Page 50 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

He shifts to let another customer pass, and his shoulder brushes mine in the narrow aisle. Fuck, the contact is electric even through layers of terrible polyester before he steps away with studied casualness. But I catch the slight hitch in his breathing.

The whole thing’s done in less than three minutes. The wad of local currency I routinely keep in my boot when undercover finally proved useful.

Once we’re back outside, we head toward the lakefront, which is a watery playground with kayakers and paddleboarders close to the shore. Farther out, jet skis carve frothy white trails like angry wasps and small boats trail water-skiers behind them.

Tourists are thick on the ground, phones up like they’re at a feckin’ concert.

Perfect. Nothing hides a runaway prince like a mob of lobster-red tourists in shite hats. Nicholas seems to sense this too, his posture relaxing as we join the flow of human traffic along the waterfront.

The irony isn’t lost on me that Nicholas, who usually can’t step outside without triggering a media frenzy, is now hiding in plain sight precisely because no one expects to see royalty dressed in clothes that would make a charity shop think twice.

Nicholas sits on a bench, immediately engrossed in his new phone, while I hover, trying not to be conspicuous as I scan the surroundings for anything suspicious.

I force myself to maintain professional distance, watching as his fingers fly across the screen.

The afternoon sun lights his face, showing him brilliant and focused and so bloody beautiful.

He’s looking at the images with an expression I can’t quite read—part vindication, part dread, like someone who’s just discovered they were right about something they desperately wanted to be wrong about.

“What is it?”

“One of the terrorists at Hobbiton yelled something at me. It sounded like the word ‘Haki.’ Last year, I opened a legal aid youth clinic in Nairobi, and I’m pretty sure it was called Project Haki.”

“How is that relevant?”

“Haki means justice in Swahili,” he says quietly.

He glances up at me, his eyes the same vivid blue as the lake, before he’s back to scrolling.

“Did you pay any attention to the protest signs when we were in Australia? There was a word I saw on a few of them.” He zooms in on a photo, which clearly shows a placard with the words Makarrata Now .

“Apparently makarrata means a coming together after a struggle, a process of truth-telling, conflict resolution, and justice,” he says quietly. “And in the signs from the protests against the monarchy in Auckland, there was a word that kept recurring. Tika. I’m willing to bet…”

The search takes seconds but feels longer, Nicholas’s breathing shallow as he scrolls through results. Then he goes absolutely still, his expression hardening into something between triumph and horror.

“Tika means justice.”

There’s a flush high on his cheekbones as he looks up at me. “Scotland Yard has been treating them as two separate threats, haven’t they?”

He’s right.

We’ve been treating the shadowy threat that followed Nicholas from Britain, the one that seemed to be targeting British institutions, and the activism against the crown from Indigenous people in Australia and New Zealand as two separate threats to Nicholas’s safety.

But what if they were one and the same?

“Those nationalities you gave me of the people who have been involved in the incidents so far were all from former colonies. And the history of colonialism isn’t exactly great, is it? Lots of atrocities were committed against Indigenous people.”

“I’m a Catholic from Northern Ireland, Nicholas. You don’t have to explain this to me. The Irish are very well acquainted with oppression by the English.”

“Yes, I believe you are.” His voice is still quiet.

“But it doesn’t make any sense. It might be why they are targeting you, but it doesn’t explain the link to Harry Matheson and Toby Webley’s kidnapping.”

There’s something not clicking. I pace in circles on the grass, trying to get my thoughts in order.

Colonialism. Justice.

Harry Matheson and Toby Webley. Two politicians.

Prince Nicholas. A member of the royal family.

He’s definitely linked to the atrocities of colonialism.

His ancestors literally signed every treaty that dispossessed Indigenous peoples.

But what link would Harry Matheson and Toby Webley have?

Besides the fact that they are politicians, members of the British government.

But it’s not as if modern politicians bear direct responsibility or are still benefiting from the injustice.

Unless it’s simply because they represent the British government.

“Are you planning to tell me what you’re thinking, or are we going to attempt charades?” Nicholas asks.

“I’m just trying to work out the connection between the Matheson-Webley kidnapping and you as a target. Aside from you representing two British institutions that were involved in colonialism.”

Nicholas tilts his head slightly, studying me with those sharp blue eyes like I’m a particularly dense student. “You’re ignoring the other obvious connection.”

“What connection?”

“Well, Matheson’s protection officer was the inside agent, wasn’t he? So you should be looking at what connection lies between Harry Matheson and me.”

My brow furrows. I’m still not seeing the link.

“Harry Matheson is a member of the aristocracy. He renounced his earldom so he could stand for Parliament.”

I stop still.

The aristocracy.

Prince Callum is the child of Prince Michael and an American actress. While his half-brother, Prince Nicholas, is the product of Prince Michael and a duchess. Nicholas’s mother is a member of the Preston-Alexanders, one of the oldest aristocratic families in Britain.

Blue blood on both sides of his family.

Nicholas is still staring at me.

“Who benefited the most from the exploitation of the colonies? It was the aristocracy in Britain, wasn’t it?

Oliver just told me a few weeks ago how there is a movement in the Caribbean for recompensation for the descendants of enslaved people.

Apparently, when we abolished slavery, the British government compensated the enslavers, and didn’t finish paying off that debt until 2015.

But they’ve never given anything to the actual enslaved people nor their descendants. ”

Nicholas’s words land like a punch to my gut.

Didn’t I know firsthand how the British aristocracy had exploited people in the lands they controlled?

The aristocracy of Britain, who got rich on the blood of the colonies, still have that wealth today.

Country estates built on sugar plantation profits, art collections purchased with opium money, family fortunes that trace back to slave ships and stolen diamonds.

Every pound in their trust funds drips with someone else’s suffering.

Their children still attend Eton on endowments funded by historical atrocities, while most of the descendants of the exploited scrape by in poverty.

Nicholas is standing now too, like he needs to move to process the weight of his own realization. He’s pacing in tight circles that make his ridiculous T-shirt billow around him.

“So basically, what you had was a small group of people in England profiting from the misery and exploitation of millions of people around the world,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And the descendants of the people exploited by colonialism are now starting to go, ‘Hang on a sec, how is it that you, as a descendant of someone who committed atrocities, are living in luxury while we are still dealing with the generational trauma and poverty your ancestors created?’”

“I think that’s essentially it in a nutshell, yes,” I say.

“And I’m a living embodiment of the aristocracy, being descended from the royal family on one side, and one of the oldest noble families in England on the other.”

My eyes don’t leave his. “Yes, you are.”

The words come out rougher than I intended, caught somewhere between professional assessment and something far more dangerous. It’s my acknowledgment that I know exactly who this man is, what his bloodline represents, and yet I still want him with every cell in my body.

His eyes darken at my tone before he looks away.

“So they are trying to kidnap me to raise the world’s attention to their cause of demanding justice. They tried first with Harry Matheson, and now they’re trying to kidnap me. Nothing will get people’s attention quite like a royal ransom demand.”

“I think you might be right,” I say.

“Well, look at that, it appears I might be more than just a pretty face.”

“I need to talk to Scotland Yard,” I say abruptly.

If Nicholas is correct, it explains so much.

The multinational origin of the threats.

Operatives recruited from countries historically exploited by the British Empire.

Former colonial people seeking justice, not through political channels, but through direct action against those who are still benefiting from centuries of theft and subjugation.

It’s not random terrorism.

It’s calculated retribution.

I retrieve the satellite phone from the pocket of my shorts with trembling fingers, my mind racing with the implications.

If Nicholas is right about this, we’ll need every resource Scotland Yard can muster.

The connection takes longer than it should, each electronic chirp stretching my nerves tighter. When it finally connects, I’m surprised to hear not Thornton’s clipped tones but the familiar voice of Colin Pierce.

“Pierce,” I say, relief hitting me like a double Jameson. “Thank Christ it’s you. Where are you?”

“O’Connell.” His voice comes through with that familiar mix of Barbadian roots and Cambridge precision. “I’m currently in Singapore, about to board my next flight. Report your status.”

I glance at Nicholas, who’s watching me closely. “Sir, we’ve identified a potential motive pattern. The Prince noticed something a terrorist said to him at Hobbiton that matches words used on protest signs. All words for justice in former colonial languages.”

“That’s an interesting observation. But how does this connect to Matheson-Webley?”

“The aristocracy. They’re targeting representatives of institutions that benefited from colonialism. The monarchy, obviously, but Matheson is from old money, aristocratic connections even though he renounced his title?—”

“And you believe the sleeper agent is…?”

My jaw clenches. “I still don’t know, but based on this theory, Singh seems most likely, sir. His family background has connections to several former colonial territories. He disappeared just before the explosion at Hobbiton.”

“What’s your location, O’Connell?” Pierce’s voice is suddenly sharper.

“Taupō. Lakeside. We’ve changed vehicles twice.”

“Good. And the rest of the protection team?”

“Completely separated. No contact since Hobbiton. I didn’t trust anyone after?—”

“And the Prince is secure? With you now?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve got him.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make the hair on my neck stand up. Something in Pierce’s breathing pattern shifts, almost imperceptible through the satellite connection, but I catch it immediately.

“Well done, Officer O’Connell. You have gone above and beyond what we expected, and you have made everything so much easier.”

My forehead crumples. “Easier?”

“People like you, people with principles, have the easiest behavior to predict. Your moral code forces you down predictable paths.”

My mind swirls. It feels like we’re having a parallel conversation.

“Sir?” I say.

“Your brother Malachy will be able to explain things further. He asked me to remind you of your father’s favorite saying—something about family standing together? Whatever it was, I found it poignant.”

The ground tilts beneath my feet, reality splintering like ice cracking on a frozen lake. My brother’s name in Pierce’s mouth feels like a blade between my ribs.

“You’ve got Malachy?” I manage to say.

Nicholas must sense something is off from my body language. Because he’s staring at me, suddenly alert, all traces of his earlier sardonic humor vanished. He takes a half-step closer.

But I can’t think about Nicholas now.

Pierce has arranged for someone to kidnap Malachy?

Everything goes sideways in my head. I see it with horrific clarity—Malachy’s flat door splintering open, his wheelchair catching on the threshold as he tries to escape, his strong arms pushing frantically at the wheels.

The basketball trophies on his shelf crashing to the floor as he’s surrounded.

His face, so like mine but sharper, contorting with the same rage that got him into countless schoolyard scraps before the accident. Fighting until they overpower him.

My free hand clenches so hard the knuckles crack audibly. My mouth fills with the taste of blood. I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it.

The world narrows to a pinprick of fury so intense it feels like my skull might fracture from the pressure.

“Oh no, Eoin, you seem to be under the illusion that we are the bad guys. Malachy is one of us. He is the one who suggested you for this job.”

My head spins.

“That’s not possible,” I rasp, but even as the denial leaves my lips, threads I never connected weave into a horrifying tapestry.

My selection for this assignment, when others had more experience in aristocratic circles. The way I’d been positioned as the outsider on the team, isolated and suspicious of everyone.

And even further back, Pierce recruiting me from Belfast, mentoring me through the ranks, knowing every detail of my background, my motivations, my pressure points.

And Malachy—my brother with the revolutionary streak, always angrier than me about the tenement collapse, about the English aristocratic landlord who walked away without consequences while he lost the use of his legs.

The brother who pushed me to leave Ireland and join Scotland Yard.

I glance at Nicholas, who’s watching me with growing alarm, and the last piece slots home like a bullet in a chamber.

I was never hunting a traitor. I was being maneuvered, step by calculated step, into becoming one.

The satellite phone slips from my hand as the truth hits me like a sledgehammer.

I was the sleeper agent planted in Nicholas’s protection team to act when needed.

And I did my job.

Because I have just kidnapped Prince Nicholas.