over his shoulder.

The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and is enjoying every feckin’ second of it.

Last week was worse. Introduced me to the Danish ambassador as his “shadow with a pulse,” then asked, in front of everyone, if I’d demonstrate proper tackling technique. “Since you’re so skilled at it,” he’d said, all wide-eyed innocence like butter wouldn’t melt.

But the state dinner? Christ. That took the absolute biscuit.

He told the French ambassador I was writing a romance novel in my spare time.

Then he spent ten minutes spinning this elaborate shite about a brooding bodyguard and a lonely duchess while I stood there like a statue, professional mask locked in place, while internally planning exactly where I’d hide his body.

The worst part is the way his eyes light up when he suspects he’s managed to get under my skin. The satisfaction in his voice when he lands a particularly good dig. And the bastard has the audacity to look good while doing it, which somehow makes it worse.

The posh git wields his royal privilege like a schoolboy with a magnifying glass, and I’m the feckin’ ant getting fried for his amusement.

I’m actually surprised there are not more people trying to murder him, to be honest.

My general dislike of the British Monarchy has now crystallized into an intense dislike of one specific member.

“I haven’t observed anyone suspicious in the Prince’s inner circle,” I say.

“Does the Prince comply with security protocols?” Pierce asks, his voice carrying that subtle edge I’ve learned means he isn’t entirely satisfied with my answer.

I think of Nicholas’s eye rolls when I suggest safer routes, his sighs when we conduct room sweeps before he enters. He’s got that whole carefree prince playboy act down pat. Except sometimes his eyes tell a different story.

“I believe he finds security measures restrictive,” I say. “But he complies with essential protocols.”

Thornton snorts. “That’s generous. Reports suggest he treats security as an inconvenience at best.”

I hold my tongue, though fuck knows why I feel the need to defend the prick.

Maybe it’s because I suspect the truth is more complicated than Thornton understands.

Nicholas performs exactly what’s expected of him—royal duties, public appearances, the charming prince act—but he maintains his rebellion in small, deliberately chosen battles.

Like a man in a cage, rattling the bars just enough to remind himself that he can, but never enough to actually break free.

I understand it because I’ve occasionally felt something similar, the exhaustion of being what everyone needs you to be instead of who you actually are.

“The security arrangements for Australia and New Zealand will be complex,” Thornton continues, pulling up a map on the screen. “Sydney, Cairns, Alice Springs, Darwin, Auckland, Wellington—twenty-six official engagements over four weeks.”

“The Australian and New Zealand police forces will handle outer perimeter security,” Pierce adds. “But close protection remains our responsibility, and after what happened with Hargrove infiltrating Matheson’s team, we can’t afford any missteps.”

I nod. I know exactly what’s riding on this. This case could make or break my career trajectory. But the implications if I fail also have wider repercussions for RaSP, for Scotland Yard, for the country.

And for Prince Nicholas, of course.

“It’s a pity you’ll have to be away for Christmas, but at least you’ll get a break from this weather,” Pierce remarks.

Christmas. The other officers had reacted to the tour announcement with quiet resignation and discussions about having to reschedule plans.

I hadn’t reacted at all.

My big Christmas plans involved a frozen pizza and whatever Netflix had on offer. There were no Christmas dinner reservations to cancel, no disappointed partner, no family traditions to put on hold.

Being undercover hasn’t left time to focus on relationships. My last attempt—some bloke named Dave who worked at a garage in Southwark—went south after I missed three dinners running because of a drug bust that dragged on.

It’s become easier not to bother.

The briefing continues with logistics, contingency plans, and coordination protocols. I absorb every detail, building mental maps of vulnerabilities and response strategies. This is what I’m good at. This is what makes sense.

Not the knot in my gut that tightens every time Prince Nicholas walks into a room.

I don’t understand why he gets under my skin so much. I’ve worked undercover with hard bastards—dealers who’d gut you for looking at them wrong, gang bosses who kept pliers in their desk drawers for more than fixing things.

I’d managed to keep my cool through all of it. But Nicholas, with his posh accent and cutting remarks?

Christ. My jaw aches from grinding my teeth whenever he opens his mouth.

After five minutes with him, I’m always one sarcastic comment away from saying something that’ll end up in my disciplinary file.

And, unfortunately, “Told royal spare to get his head out of his arse” would not be career-enhancing, even if it would be deeply satisfying.

But I didn’t claw my way into this position only to lose it because I can’t hold my tongue around an entitled prick.

As the meeting wraps up, Pierce watches Thornton leave but gestures for me to stay behind.

“A word, Detective Sergeant,” he says once we’re alone.

I stand at attention. “Sir?”

“I’ve received a rather unusual communication from the palace.” He studies me with his penetrating stare. “It seems Prince Nicholas has complained of a ‘personality clash’ with you and requested a change in his protection team.”

A sick feeling pools in my gut.

Nothing says “successful undercover operation” like having the guy you’re supposed to be protecting complain about you to management.

“I wasn’t aware of that, sir,” I say carefully.

“Care to explain?”

Fecking hell.

How the hell can I explain the unbridled animosity that Prince Nicholas seems to regard me with?

“It might relate to an incident at Rosemere Hall. I encountered the prince’s mother in some distress, and Prince Nicholas may have misinterpreted the situation.”

“Misinterpreted how?” Pierce’s eyes narrow.

“The duchess was upset, and I was attempting to comfort her. Prince Nicholas was inebriated, and I don’t believe he was happy with my presence.”

For some reason, memories of Nicholas from that night have stayed with me, the moment his composure had crumbled, his hair falling across his forehead and his blue eyes wild with emotion.

I’ve also not forgotten the callous and dismissive way he treated his own mother. My mam used to say that you could judge a man by how he treats his mother. By that measure, Prince Nicholas is barely a man at all.

Pierce studies me for a long moment. “Let me be very clear, O’Connell.

I recommended you for this assignment because I believe you are an excellent undercover officer.

But your objective is to protect the prince while investigating any potential security compromises within the prince’s team.

This objective is not served by antagonizing the principal. ”

Shame floods through me.

“Understood, sir.”

“Remember, you’re currently Officer O’Connell, royal protection officer,” he continues. “You need to keep your personal feelings—whatever they may be—out of the equation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The replacement request was denied, by the way,” Pierce adds. “We’ve explained that security assignments are not subject to royal preference in the current climate. But I suggest you find a way to make this work. We’ve chosen you because we trust your judgment, O’Connell. Don’t let us down.”

What he doesn’t say, but I hear clearly, is that this assignment is critical for my career advancement. Fail here, and I can kiss that promotion to detective sergeant goodbye.

“I’ll make it work,” I vow.

As I leave Scotland Yard and head back to Kensington Palace, Pierce’s warning echoes in my mind.

The irony doesn’t escape me. I’ve spent my career pretending to be every other bastard except myself. Yet something about this particular role makes it difficult not to let the real me leak out.

Four weeks in Australia with Prince Nicholas Alexander under threat from a terrorist group. My career trajectory hanging in the balance. A potential traitor in our ranks.

But fuck me, the hardest part might not be keeping Prince Nicholas alive.

It might be keeping myself from being the one to throttle him.