Page 49 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)
Chapter Thirty
Eoin
The stolen Toyota smells like pine air freshener and takeaway coffee.
My foot hits the accelerator. Terrorists are hunting us. I need to keep Nicholas safe.
I deliberately don’t look at him. I want to give him space to process everything without having to pretend composure for my benefit. Christ knows he’s had enough people forcing him to wear masks.
When he does finally speak again, his voice is controlled, deliberate—the prince back in full command of himself.
“So, anyway, do the brilliant minds in Scotland Yard actually have any idea which particular brand of terrorists is hunting me? Do we know why I’ve pissed them off so much that they’re going to all this trouble to target me?”
I hesitate, and Nicholas turns those icy eyes on me.
“Bloody hell, Eoin, you’re still not trying to keep things from me, are you?
Surely at some point you’ll realize that honesty might actually be helpful in this scenario?
Or do I need to be promoted to a higher security clearance first? Offer another royal favor?”
Nicholas is right.
Why do I have the natural impulse to shield him from the worst of it, even now? It’s not protocol, it’s something deeper, more instinctive.
I want to protect him from the ugliness of this world.
I’ve always been the caretaker in my family. Even before Malachy was injured, I had to take care of him, my little brother who got himself in trouble with his smart mouth.
But Nicholas wants to be an equal partner in this.
I’ve always worked best alone. It’s part of what attracted me to undercover work.
In Northern Ireland’s police force, then Scotland Yard, I earned a reputation: the lone wolf who delivers results.
Partners are variables I can’t control. I trust my instincts, my training, my ability to adapt on the fly.
No one to coordinate with, no one to compromise for, no one to protect except the mission objective.
It’s served me well, kept me alive through operations that claimed better men than me.
But now, with Nicholas—with this impossible, infuriating man—I’m floundering.
Because for the first time, the mission and the man have become hopelessly, catastrophically entangled.
“We still don’t know who is targeting you,” I admit. “This group doesn’t follow the usual pattern we see with terrorist groups.”
“What’s different about it?”
“There are no obvious links between any of the suspects we’ve apprehended to suggest a common motive.”
“So it’s definitely not just home-grown anti-colonial activists who are trying to disrupt the royal tour?”
“No. The nationalities are far too diverse for local terrorists. We believe it’s connected to the Matheson-Webley kidnapping. Someone is trying to disrupt the United Kingdom’s institutions. And we don’t understand why they have targeted you rather than the Prince of Wales.”
“Well, isn’t this a lovely thing to contemplate? I suppose I should be grateful the spare isn’t getting brushed over in this instance.”
“God knows if they did manage to kidnap you, after a week of enduring your wit, they’d probably pay us to take you back,” I say.
“They’d likely release me with a formal apology and a request for trauma counseling for their own men,” Nicholas says, a small smirk twisting his lips.
The flash of his self-deprecating humor makes me want to touch him. I manage to restrain myself because I’m fairly sure that my touch isn’t what Nicholas wants right now.
“So, is ransom the motive? I mean, if they are not trying to kill me, what do they want with me?” he asks.
“We have no idea.”
He slides a look at me. “Doesn’t Scotland Yard have some of the brightest minds working on this? Or have they been too busy teaching their agents the fine art of royal seduction?”
“And that’s yet another jab I’m ignoring,” I say.
“Well, if you’re not going to engage in any witty repartee, then I guess I’ll have to turn my full intellect to figuring out what Scotland Yard has failed to.”
“Grand. While you’re at it, maybe you can figure out which member of your security detail wants you dead. Save me the trouble.”
The words come out slightly bitter. I still don’t like the fact that I’ve failed in my assignment.
“I’ll endeavor to do my best,” Nicholas replies.
He falls silent, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the windshield, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his thigh.
I keep my eyes on the road, but can’t help stealing glances at him every few seconds, watching the subtle shifts in his expression. His brow furrows, then relaxes, then furrows again. Those elegant fingers are still drumming. Then they stop abruptly, and he sits up straighter.
“You said the nationalities are diverse. What exactly does that mean?”
“There was a Russian, an Egyptian, a Cypriot, and an Australian apprehended from the Matheson-Webley kidnapping, although we believe the Russian was just a hired mercenary. In the Darwin attempt, the nationalities were Malaysian, Canadian, Bangladeshi, and South African. All are former military or special forces. All clean records previously. We can’t work out any shared ideology or common cause. ”
Nicholas’s reaction to my words is to slide his phone out of his pocket. But I reach over to grab his hand.
“Don’t go online. If the traitor isn’t exposed yet, they might have access to the authority’s data and will be able to immediately triangulate our position.”
Nicholas snatches his hand away from mine like I’ve scorched him.
My hand hovers stupidly in the air for a second before I force it back to the steering wheel.
He swallows, then straightens his shoulders.
“I need to research something. Can we get a burner phone in the next town?”
I hesitate. “It’s risky. It means potentially being captured on CCTV footage.”
“I think it’s a risk we need to take. If anything, it will give us another communication line if we get separated.”
My stomach lurches at the idea of being separated from Nicholas, leaving him all alone, exposed.
“Are you going to tell me what you want to research?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Nicholas,” I say in a warning voice.
“I know. I know. Imagine someone keeping secrets from you. It must be so frustrating.”
Our eyes meet for a second, and the intensity there reminds me of the way he looked at me last night.
I force my gaze back to the road.
My mind races through all the implications of stopping to get a burner phone. Now that we’ve put an hour and a half between us and Nicholas’s potential kidnappers, and have changed cars, I’m feeling slightly more secure.
I need to contact Scotland Yard again, hope that Thornton has an update about an extraction plan.
And Nicholas is right, burner phones would be useful. Just in case we are separated.
Luckily, we appear to be reaching the outskirts of another town.
Taupō.
Which turns out to be a town on an enormous lake that stretches far into the distance, three volcanoes looming at the other end like slumbering giants.
We park in a car park for the visitor center.
“‘We need to blend in,’ I say, popping the trunk to see what our involuntary donors have left us.
We find a collection of aggressively casual tourist wear that screams “middle-aged American on holiday.” I toss Nicholas a brand new cap with Rotorua emblazoned across the front, a violently yellow T-shirt featuring a cartoon kiwi bird, and cargo shorts that have seen better days.
“Your royal wardrobe,” I say while pulling out an oversized Hawaiian shirt with pineapples. The shirt stretches tight across my shoulders as I button it over my gun holster.
Nicholas holds the T-shirt I gave him between two fingers like it might bite him. “The monarchy has survived plagues, wars, and several constitutional crises, only for me to face its greatest threat yet—polyester blend leisurewear.”
“We need to blend in.”
Nicholas reluctantly ducks into the car and emerges a few minutes later. The royal prince has disappeared, replaced by a disheveled tourist with a T-shirt that hangs loosely on his frame and cargo shorts secured with what appears to be a braided belt adorned with wooden beads.
“I look like I collect refrigerator magnets and argue with tour guides about historical accuracy,” he says, adjusting the baseball cap over his dark hair.
“You look fine,” I reply.
Nicholas scans me up and down, his lip curled in distaste.
“Of all the crimes we’re committing today, I think our crime against fashion might be the most unforgivable.”
I can’t help snorting. Nicholas freezes, those blue eyes widening as if my laughter is some rare, endangered sound he wasn’t expecting to encounter in the wild.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. His T-shirt collar is slightly off-kilter, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and fix it, to let my fingers linger against his skin like they did last night in Auckland—Christ, was that only last night?
“We need to find a shop that sells phones.” Nicholas looks away.
I swallow hard. “It looks like the main town is that way. Keep your cap pulled low over your face.”
The electronics shop sits on a corner, its windows plastered with adverts for broadband deals and tourist SIM cards. I hesitate at the entrance, clocking three security cameras—one above the door, one behind the counter, one monitoring the back wall of phones. Unavoidable.
“Walk normally but keep your face angled away from the cameras,” I instruct Nicholas in a low voice. “Touch your nose frequently. It’ll disrupt facial recognition. And don’t speak.”
Inside, the air conditioning hits us like a wall of arctic air after the warmth outside.
I select two basic phones while Nicholas hovers nearby, studying a display of phone cases with exaggerated interest. His fingers periodically rise to his face in a gesture that would look natural to anyone not specifically watching for it.