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“I cannot make—”
The old woman had already hung up. Lorelei glared at the phone. She turned to her computer and quickly read through the log of that day’s reports from in and around Sussex. One was flagged for further review and possible action needed. Usually that meant tipping off the police to something their network had been able to spot that the police never would.
She pinged the phone of the asset who’d sent in the report. A moment later, her phone rang. She answered without saying anything.
“Ms. Madden? It’s James Shepherd.”
“Mr. Shepherd.” Lorelei waited for him to get to the point. He had to know why she was calling. She found unnecessary conversation to be a waste of time, and disliked small talk—and after that conversation with Jane Dell, she was more irritated than usual.
“My report was about a disturbance at Hilltop Cottage.”
“What sort of disturbance?”
“There was a man standing on the lawn holding a large gun threatening to shoot two people.”
Lorelei’s lips thinned. She tapped a few more keys, pulling up a highly encrypted program. Even she, with her excellent memory, had to keep notes. At any one time, she was overseeing a dozen crises, projects, and investigations. She opened the file called “Hilltop Cottage” and refreshed her memory.
Mr. Shepherd knew better than to fill the line with chatter and annoy her.
Her eyes narrowed as she skimmed her terse notes, written in a shorthand code only she could read.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mr. Shepherd may have said something—goodbye or other such niceties that Lorelei found unnecessary—but she’d already ended the call, and immediately started dialing again.
The phone rang twice before it was answered. “Knight.”
“Tristan.” It was an acknowledgment of his identity more than a greeting. Lorelei didn’t bother to identify herself.
“Hello, Lore—”
“You need to control your American.”
A beat of silence.
“Is there a problem?” Knight’s tone remained cool, almost bored.
“He was spotted threatening two people with a gun, in broad daylight. He’s your responsibility.”
“Bloody fuck,” Tristan muttered.
“And he may have taken an asset of ours.”
“Bloody fucking wanker. I’ll take care of it.”
Lorelei grunted in satisfaction when the line went dead. It was a pleasure dealing with other people who didn’t waste time.
She made a mental note to follow up on the situation with their American refugee in a few hours. She looked at the clock. Or in the morning.
Lorelei stood, stretched, and headed for her bedroom, where she changed into pajamas and got into bed with her computer. Work never stopped. She put the situation in Sussex out of her mind until the morning. Until then, there were other, far more serious issues to be addressed.
Wes angled his body as he came down the stairs so his good, left side descended first. After all these years, he’d gotten used to having only one eye. He was, quite literally, blind on his right side, so though he was right-handed, he’d learned to lead with his left side. He still had to shoot with his right hand, so he held the bag of dinner in his left, leaving his other hand free to grab the handgun tucked into the back of his waistband.
It was full night, long past dinner, and the food had grown cold by the time he’d gotten back from the only take-away in a twenty-mile radius that was open this late, but he’d done the best he could. It had been hours since he’d brought them fish and chips, and he wanted to make sure Rose ate again.
Marek stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing only an undershirt.
What the fuck? Why had he gotten undressed?
