Page 20 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twelve

Eoin

The heart of Australia is red. Red desert sprawling in every direction under a sky so fierce it makes your eyes water just looking at it. The heat hits you like a fist, making you understand why the early European explorers dropped like flies trying to cross this place.

We flew into Alice Springs last night. It’s a town that shouldn’t exist, planted in the dead center of nowhere. Forty degrees in the shade, and the locals carry on like it’s nothing.

“So, apparently, the royal advisors decided scheduling a stop in the hottest part of Australia in the middle of summer would be a good idea,” Singh drawls.

“I’ve never had to factor in the probability of spontaneous combustion as a security risk before,” Malcolm says seriously. “I’ve calculated the probability of a protection officer suffering heat stroke is thirty-four point two percent.”

We’re having a security briefing in the hotel conference room. The air conditioning deserves a royal commendation as it battles valiantly against the furnace outside.

Through the window, I see protesters gathering outside the hotel entrance.

Their numbers have swelled since morning—at least fifty now, with handmade signs bobbing above the crowd.

NOT MY QUEEN and NO CROWN ON STOLEN LAND visible even from this distance.

Local police keep them behind barricades, but we can still hear their chants.

What does Nicholas think when he sees those signs? I think of what he said to me in the car after I was pelleted by the protester. “ Does your security training include giving tactical advice on people who rightfully hate you because your ancestors stole their land? ”

There had been the usual snark to his tone, but there had definitely been another element in his voice.

Does his selfishness just contain the occasional bout of empathy, like I saw with the injured koala? There’s definitely recklessness mixed in there, too, as I saw with the stingray incident. And arrogance…

“You with us, O’Connell?” Cavendish asks.

Fuck.

All eyes of the security team are on me.

“Yeah, I’m with you,” I say gruffly.

Christ, I’m doing it again. Analyzing Prince Nicholas’s moods like they matter to me.

Like I give a damn whether his selfishness has layers, whether that arrogance masks something else. My job is to keep him breathing, to work out the threat against him, not to understand him.

Cavendish unfolds a map on the table. “Let’s review the Carols by Candlelight setup. Davis, what’s our latest on perimeter security?”

Davis flips through his notes. “Local authorities have confirmed additional patrols around the exterior. All access points will be monitored.”

“We need spotters on the rooftops too,” Cavendish says.

I study the layout. We’re facing dual threats here—some shadow group that’s been going after British targets, plus the locals who’d rather see us piss off back to England.

And that’s just the visible threat.

Throw in a prince who treats his own safety like it’s optional and the fact that one of us might be a traitor, and yeah, it’s no wonder I’m wound tighter than a spring.

My check-in call with Pierce this morning didn’t go well. He’d sounded frustrated when I admitted I still had no solid leads on the sleeper agents.

“These people are closing in, O’Connell,” he’d said. “Intelligence shows increased activity, the same coded phrases appearing in intercepted messages, and unusual money movements. You need to find any potential sleeper agents before the prince pays the price for our failure.”

I scan the faces of my team now, searching for tells—a nervous tic, the telltale bulge of a second phone, asking too many questions about schedule changes.

I’d tossed their hotel rooms in Cairns while they were on shift, and had found nothing more incriminating than Davis’s alarming collection of protein powder, Cavendish’s extensive collection of crossword puzzle books, and a bottle of massage oil in Singh’s room labeled For Professional Use Only that I decided not to think too hard about.

If one of them is compromised, they’re hiding it well.

“The Flying Doctors fundraiser is this afternoon.” Blake taps her pen against the venue blueprint. “There are five potential entry points. How do you want to handle that, Rick?”

Cavendish scratches his chin. “We’ll need to lock down the secondary entrances. Too many variables otherwise.”

“Civilian medical staff will need access,” Malcolm points out without looking up from his laptop. “And there’s a helicopter landing demonstration scheduled.”

“I’m coordinating with the pilot about approach vectors,” Davis says.

Cavendish glances at his watch. “His Royal Highness needs to leave for breakfast with the mayor in five minutes. Singh, MacLeod, you’re on first rotation with the Prince. The rest of you, finish mapping alternative extraction points for tomorrow night’s event. I want options if things go sideways.”

After the meeting is over, I head back up to my room.

I’m off duty until this afternoon, so I should be catching up on sleep or reviewing security protocols.

But instead, I pace the limited floor space of my hotel room, cataloging every interaction I’ve had with the team, trying to work out if there is anything I’ve missed.

Then my mind drifts to thinking about how Prince Nicholas looked when he took off his wetsuit yesterday, all lean muscle and smooth skin. Water droplets trailing down his chest, the way the neoprene peeled away to reveal?—

Fuck. That thought has no business being in my head.

It’s a much better idea to think about who might be trying to kill him.

I shake my head hard enough to rattle whatever loose screws are clearly bouncing around in there.

Might as well call Malachy and check in.

At least I don’t have to conceal who I’m protecting from Malachy anymore. After the incident at Sydney airport, I received a message from him with a link to a video clip showing me shielding Prince Nicholas, along with the message:

Well, fuck me sideways, my brother’s babysitting royalty. Does this mean you have to curtsy now?

Initially, it had worried me because I’m used to being deep undercover. But apparently, when you’re guarding a public figure, there’s no way to avoid people finding out your job.

Setting up my personal phone on the desk, I initiate the FaceTime call, absently running a hand through my hair while waiting for the connection.

“Well, if it isn’t my big brother in the Land Down Under,” Malachy says as his face fills the screen. “How’s life guarding the fancy royal arse?”

What the hell do I say to that? “It’s…interesting. Challenging.”

“When do I get my My Brother Guards Rich Arseholes T-shirt? I want it in green?”

“Very funny.”

“Where are you now?”

“Alice Springs. It’s right in the middle of Australia.” I turn the phone toward the window to capture the expanse of red dirt stretching to the horizon.

“Jaysus, Eoin,” Malachy breathes. “That’s something else.”

“It is.” I turn the camera back to my face. “How are things at home?”

“Same old. Work, physio, trying to beat my personal best at getting up that bloody ramp at the community center.” He shrugs. “Nothing as exciting as your five-star hotels and private jets.”

That old guilt sits in my gut like a stone. It should have been me. That thought has haunted me for twelve years, ever since the day the tenement collapsed. If I’d been home instead of Malachy, if I’d been the one caught under the falling debris…

But it wasn’t me. It was my younger brother.

“You still there? Or has all that sunshine fried your brain?” Malachy’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“There wasn’t much there to fry in the first place,” I say. “How’s the new basketball league going?”

His face brightens. “It’s going grand. We destroyed the Belfast Tigers last weekend. Should’ve seen me—scored more points than the rest of the team combined.”

“Always were a show off,” I say, smiling despite myself.

“Someone had to make up for your complete lack of personality.” His grin softens to something more serious. “You look tired, Eoin. Everything all right with the job?”

I hesitate. “It’s fine. Complicated.” I angle the phone slightly so he can see the protesters in the distance. “We’re dealing with a lot of anti-monarchy protests on this tour, which makes security more challenging.”

Malachy squints at the screen. “Good for them. Perhaps people are tired of seeing smiling royals while their communities starve.” His voice has that edge it gets when discussing politics.

“Yeah, well, it’s complicated,” I repeat, not wanting to get into it all. Malachy has every right to his anti-establishment views. The system failed us spectacularly, after all.

“Anyway, how’s work going?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Subtle, Eoin. Very subtle.”

The rest of our conversation drifts to safer topics: Aunt Siobhan’s latest attempt to set him up with her book club friend, Malachy’s ongoing feud with his upstairs neighbor, who apparently practices Irish step dancing at midnight. By the time we hang up, the knot in my chest has loosened slightly.

I find myself staring at the blank screen of my phone. Malachy never complains. Not about the pain that still plagues him, not about the dreams he had to abandon. His lack of complaints just makes my guilt heavier.

I channel that guilt into being the best police officer I can be. Trying to get justice for other people. Trying to hold people who do bad things accountable.

It’s the only thing I can do.

That afternoon, the sun beats down with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me wonder if Australia has a secret agenda to cook us all for Christmas dinner. Even the locals look uncomfortable as they mill around the makeshift arena where the Flying Doctors fundraiser is underway.

The main attraction of the afternoon is about to begin—an annual tradition called the Christmas Camel Parade, where decorated camels are presented for judging by this year’s celebrity judge, Prince Nicholas.