The King's Deception

“I’m fifteen,” he said to her. “I’m not a kid. I’m entitled to know it all. If you can’t tell me where I came from, then you and I have a problem.”

“So you’re going to leave and live in Denmark?” she asked.

He decided to cut her no slack. “I might just do that.”

She stared at him through her tears. “I realize I messed up, Gary. It’s my fault. I take the blame.”

He wasn’t interested in blame. Only in ending the uncertainty that seemed to grow inside him by the day. He didn’t want to resent her — he loved her, she was his mother — but she wasn’t making this easy.

“Spend some time with your dad,” she said, swiping away the tears. “Enjoy yourself.”

That he would.

He was tired of fighting.

His parents divorced over a year ago, right before his dad quit the Justice Department and moved overseas. Since then his mother had dated some, but not much. He’d always wondered why not more. But that was not a subject he was comfortable talking about with her.

Seemed her business, not his.

They lived in a nice house in a good neighborhood. He attended an excellent school. His grades were not extraordinary but above average. He played baseball and basketball. He hadn’t tried a cigarette or any drugs, though opportunities for both had come his way. He’d tasted beer, wine, and some hard liquor but wasn’t sure he liked any of them.

He was a good kid.

At least he thought so.

So why was he so mad?

He was now lying on a sofa, hands tied behind his back, head sheathed in the wool cap, only his mouth exposed. The drive in the Mercedes had taken about thirty minutes. He’d been warned that if he made a sound they would gag him.

So he stayed still.

Which helped his nerves.

He heard movement, but no voices, only the faint sound of chimes in the distance. Then someone came close and sat nearby. He heard a crackle, like plastic being torn, then the sound of chewing.

He was a little hungry himself.

A smell caught his nostrils. Licorice. One of his favorites.

“You got any more of that?” he asked.

“Shut up, kid. You’re lucky to even still be alive.”

Seven

Malone awoke with a pounding headache. What was supposed to have been a simple favor had evolved into a major problem.

He blinked his eyes and focused.

His fingers found dried blood and a nasty knot to his forehead. His neck was sore from Devene’s attack. His and Gary’s travel bags were opened, their clothes strewn across the mews, the plastic bag containing Ian’s personal items still there, its contents scattered about.

He pushed himself up, his legs stiff and tired.

Where was Gary?

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure they found Ian Dunne. Even more troubling was the reach of the information network possessed by whoever they were. Somebody in an official position had given Customs clearance to allow Ian into the country. Granted, Norse and his pal were imposters, but the person or persons who’d managed to bypass Britain’s passport laws were the genuine article.

Norse had demanded a flash drive from Ian.

He had to find Gary. He’d told the boys to run. Hopefully, they were nearby, waiting until all was clear to return.

But where were they?

He checked his watch. Best he could tell he’d been down about twenty minutes. He spotted his cell phone among his clothes. Should he call the police? Or maybe Stephanie Nelle at the Magellan Billet? No. This was his problem. One call he would not be making was to Pam. The last thing he needed was for his ex-wife to know about this. Bad enough that he once risked his own ass on a daily basis.

But to involve Gary?

That would be unforgivable.

He surveyed the mews, noting yard equipment, a couple of gas cans, and a tool bench. Rain fell beyond the open doorway. He stared out to the wet drive that led to the tree-lined side street, expecting to see both boys appear.

He should gather his clothes.

The Metropolitan Police would have to be involved.

That was the smart play.

A noise caught his attention, at the hedges separating the mews from the property next door.

Somebody was pushing through.

The boys?

To be cautious, he decided to lie back down.

He pressed his cheek to the cool cobbles and closed his eyes, cracking his lids open just enough to see.

* * *