The King's Deception

Ian had hugged the side streets and used the storm, trees, and the fences that fronted the stylish neighborhoods for cover. It took only a few minutes for him to find the courtyard where the Mercedes had first been parked. The mews door remained open, but the car was gone.

He glanced around.

No one seemed to be in any of the surrounding houses.

He stepped into the open garage and saw the contents of both Malones’ travel bags scattered across the pavement. In the dim interior Malone lay sprawled near one wall. Ian crept over, knelt beside him, and heard labored breaths. He wanted to shake Malone awake and see if he was all right, but he hadn’t asked this man to get involved, and there was no need to involve him any further.

He searched for what he came for and found the plastic bag beneath a balled-up shirt. Apparently it had not been considered important. Why would it? Those men were looking for a computer drive. Not some books, a pocketknife, and a few other insignificant items.

He stuffed everything back into the bag and again stared at Cotton Malone. The American seemed like a decent fellow. Maybe his own father had been like him. But thanks to a worthless mother, he would never know who his father had been. He’d seen genuine concern in Malone’s eyes when he learned that Norse was not with Scotland Yard. Fear for both boys. He’d even felt a little better knowing Malone was there in the car. Not many people had ever cared about him, nor had he cared for anyone.

And this wasn’t the time to start.

Life was tough, and Cotton Malone would understand.

Or at least that’s what he told himself as he fled the mews.

* * *

Malone rose up and yelled, “Where’s Gary?”

Ian whirled and the shock on the boy’s face quickly changed to relief. “Bloody hell. I thought you were out.”

“I could see your concern. You only came back for your stuff.”

Defiance returned to the boy’s eyes. “I didn’t ask you here. I didn’t involve you. You’re not my problem.”

But a hint of resignation laced the declaration, the expression half defensive, half angry. So he asked again, “Where’s Gary?”

“Those coppers have him.”

He rose to his feet, head spinning. “They’re not police and you know that. How did they get him and not you? You’re the one they wanted.”

“I got away. He didn’t.”

He lunged forward and grabbed Ian by the shoulders. “You left him?”

“I told him to jump with me, but he wouldn’t.”

Jump?

He listened to what had happened in Little Venice, how Ian had leaped from the bridge.

“Those men have Gary,” Ian said.

He yanked the plastic bag away. “Where’s the flash drive they want?”

Ian did not reply. But what did he expect? He was just a street kid who’d learned to survive by keeping his mouth shut.

“I tell you what,” Malone said. “I’m going to let the police deal with you. Then I can find Gary.” He locked his right hand onto Ian’s left arm. “You so much as twitch and I’ll knock the living daylights out of you.”

And he meant it.

He was more than mad. He was furious. At this delinquent and at himself, his anger a crippling mixture of frustration and fear. He’d almost been shot thanks to this kid, and his son was now in danger.

He told himself to calm down.

“What do you plan to do with me?” Ian asked.

“You’re in my custody.”

“I’m not yours.”

“Good thing. Because, if you were, me and you would be having a much more physical chat.”

He saw the boy understood.

“One last chance,” he said. “Why are those men after you?”

“I was there, in Oxford Circus, that day, a month ago, when the man died.”

Eight

Ian stood at the end of the walkway, beneath a lighted WAY OUT sign, and surveyed the crowded train platform.

Who would be next?

His first choice was an older woman in a gray tweed coat who hobbled forward like a dog with a crippled leg. She lugged her purse in the crook of her arm, its gold catch loose, the flap snapping open with each labored step. The invitation was irresistible, and for a moment he thought she might be a decoy. Police sometimes baited the station. But after a few moments of careful observation he concluded she was genuine, so he worked his way through the rush-hour commuters to where she stood.