Chapter 36

Steven sat forward in the backseat of Morrison’s SUV when Rusty Parker’s front door opened. A whole horde of people piled down the front steps. Seven, to be precise. He couldn’t help but notice they were all dressed for traveling. Parkas, rucksacks, an air of furtiveness and impatience hanging around them.

Bloody hell. He glanced at the glowing green clock numbers on the console and grimaced. His backup wasn’t due to arrive for another twenty minutes.

“Who is the new bloke, do you suppose?” Morrison frowned as the group gathered on the sidewalk beside Rusty’s monstrous, king-cab pickup truck.

The streetlight cast the crew in an odd glow. It created sinister shadows and made them look more menacing than they really were. Then again, perhaps they looked exactly as menacing as they really were. Christian Watson numbered among them, after all.

“Another operative, if the economical way he moves and the covert way he catalogs his surroundings is any indication,” Steven answered, eyeing the dark-haired gent who had entered the house not five minutes prior. Then Steven’s attention returned to Watson. He had not told Morrison about the famous SAS officer. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because to admit that the great Christian Watson was on the premises would highlight just how far Steven himself had fallen.

“Economical way he moves. Catalogs his surroundings.” Morrison parroted Steven’s words, flashing his shark teeth. “Oh, how very droll. I do so love the way you clandestine types speak. It’s all so…shaken, not stirred.”

Steven was glad one of them was having a good time.

On second thought, no, he wasn’t. He was annoyed that Morrison wasn’t taking this more seriously. After all, weren’t both their arses on the buggering line?

“Oh, sodding hell,” he hissed when five of the seven piled into the pickup truck. The other two, Chelsea Duvall and the big bearded bloke, set off down the lane.

“Who should we follow?” Morrison asked.

“Both.” Steven checked the clip on his SIG Sauer P230, the same make and model he had used while with the SAS. “You and Ramón will follow those in the truck. I will follow Chelsea and her hairy companion.”

“Not bloody likely,” Morrison growled.

“Pardon?”

“I told you. Chelsea Duvall wormed her way into my life and my home. She planted some insidious virus onto my computer to try to bring me down. I want to be there when that cunt is brought in.”

“Sir—”

“Don’t sir me.” Morrison’s usually pale face was livid. “Give me your spare weapon. I know you carry one.”

Steven wanted to argue, but Morrison’s mulish expression told him he wouldn’t win. To save time, he took his Ruger LCR from the holster on his ankle. But before he handed it to Morrison, he narrowed his eyes. “You do know how to handle this, yeah?”

“Oh, piss off.” Morrison snatched the gun from Steven’s hand. “I was taking shooting lessons while you were still wetting your nappies. Don’t let the luxury condos and sports cars fool you. A man doesn’t get to where I am without knowing how to protect himself.”

Steven clenched his jaw. “Remember there are only six rounds in the cylinder.”

“If it comes to that,” the old man sniffed, “six rounds are more than I will need.”

Now that made Steven decidedly uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say he was now decidedly more uncomfortable, because he was always uncomfortable around Morrison, given the man’s…predilections.

“It shouldn’t come to that,” Steven stressed. “Remember, we need Chelsea alive. She might not have the drive on her person, which means we need to be able to interrogate her to find out where it is.”

The roar of the engine on Rusty’s ridiculous vehicle had Steven glancing at Ramón. “Follow them,” he instructed. “Then text us their whereabouts.”

Ramón glanced at Morrison in the rearview mirror, waiting for permission to follow Steven’s order. When Morrison nodded regally, Steven hoped neither man could hear his back molars creak.

As they waited for Rusty and the others to drive by, Steven kept an eye on Chelsea’s progress. She and her companion turned southwest on a road that led to only one place. Back to the beach.

“I’ll trail behind them,” he told Morrison. “You circle the block and stay to the west of them. Once we have them boxed in, we can both advance with our weapons drawn. But no shooting to kill,” he felt compelled to stress. “Not unless absolutely necessary.”

Morrison just glared at him.

“Here.” He took the borrowed cellular phone from his trouser pocket and dialed Morrison’s mobile number. “We’ll leave the line open and communicate that way.”

Morrison’s phone buzzed. The old man thumbed it on before depositing it into the pocket of his leather jacket. When Ramón cleared his throat—did the man never speak?—Steven realized the pickup truck was pulling out of sight.

“Right.” He nodded to Morrison. “Ready?”

“Please.” Morrison snorted. Steven knew what the evil old twonker was going to say before he said it. “I was born ready.”

It took some effort, but Steven managed to keep the disgust from his face as he pushed from the vehicle into the chilly night. Morrison followed him out and, without a backward glance, started up the block. Steven watched him go, feeling a strange sense of foreboding. Or is that doom? Then he turned and headed after his quarry, desperately missing the backup he had been promised.