Page 2 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Two

Eoin

The Scotland Yard headquarters is an architectural middle finger to subtlety, all shining glass and polished steel. It’s far from the original Victorian building where London’s Metropolitan Police began, with its back entrance on Great Scotland Yard, which gave them their nickname.

Heads turn as I stride through the lobby.

Can’t blame them. I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with a wheelie bin, and the bin won by a unanimous decision.

But then, I’m used to looking like I don’t belong.

I’m a Belfast lad from the council estates, where ambition was scarcer than a boiler that stayed lit for a full winter. Then I joined the police, which, as a Catholic in Northern Ireland, is the perfect career choice for someone who enjoys being despised by everyone equally.

I’ve never shaken that feeling of having the wrong accent in the right rooms.

During my first year after Scotland Yard recruited me for MO3, I was summoned to brief a room of senior officers on the Irish gunrunner I’d spent weeks cultivating. Halfway through, I was interrupted by one of those Oxbridge tossers that infest Scotland Yard’s upper ranks.

“Could you repeat that caliber? Was it ‘thirty’ or ‘thirty-tree?’”

A ripple of laughter had gone around the room.

The back of my neck went hot as a kettle, but I’d given him a flat stare. “That’s thirty-millimeter. Would you like me to write it down?”

His eyebrows had flown up, but a month later, when my undercover work cracked open the biggest arms trafficking ring the Met had seen in a decade, the Oxbridge prick was silenced.

That success helped me fly up the ranks to become a temporary detective sergeant in four years, a timeline practically unheard of. It’s now my probationary year, where I’ve got to prove my mettle before getting signed off to make my promotion permanent.

When I step into the lift, the mirror shows me what everyone else is seeing.

Christ, I look rough. The bruise forming on my cheekbone nicely complements the dark circles under my eyes from months of late nights in London’s seedier establishments.

My dark-auburn hair curls over my collar, desperately needing a cut.

Exactly how you want to look when you’re about to meet the Met’s top brass.

I try to brush some of the alley grit from my leather jacket, which only serves to rearrange the dirt. I look like something the cat dragged in, then thought better of it and dragged back out again.

Thornton’s secretary actually recoils when I approach her desk. I try not to take it personally.

“Detective Sergeant O’Connell for Detective Chief Superintendent Thornton,” I tell her.

My new rank still doesn’t flow off the tongue quite yet.

She sniffs disapprovingly. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

They. My gut twists.

Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I open the door.

When I step into the room, my training immediately kicks in as I scan the occupants of the polished table.

Martin Thornton, detective chief superintendent of the Covert Policing Unit, sits at the head. He’s the ultimate boss of the MO3, and I’ve come to both respect and fear him during my four years at the Yard.

He’s talking to his boss, Commander Helen Adebayo, Specialist Crime and Operations.

Fuck. If she’s here, this is serious.

I relax slightly when I see a familiar face to Thornton’s right. It’s Superintendent Colin Pierce, his lean frame with wire-rim glasses unmistakable.

Pierce was the chief inspector who recruited me to Scotland Yard after he’d worked with me on a joint investigation into cocaine being smuggled through Belfast and Liverpool ports.

After I’d joined, he’d always seemed to take a personal interest in me, and I’d worked on investigations under him in my first year.

He’d moved to specialist operations a few years ago, and I wasn’t surprised when I heard he’d been promoted to superintendent of the Royalty and Specialist Protection Command.

Commonly known as RaSP, it’s the elite unit within the Metropolitan Police, tasked with guarding the royal family and high-ranking politicians.

Pierce has always had that combination of warmth and ruthless efficiency which makes him a good boss—he’d bring you rum cake he made from his grandmother’s famous Barbados recipe, then dissect your operational failures with surgical precision.

But why the hell is he here now? It doesn’t make any sense.

He gives me a nod of acknowledgment that doesn’t tell me anything.

Rounding out the table are three people I don’t recognize.

“Detective Sergeant O’Connell,” Thornton says, his gruff Yorkshire accent filling the room. “You’ve come directly from an operation?”

“Yes, sir. The Fletcher diamonds case. Suspect apprehended, evidence secured.” I ignore the throb of my bruised hip as I stand at attention. “Detective Inspector Patel said it was urgent.”

“It is.” Thornton gestures to the others. “You know Commander Adebayo and Superintendent Pierce. This is DCS Walters from Counterterrorism, Fraser Hunt from the Home Office Public-Safety Directorate, and Louisa Prentice QC from the Met Directorate of Legal Services.”

Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.

Whatever this is, it’s serious enough to involve counterterrorism, legal, and the home office.

That can’t be good.

“Sit down, O’Connell,” Adebayo says, indicating a chair across from Pierce.

I lower myself into it, maintaining perfect posture despite the various parts of my body that are beginning to complain loudly about my recent alley wrestling match.

“I assume you’re familiar with the Matheson-Webley kidnapping,” Thornton begins.

“Yes, sir.”

You’d have to have been in a coma to miss what’s been the biggest news story of the last decade.

The leader of the Conservative Party, Harry Matheson, and a rival high-ranking Labour politician, Toby Webley, were kidnapped by a terrorist group on a hijacked chartered plane when flying to a conference in Oslo.

The plane had crash-landed in Finland, and somehow, Harry and Toby had managed to escape the terrorists and survive in the Finnish wilderness for over a month before being rescued a few weeks ago.

It had been portrayed in the media as a triumph worthy of Boy Scout badges, and the tabloids had been in a spin over the idea of two political enemies forced to huddle together to conserve body heat.

“What hasn’t come out to the public yet is that we’ve identified one of the conspirators as a protection officer assigned to Harry Matheson,” Commander Adebayo says.

My blood runs cold.

A traitor in our own ranks.

“Paul Hargrove.” DCS Walters speaks for the first time, sliding a photograph across the table. “Served with RaSP for six years. Exemplary record. No red flags.”

I study the photo. The man has the kind of face you’d forget five minutes after meeting him. Perfect for a traitor.

“He’s not talking,” Walters continues, her voice matter-of-fact. “And neither are the terrorists we apprehended in Finland. This lot’s showing discipline I’ve only seen in special forces. Something’s not right.”

“The demographics are peculiar too,” Pierce adds, the fluorescent lights catching the gray threading through his close-cropped hair. “One Russian, who appears to be simply a gun for hire. But then there’s a Cypriot. An Egyptian. The Australian pilot. No apparent ideological or national connection.”

“It’s not Islamic extremists?” I ask.

Pierce shakes his head. “They’ve never outsourced attacks before. There have been no claims of responsibility, no religious messaging.”

“Russian intelligence?” I try again. “They’ve got form for targeting British institutions.”

“Possibly,” Thornton acknowledges, “but why Matheson and Webley specifically? And why kidnap rather than kill? It doesn’t fit their usual operational patterns.”

Walters leans forward. “And we’ve run traces on all recovered equipment. No links to known state actors or terror groups.”

“What about home-grown radicals?” I ask.

Growing up in Belfast in the early 2000s, I’d seen what the dying embers of political violence looked like.

Thirty years of war between those who wanted a united Ireland and those loyal to Britain had officially ended, but peace was still learning how to breathe.

Older men in pubs still speaking in code, mothers who flinched at car backfires, the ghosts of bombs that never quite left the air.

“Home-grown radicals aren’t organized enough,” Walters says bluntly. “The groups we monitor couldn’t pull off something this coordinated without us catching chatter beforehand.”

“And we’ve got some other intel coming through to us that this group isn’t done yet, and that Paul wasn’t their only sleeper agent on the inside,” Thornton says, meeting my eyes directly.

And there it is. The reason I’m here.

“You think there are more infiltrators in RaSP,” I say.

It’s a scary thought. If even one member of RaSP is dirty, then every public figure in the United Kingdom is at risk.

“Yes, we suspect there are,” Thornton replies. “Which makes this situation dangerous. Paul Hargrove proves these people are patient. They’re willing to integrate themselves completely into the system, become trusted colleagues, even friends.”

“We can’t afford another security breach,” Pierce speaks up, his voice grave. “Not after Matheson-Webley. The public’s confidence in our ability to protect public figures is already fragile.”

“So what’s the plan?” I ask. “Investigate the entire Royal and Specialist Protection Command? That’s hundreds of officers.”

“We’re narrowing it down,” Thornton says. “Starting with the protection officers for the highest-value targets.”

He slides another photograph across the desk. I recognize this face immediately.

Prince Nicholas Alexander, the younger half-brother of the Prince of Wales. He’s the royal “spare,” elevated in the line of succession after a scandal in the royal family a few years ago reshuffled the deck.