his umbrella. "Where's your brolly? I was wishing I'd grabbed it as I left."
"Too bad you didn't. I cracked it over the git's head, and the umbrella is the only casualty. Bloke has got a skull like iron."
He slipped his phone into his pocket. I used the action to segue into a new avenue of pursuit. "So, you and your boss believe I'm your chief suspect, huh?"
"Just as I'm likely yours. But you're looking more innocent all the time."
"No one has said that about me in years."
"Undoubtedly."
"You either, I'll bet."
He offered a grunt in assent, adding, "I'll save my wagers for something a little more risky. When the payoffs are higher."
I wasn't sure how to interpret any of this in relation to our next move, so asked instead, "What do we do?"
His lips offered that slow, sexy smile he produced the first time we met, and he switched to the southern drawl. "Why, we go rogue, darlin'. Sooner the better I always say."
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CHAPTER NINE
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"I'm confused. You seem to have all the answers, and unless you're omnipotent, you must have quite a few people working on your behalf. Yet, you just told Cecil you need backup."
"One can always use more help in the field."
"But . . ."
"Yes?"
My eyes rolled for the second time in less than an hour. "Hawkes, you have to have your fair share of confederates."
"Ah, but they aren't Cecil-employed confederates."
"And that makes a difference?"
"Quite. To my bottom line at least, since my dosh pays for their help, and the recruiting along the way. Much like you and the pickpocket at Buckingham."
"I don't pay him, Hawkes."
"Again, you've forgotten to call me Jack."
"No, I don't think I did. I tend to shy away from becoming familiar with people who don't listen when I talk."
"I listen. You simply don't reveal anything important until I ask directly. So, how do you recruit help?"
I shrugged. "Charm, family ties, turning a blind eye when a certain pickpocket goes after a mark who just acted rudely."
"That's your criteria, eh? Any particular range of etiquette faux pas considered beyond rudeness?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes it's enough to be able to pretend to hold the act over someone's head."
"Nothing I've found on you suggests a dabble in blackmail."
"No, but I'm an expert at using guilt to get my way."
"Keep a bit to bargain with. Good to know."
"I'm sure you've never felt guilty in your life, Jack."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Remembering to call me Jack."
The cabbie turned his head in profile and said, "Looks like we've lost the bloke. Have a particular locale in mind, or should I just keep driving?"
Smash.
Bullets pounded a five-second staccato against the back window. We all dove to the floorboards, and the cab shuddered to a stop. Brakes squealed around us, and the buildings made the screams sound like we were in an echo chamber. Something big slammed the rear bumper. Another round of bullets gave me a fix on direction. "Out the door. Your side. Now!"
Jack's moves were smooth. Door open and outside in one fluid motion, he crouched and held out a hand to hustle me from the vehicle. He yelled to the cabbie, "Call nine-nine-nine."
We dove under a nearby lorry and rolled to the other side. I dragged the poor Prada along the asphalt, then slipped the scarred metal-looped leather strap over my head and anchored the bag halfway under my arm.
More gunfire. This time coming from ahead of us. Jack slammed against me, pushing my body flat and covering my back and head. The pitch of the cries rose. Obviously, the crowds weren't scaring the shooter.
"Brazen bugger," Jack whispered, his lips close to my ear.
My head was turned, one cheek against the roadway. I couldn't see him; his skull pushed at the back of mine, the lorry's fat tire keeping us hidden from the gunfire. I could smell his cologne over the trace petroleum aromas, probably mixed with a lot of testosterone and pheromones, too. I knew he wouldn't let me up until we had a plan of sorts. "Who do
"Too bad you didn't. I cracked it over the git's head, and the umbrella is the only casualty. Bloke has got a skull like iron."
He slipped his phone into his pocket. I used the action to segue into a new avenue of pursuit. "So, you and your boss believe I'm your chief suspect, huh?"
"Just as I'm likely yours. But you're looking more innocent all the time."
"No one has said that about me in years."
"Undoubtedly."
"You either, I'll bet."
He offered a grunt in assent, adding, "I'll save my wagers for something a little more risky. When the payoffs are higher."
I wasn't sure how to interpret any of this in relation to our next move, so asked instead, "What do we do?"
His lips offered that slow, sexy smile he produced the first time we met, and he switched to the southern drawl. "Why, we go rogue, darlin'. Sooner the better I always say."
Â
Â
Â
Â
Â
CHAPTER NINE
Â
"I'm confused. You seem to have all the answers, and unless you're omnipotent, you must have quite a few people working on your behalf. Yet, you just told Cecil you need backup."
"One can always use more help in the field."
"But . . ."
"Yes?"
My eyes rolled for the second time in less than an hour. "Hawkes, you have to have your fair share of confederates."
"Ah, but they aren't Cecil-employed confederates."
"And that makes a difference?"
"Quite. To my bottom line at least, since my dosh pays for their help, and the recruiting along the way. Much like you and the pickpocket at Buckingham."
"I don't pay him, Hawkes."
"Again, you've forgotten to call me Jack."
"No, I don't think I did. I tend to shy away from becoming familiar with people who don't listen when I talk."
"I listen. You simply don't reveal anything important until I ask directly. So, how do you recruit help?"
I shrugged. "Charm, family ties, turning a blind eye when a certain pickpocket goes after a mark who just acted rudely."
"That's your criteria, eh? Any particular range of etiquette faux pas considered beyond rudeness?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes it's enough to be able to pretend to hold the act over someone's head."
"Nothing I've found on you suggests a dabble in blackmail."
"No, but I'm an expert at using guilt to get my way."
"Keep a bit to bargain with. Good to know."
"I'm sure you've never felt guilty in your life, Jack."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Remembering to call me Jack."
The cabbie turned his head in profile and said, "Looks like we've lost the bloke. Have a particular locale in mind, or should I just keep driving?"
Smash.
Bullets pounded a five-second staccato against the back window. We all dove to the floorboards, and the cab shuddered to a stop. Brakes squealed around us, and the buildings made the screams sound like we were in an echo chamber. Something big slammed the rear bumper. Another round of bullets gave me a fix on direction. "Out the door. Your side. Now!"
Jack's moves were smooth. Door open and outside in one fluid motion, he crouched and held out a hand to hustle me from the vehicle. He yelled to the cabbie, "Call nine-nine-nine."
We dove under a nearby lorry and rolled to the other side. I dragged the poor Prada along the asphalt, then slipped the scarred metal-looped leather strap over my head and anchored the bag halfway under my arm.
More gunfire. This time coming from ahead of us. Jack slammed against me, pushing my body flat and covering my back and head. The pitch of the cries rose. Obviously, the crowds weren't scaring the shooter.
"Brazen bugger," Jack whispered, his lips close to my ear.
My head was turned, one cheek against the roadway. I couldn't see him; his skull pushed at the back of mine, the lorry's fat tire keeping us hidden from the gunfire. I could smell his cologne over the trace petroleum aromas, probably mixed with a lot of testosterone and pheromones, too. I knew he wouldn't let me up until we had a plan of sorts. "Who do
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